13905	----	JOHN-OF-THE-WOODS BY ABBIE FARWELL BROWN ILLUSTRATIONS BY E. BOYD SMITH HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY BOSTON AND NEW YORK THE RIVERSIDE PRESS CAMBRIDGE COPYRIGHT, 1909, BY ABBIE FARWELL BROWN ALL RIGHTS RESERVED Published October 1909 To J.D. and K.D. Kindest of neighbors and best of friends to all the world and its Animal Kingdom CONTENTS I. THE TUMBLERS II. THE FALL III. THE RUNAWAY IV. THE OX-CART V. THE HUNCHBACK VI. THE SILVER PIECE VIX. THE WANDERER VIII. THE RESCUE IX. THE ANIMAL KINGDOM X. THE HERMIT XI. THE PUPIL XII. THE BEAU XIII. A FOREST RAMBLE XIV. THE WOLF-BROTHER XV. THE GREEN STRANGER XVI. THE HUNT XVII. THE MESSENGER XVIII. THE CARRIER PIGEON XIX. THE JOURNEY XX. THE ARRIVAL XXI. THE PALACE XXII. THE PRINCE'S CHAMBER XXIII. THE CURE XXIV. THE KING XXV. THE FETE XXVI. THE TALISMAN CONCLUSION ILLUSTRATIONS THE THREE TUMBLERS GIGI RUNS AWAY HAVE YOU GOT MY BOY? A QUAINT PAIR OF WANDERERS THE CIRCLE OF ANIMALS WATCHED HIM JOHN TALKED WITH THEM YOU SHALL NOT KILL MY FRIEND THE BEAR THE KING SENDS FOR YOU A STRANGE COMPANY JOHN WAS PROTECTED BY POWERFUL FRIENDS HE STROKED THE SOFT BALL OF FUR I WISH I COULD DO IT MYSELF JOHN URGED THE CLUMSY FELLOW TO DANCE TO ME, MY BROTHERS! THE KING AND PRINCESS CAME TO VISIT HIM JOHN OF THE WOODS I THE TUMBLERS It was late of a beautiful afternoon in May. In the hedges outside the village roses were blossoming, yellow and white. Overhead the larks were singing their happiest songs, because the sky was so blue. But nearer the village the birds were silent, marveling at the strange noises which echoed up and down the narrow, crooked streets. "Tom-tom; tom-tom; tom-tom"; the hollow thud of a little drum sounded from the market-place. Boys and girls began to run thither, crying to one another:-- "The Tumblers! The Tumblers have come. Hurry, oh, hurry!" Three little brothers, Beppo, Giovanni, and Paolo, who had been poking about the market at their mother's heels, pricked up their ears and scurried eagerly after the other children. Jostling one another good-naturedly, the crowd surged up to the market-place, which stood upon a little hill. In the middle was a stone fountain, whence the whole village was wont to draw all the water it needed. In those long-ago days folk were more sparing in the use of water than they are to-day, especially for washing. Perhaps we should not be so clean, if we had to bring every bucket of water that we used from the City Square! "Tom-tom; tom-tom; tom-tom"; the little drum sounded louder and louder as the crowd increased. Men and women craned their necks to see who was beating it. The children squirmed their way through the crowd. On the highest step of the fountain stood a man dressed in red and yellow, with little bells hung from every point of his clothing, which tinkled with each movement he made. In his left hand he held a small drum, from which hung streamers of red and green and yellow ribbon. This drum he beat regularly with the palm of his skinny right hand. He was a lean, dark man, with evil little red-rimmed eyes and a hump between his shoulders. "Ho! Men and women! Lads and lasses!" he cried in a shrill, cracked voice of strange accent. "Hither, hither quickly, and make ready to give your pennies. For the tumbling is about to begin,--the most wonderful tumbling in the whole round world!" Stretching out his arm, he pointed to the group below him. The crowd pressed forward and stood on tiptoe to see better. Beppo and Giovanni and Paolo wriggled through the forest of legs and skirts and came out into the open space which had been left about the fountain. And then they saw what the backs of the butcher and baker and candlestick-maker had hidden from them. From the back of a forlorn little donkey that was tethered behind the fountain a roll of carpet had been taken and spread out on the ground. Beside this stood the three tumblers. One of them was a thin, dark man, small and wicked-looking, dressed, like the drum-beater, in red and yellow. The second tumbler was a huge fellow more than six feet tall, with a shaggy mane of black hair. His muscles stood out in great knots under the suit of green tights which he wore. "A Giant he is! Faith, he could toss me over his shoulder like a meal-bag!" muttered the Blacksmith, who stood with crossed arms looking over the heads of the crowd. "And the wicked face of him! Ugh! I would not wish a quarrel with him!" But the little boys in the front row were most interested in the third tumbler, who stood between the other two, with his arms folded, ready to begin. This also was a figure in green, with short trunks of tarnished cloth-of-gold. But beside the Giant, in the same dress, he looked like a pigmy or a fairy mite. This third tumbler was a little fellow of about eight, very slender and childish in form, but lithe and well-knit. Instead of being dark and gypsy-like, as were the other three of the wandering band, this boy was fair, with a shock of golden hair falling about his shoulders, and with a skin of unusual whiteness, despite his life of exposure to sun and hard weather. And the eyes that looked wistfully at the children in front of him were blue as the depths into which the skylarks were at that moment diving rapturously. On the upper eyelid of the boy's left eye was a brown spot as big as an apple-seed. And this gave him a strange expression which was hard to forget. When he was grave, as now, it made him seem about to cry. If he should smile, the spot would give the mischievous look of a wink. But Gigi so seldom smiled in those days that few perhaps had noted this. On his left cheek was a dark spot also. But this was only a bruise. Bruises Gigi always had. But they were not always in the same place. "Oh, the sweet Cherub!" said a motherly voice in the crowd. "I wonder if they are good to him. They look like cut-throats and murderers, but he is like the image of the little Saint John in church. Wolves, with a lamb in their clutches! Save us all! Suppose it were my Beppo!" At these words of his mother's, Beppo giggled, and the boy looked at him gravely. The Hunchback with the drum had heard, too, and darted a furious glance into the crowd where the woman stood. Then, giving a loud double beat on the drum, he signaled for the tumbling to begin. The three kicked off the sandals which protected their feet, stepped upon the carpet, and saluted the spectators. The Giant stretched himself flat, and, seizing Gigi in his strong arms, tossed him up in the air as one would toss a rubber ball. Up, down, then back and forth between the elder tumblers, flew the little green figure, when he touched ground always landing upon his toe-tips, and finishing each trick with a somersault, easy and graceful. The boy seemed made of thistledown, so light he was, so easily he rebounded from what he touched. The children in the circle about him stared open-mouthed and admiring. Oh! they wished, if only they could do those things! They thought Gigi the most fortunate boy in the world. But Gigi never smiled. At the end of one trick the Giant growled a word under his breath, and made a motion at which the boy cringed. Something had gone not quite right, and trouble threatened. He bit his lip, and the performance went on as before. Now Gigi had to do the most difficult trick of all. With the Giant as the base, and Cecco, the other tumbler, above, Gigi made the top of a living pyramid that ran, turned, twisted, and capered as the great strength of the Giant willed. At a signal they managed somehow to reverse their positions. All stood upon their heads; Gigi, with his little green legs waving in the air, heard shouts of applause which always greeted this favorite act. But the sound gave him no pleasure. He was tired; he was sore from a beating of the previous night, and his head ached from the blow which had made that ugly mark on his cheek. Gigi grew dizzy-- II THE FALL Suddenly a woman's voice screamed from the crowd:-- "Ah! The Cherub!" Gigi had fallen from the top of the pyramid. He fell on his shoulder, and for a moment lay still. But presently he was on his feet, kissing his hand prettily to the crowd, and trying to pretend that he had fallen on purpose, as he had been taught. The Giant and Cecco were also quickly on their feet, and the three bowed, side by side, as a sign that the show was over. Cecco hissed a word into Gigi's ear, and he knew what to fear next. He shuddered and tried to draw aside; but the Giant turned to him, livid with rage, and with one blow of his heavy hand struck him to the ground. "So! You spoil us again!" he muttered. "You good-for-nothing! I'll teach you! Now take the tambourine and gather up the coins from the crowd. You'll get a beating anyway for this. But if you don't take up more than we had at the last town, you'll have such a trouncing as you never yet knew. Now then!" Dazed and trembling, Gigi took the tambourine, and, shaking its little bells appealingly, went about among the people. They had already begun to scatter, with the wonderful agility of a crowd which has not paid. Some, however, still lingered from curiosity and with the hope of a second performance. A number of small copper coins Jingled into Gigi's tambourine. He approached the good woman who had shown an interest in him. She stooped down and thrust a piece of silver into his hand, whispering,-- "It is for yourself, child. Do not give it to the cruel men! Keep it to spend upon a feast-day, darling!" Gigi looked at her, surprised. People so seldom spoke kindly to him! The brown spot upon his eyelid quivered. He seemed about to cry. The woman patted him on the head kindly. "If they are cruel to you, I'd not stay with them," she whispered. "I'd run away.--Hey, Beppo! Hey, Giovanni! Paolo!" she called, "we must be off." And she turned to gather up her young ones, who were shouting about the market-place, trying to stand upon their heads as Gigi had done. Gigi clasped the silver piece tightly in his hand, and went on, shaking the tambourine after the retreating crowd. But few more pennies were coaxed away. Presently he made his way back to the group of tumblers, now seated on the fountain-steps. "Well, what have you?" growled the Giant. Gigi presented the tambourine with the few pennies rattling around somewhat lonesomely. "Humph!" snarled Cecco. "Less than last time. Is that all?" "A beating you get!" roared the Giant. Gigi shivered. "No,--not all," he said. "Here is a silver piece," and he held out the coin which the kind woman had given him. "Ah, silver! that is better!" cried Tonio the Hunchback, with his eyes shining greedily. "Give it here"; and he snatched it and thrust it Into his pouch. Tonio was the treasurer of the gypsy band. But the Giant had been eyeing Gigi with an ugly gleam. "He was keeping it!" he growled. "He did not mean to give it up. He would have stolen it!" "It was mine!" cried Gigi with spirit. "She gave it to me and told me to keep it for a fiesta. But I gave it up because--because I did not want to be beaten again." "You did not give it up soon enough!" roared the Giant, working himself into a terrible rage. "You shall smart for this, you whelp! After supper I will beat you as never a boy was beaten yet. But I must eat first. I must get up my strength. No supper for you, Gigi. Do you watch the donkey here while we go to the inn and spend the silver piece. Then, when we are camped outside the town,--then we will attend to you!" III THE RUNAWAY It was but a step to the inn around the corner. Off went the three gypsies, leaving Gigi with the donkey beside the fountain. The poor animal stood with hanging head and flopping ears. He too was weary and heart-broken by a hard life and many beatings. His back was piled with the heavy roll of carpet and all the poor belongings of the band, including the tent for the night's lodging. For on these warm spring nights they slept in the open, usually outside the walls of some town. They were never welcome visitors, but vagrants and outcasts. Gigi sat on the fountain-step with his aching head between his hands. He was very hungry, and his heart ached even more than his head or his empty stomach. He was so tired of their cruelties and their hard ways with him, which had been ever since he could remember. The kind word which the good woman had spoken to him had unnerved him, too. She had advised him to run away. Run away! He had thought of that before. But how could he do it? Tonio the Hunchback was so wicked and sharp! He would know just where to find a runaway. Cecco was so swift and lithe, like a cat! He would run after Gigi and capture him. The Giant was so big and cruel! He would kill Gigi when he was brought back. The boy shuddered at the thought. Gigi pulled around him the old flapping cloak which he wore while traveling, to conceal his gaudy tumbler's costume. If he only had that silver piece perhaps he could do something, he thought. Much could be done with a silver piece. It was long since the band had seen one. They would be having a fine lark at the inn, eating and drinking! They would not be back for a long time. Gigi looked up and around the marketplace. There was no one visible. The crowd had melted as if by magic. Every one was at supper,--every one but Gigi. What a chance to escape, if he were ever to try! The color leaped into the boy's pale cheeks. Why not? Now or never! He rose to his feet, pulling his cloak closer about him, and looked stealthily up and down. The donkey lifted his head and eyed him wistfully, as if to say, "Oh, take me away, too!" But Gigi paid no attention to him. He was not cruel, but he had never learned to be kind. Without a pang, without a farewell to the beast who had been his companion and fellow-sufferer for so many long months, he turned his back on the fountain and stole down one of the darkest little side streets. He ran on down, constantly down, for the village was on the side of a hill, and the market-place was at its top. Around sharp curves he turned, dived under dark archways and through dirty alleys, down flights of steps, until he was out of breath and too dizzy to go further. He had come out on the highroad, it seemed. The little brown cottages were farther apart here. It was more like the country, which Gigi loved. He turned into an enclosure and hid behind a stack of straw, panting. [Illustration: Gigi runs away.] He wondered if by this time they had discovered his flight, and he shivered to think of what Tonio and Cecco were saying if it were so. He looked up and down the road. There was something familiar about it. Yes, it was surely the road up which they had toiled that very afternoon, coming from the country and a far-off village. They had been planning to go on from here down the other side of the hill to the next village, Gigi knew. But now would they retrace their steps to look for him? Just then he spied a black speck moving down the road toward him. Gigi's heart sank. Could they be after him already? He crouched closer behind the straw-stack, trembling. They must not find him! Nearer and nearer came the speck. At last Gigi saw that it was a cart drawn by a team of white oxen, which accounted for the slowness of the pace. He sighed with relief. This at least he need not fear. As it came nearer, Gigi saw that in the cart were a woman and three little boys of about his own age. And presently, as he watched the lumbering team curiously, he recognized the very woman who had given him the silver piece an hour before. These, too, were the little boys who had faced him in the crowd. A sudden hope sprang into Gigi's heart. Perhaps she would help him to escape. Perhaps she would at least give him a lift on his way. He decided to risk it. IV THE OX-CART Gigi waited until the cart was nearly opposite, and he could hear the voices of the woman and the children talking and laughing together. Then he crept out from behind the stack and stepped to the side of the road. The great, lumbering oxen eyed him curiously, but did not pause. The children stopped talking, and one of them pointed Gigi out to his mother. "Look, Mama! A little boy!" "Hello!" cried the woman in her hearty, kind voice, stopping the team. "What are you doing here, little lad?" She did not recognize Gigi at once in his long traveling cloak. But suddenly he threw back the folds of it and showed the green tights underneath. "Do you remember?" he said. "You told me to run away. Well, I have done it!" "It is, the little tumbler! The tumbler, Mama!" cried the boys in one breath, clapping their hands with pleasure. But the woman stared blankly. "My faith!" she said at last. "You lost no time in taking the hint. How did you get here so soon? We were homeward bound when you had scarcely finished tumbling. Now here you are before us, on foot!" "I ran," said Gigi simply. "I came not by the highway, which is long and winding, but down steep streets like stairs, which brought me here very quickly." "See the bruise on his cheek, mother!" cried Beppo, the littlest boy, pointing. The good woman saw it, and her eyes flashed. "Oh! Oh!" she clucked. "The wicked men! Did they do that to you?" "Yes. And they will do more if they catch me now," said Gigi. "I know. They have beaten me many times till I could not move. But if they catch me this time, they will kill me because I ran away. Will you help me?" "Why, what can I do?" asked the woman uneasily, looking up and down the road. "If they should come now! You belong to them. I shall get myself into trouble." Gigi's face fell. "Very well," he said. "Good-by. You were kind to me to-day, and I thought--perhaps--" He turned away, with his lips quivering. "Stay!" cried the woman. "Where is the silver piece which I gave you? You can at least buy food and a night's lodging with that." "They took it from me," said Gigi. "I had to give it up because there was so little money in the tambourine,--only coppers. They said people would not pay because I fell; and so they would beat me again." "They took it from you! The thieves!" cried the woman angrily. "Nay, then I will indeed help you to escape. Climb in here, boy, among my youngsters. We have still an hour's ride down the road, and you shall go so far at least." Gigi climbed into the cart and nestled down among the children. The woman clucked to the oxen, and forthwith they moved on down the highroad. The shadows were beginning to darken, and the birds had ceased to sing. "Hiew! Hiew! Come up! Come up!" the woman urged on the great white oxen. "It is growing late, and the good man will wonder why we are so long returning from market. This has been our holiday," she explained to Gigi. "And to think that the Tumblers should have happened to come to the market this very day! The children will never forget!" Beppo had been staring at Gigi with fascinated eyes. "How did you learn?" he asked suddenly. "Could I do it too?" Gigi laughed. For the first time that day his face lost its sadness, and the brown spot on his eyelid, falling into one of the little creases, gave him a very mischievous look. He seemed to wink. Immediately the whole cartful of peasants began to laugh with him, they knew not why. They could not help it. This was what happened whenever Gigi laughed, as he seldom did. But soon Gigi grew grave once more. "Why do you want to learn?" he asked. "It does not make me happy. For oh! they are so cruel!" "Do they beat you much?" asked Paolo sympathetically. Gigi nodded his head with a sigh. "Very much," he said. "I am always black and blue." "Am I too big to learn?" demanded Giovanni, the oldest boy, who was perhaps twelve and heavier than Gigi. "When did you begin?" Gigi grew thoughtful. "Ever since I remember, I have tumbled," he said. "Ever since I was a baby, before I could even turn a somersault, they tossed me back and forth between them and made me kiss my hand to the people who stood about." "And did they beat you then?" asked Beppo, doubling up his fists. Gigi sighed again. "They always beat me," he said simply. "Whatever I did, they beat me when they were ugly. And that was always." "Do you belong to them?" asked the woman suddenly. "They are Gypsies, black men. But you are fair like the people of the North. Where did they get you, Gigi?" Gigi shook his head. "I do not know," he said. "I have belonged to them always, I think." "Hark!" said Mother Margherita suddenly. "What's that?" There was a faint noise far off on the road behind them. Gigi trembled. "They are coming for me!" he said. "What shall I do?" "No, no," said the woman. "I do not fear that. It is too soon, surely. But it is growing dark here in the valley. This is a lonely spot, and there are many wicked men about besides your masters, Gigi." "Thieves and villains!" whispered Giovanni. "Oh, mother, hide the bag of silver that you got at market!" "Sh! Sh!" warned the mother sharply. "Do not speak of it! Hiew, hiew! Go on! go on!" And she urged the oxen faster. But the great beasts would not hasten their pace for her. The noise came nearer. They could hear that it was the trotting of hoofs. "There is only one animal," said Gigi, whose ears were keen. "I can hear his four feet patter. I think it is the donkey!" "I can see him now!" cried Paolo. "It is a little man on a donkey. He is bending forward and beating it hard." Gigi strained his eyes to see. "It is Tonio!" he whispered fearfully. "I know it! Oh, the Hunchback will kill me when he finds me! And he will take your silver, too!" "Sh! Sh!" commanded the mother. "He shall not find you. Here, take this bag, Gigi. It will be safer with you. And here, creep under my skirts and keep close. He will never guess where you are!" Mother Margherita spread out her generous draperies, which luckily were both long and wide, and Gigi crept under them, being wholly covered. The other boys huddled close, shivering with a not wholly unpleasant excitement. This was an adventure indeed for a holiday! The rider drew nearer and nearer, lashing the poor donkey unmercifully. At last they could see his face, red and lowering. "Halt!" he cried suddenly. "You in the cart there, halt!" V THE HUNCHBACK The oxen stopped. The cart came to a standstill. The boys huddled closer, and Gigi's heart beat like a tambourine. He was sure that Tonio would hear it. "What do you want?" asked Mother Margherita, and her usually kind voice was harsh. "You seem to have a load of young cubs there," shouted Tonio. "Have you got my boy, Gigi the Tumbler, among them? Some one has stolen the little monster." [Illustration: "Have you got my boy?"] "What are you talking about!" answered Mother Margherita sharply. "I am a respectable countrywoman returning from market-day with my children. What business have I with tumblers and vagrants!" "That I'll see for myself, woman," said Tonio, jumping unsteadily down from the donkey and approaching the cart. Tonio had been drinking, and his little eyes were red and fierce. "Keep your hands off my children!" cried their plucky mother, brandishing her whip. But Tonio was not to be kept away. "I will see them!" he snarled. He thrust his ugly face into those of the three boys, one after another, eyeing them sharply in the growing darkness. But there was little about these sun-browned, black-eyed youngsters to suggest the slender, fair-haired Gigi. Tonio peered into the cart. He even thrust his long, lean hand into the straw that covered the floor, and felt about the corners, while the boys wriggled away from his touch like eels from a landing-net. Gigi held his breath. But Mother Margherita would not tamely endure all this. "Get along, you vermin!" she cried, striking at his hands as he approached the forward end of the cart. "Can't you see that the boy is not here? What would he be doing in my cart, anyway? I'll trouble you to let us go on our way in peace. My man in the house down yonder will be out to help us with his crossbow and his dogs, if we scream a bit louder. Be off with you, and look for your boy in the village. Is it likely he would have come so far as this, the poor tired little lad?" "The others are searching the village," growled the Hunchback tipsily. "They'll find him if he's there. 'Tis likely you are right. And then! I must be there to help at the punishing. Oh! that will be sport!--Have any other teams passed you on the road?" he asked suddenly. "Have you overtaken no one on foot?" "We have passed no one," said Mother Margherita truthfully, starting up the oxen. "Hiew! Hiew! Go on! go on," she clucked. "We must get home to bed." The Hunchback withdrew from the cart unsteadily, and mounted his donkey. For a moment he looked doubtfully up and down the road, then he turned the poor tired animal's head once more toward the village, and they began to plod back up the slope. "The Lord forgive me!" whispered Mother Margherita piously. "I told a lie, and before my children, too! But it was to spare a child suffering, perhaps death. Surely, the Lord who loves little children will forgive me this sin." So the good woman mused, as, faint with terror and gasping for breath, Gigi came out from under her skirts. He handed back the bag of silver, and gave a sigh of relief. The little boys seized him rapturously. "You are saved, Gigi!" cried Paolo. "He will never find you now," said Giovanni. "See, we are almost home! You shall come and live with us and teach us how to tumble!" cried Beppo, hugging his new friend closely. But Mother Margherita interrupted him. "Not so fast, not so fast, children," she warned. "Gigi is saved for now. But we may be able to do little more for him. Your father is master in the house, remember. Your father may not be pleased with what we have done. Never promise what you may not be able to give, my Beppo." And she fell to musing again rather uneasily. The boys were all suddenly silent, and Gigi, who had warmed to their kindness, felt a sudden chill. He had not thought of anything beyond the safety of the moment. He had made no plans, he had only hoped vaguely that these good people might help him. But now, what was to happen next? Was there still something more to fear? Suddenly the flash of a lantern lighted the road ahead. A man's voice hailed them loudly. "Hello! Hello! Will you never be coming home?" "Father! It is father!" cried the three boys in an answering shout. Then with a common thought they all stopped short, and Gigi felt them looking at him in the darkness. "What will he think of Gigi?" he heard Beppo whisper to his brothers. "Sh!" warned Mother Margherita. And the man's voice sounded nearer. "Hello, old woman!" it called gruffly. "Well, you did come back, didn't you? I began to believe that you had all run away." "Run away!" There was a little pause before any one answered. And Gigi felt the elbows of the boys nudging him in the side. "Father's angry!" they whispered. "Father is terrible when he is angry. You had better look out!" Then Gigi knew that there was something else to fear that night. And his heart sank. Was there to be no end of his troubles? VI THE SILVER PIECE The team stopped in front of a stone cottage, from the window of which the light shone hospitably. They all jumped down from the cart, and under cover of the darkness Mother Margherita hustled Gigi with the other boys into the house, while Giuseppe, the father, cared for the oxen. The mother busied herself in preparing supper, and the boys scattered about on various errands. But Gigi sat in a corner by the fire, too tired to move or speak. He had thrown off his long cloak, and the fire glanced brightly upon the green and gold costume of this quaint little figure, so out of place in the simple cottage. Presently Giuseppe entered with a heavy tread, and paused in amazement at what he saw on his hearthstone. "Hello!" he cried gruffly. "What's this?" Mother Margherita came forward quickly. "It is a little tumbler," she said. "We saw him do his tricks at the market to-day. The Gypsies beat him, and he has run away. Let us give him at least supper and a shelter for the night, Giuseppe?" Her tone was beseeching. "Hum!" grumbled Giuseppe doubtfully. "A runaway! A tumbler! A thief, I dare say, as well. A pretty fellow to bring into an honest man's house! His master will be after him, and then we shall all get into trouble for sheltering a runaway. Margherita, you were always a foolish woman! Is this all you have to show for market-day? Where is the money?" "Here it is, Giuseppe," said the mother, handing him the bag of silver, which he thrust into his pocket. "Now let us have supper. You can count the silver afterward, and we will tell you about everything when that is over." With a very bad grace the father watched the little stranger timidly take his place at the board between Paolo and Giovanni, Beppo crying because he could not have the tumbler next to him also. There was much to talk about at that meal. They had to describe the holiday at market, which was a great event for the little family. Then there were the Tumblers; and the adventure of Gigi and the Hunchback,--that was the most exciting of all. And how near they came to losing the bag of silver which they had earned by selling their vegetables at the market! Giuseppe asked Gigi many questions, not unkindly, but with a bluntness that made the boy wince. And often Mother Margherita spoke up for him, with a kind answer. Gigi grew paler and paler, and his food lay almost untouched on his plate. He was too tired to eat. At last, when supper was finished. Mother Margherita rose and lighted a candle. "Come with me, Gigi," she said, "and I will show you where you are to sleep this night." Gigi followed her readily, glad to escape further questioning, and eager to rest his aching head. The little boys called after him a hearty good-night. But Giuseppe saw him go without a word, casting sidewise looks after the retreating figures, and grunting sourly. There was no room for Gigi in the loft where the family slept. But out in the stable, beside the oxen, was a fresh pile of straw, a fine bed for the tired little wanderer. When Mother Margherita had bidden him a kind good-night and had closed the stable door behind her, Gigi threw himself upon the straw and was almost Instantly asleep. The oxen breathed gently beside him, chewing their cud. Everything was still and peaceful. And the night passed. "Cock-a-doodle-doo!" crowed the first cock, speaking the same tongue that he learned at the beginning of the world, and that he always uses in every land, among every people. It was but a few moments later when Gigi was awakened suddenly by a touch on his shoulder. The boy opened his eyes and stared about, bewildered. He did not know where he was. Who was this bending over him in the dim light? Not Tonio; not Cecco; not the Giant? Then he recognized Mother Margherita, stooping low with a pitiful expression on her face. She had a little bundle in her hand. "Get up, Gigi," she whispered. "You must be off. My man is so angry! He vows he will take you to the village to-day and give you up to your masters. He thinks you are a thief, Gigi. But I do not believe that you stole the silver piece." "The silver piece!" cried Gigi, still more bewildered. "Sh!" cautioned the woman, laying a hand on his lips. "Giuseppe must not know that I am here. He sleeps still. When we counted the money in the bag we found it short by one piece of silver, besides the one I gave you. That was my own to do with as I chose. But he believes that you stole another when you were holding the bag for me, hiding under my skirts." "I did not take it!" cried Gigi, wide-awake now. "Oh, I would not steal from you,--not from you, the only person who was ever kind to me!" "There, there! I told him so!" said the good woman soothingly. "I told him I must have lost it at the market when I was making change for somebody. But he will not believe. You must be off, Gigi, before he wakes, or you will have to go back to those cruel fellows. Giuseppe is so set! Like a mule he is when he is angry!" Gigi sprang to his feet and looked wildly around. "Where shall I go? What shall I do?" he asked. Mother Margherita looked at the pale little lad and her eyes filled. "Poor little fellow!" she sighed. "Suppose you were one of my boys, Beppo or Paolo! But we must lose no time"; and she dashed the tears from her eyes. "Here is your cloak to hide that gaudy dress. And here is a bundle of food,--all I could spare without the good man's knowledge. For it must seem that you have run away of your own accord. I know that will make him sure that you are a thief. But I dare not let him guess that I have warned you and helped you to escape. You do not know Giuseppe's anger!--Farewell, dear little lad, and may the Saints have you in their keeping." She led him to the door and pointed out the direction, in the gray dawn. She showed him where, to the north, by a great tree, a lane branched from the highroad. "Follow that," she said. "It will be safer in case you are pursued. And it comes at last to the great road into another country. There perhaps you will be safe and find friends who can help you more than I have done. Though none can wish you better." And she hugged him close. "Farewell, Gigi!" VII THE WANDERER With a lump in his throat, Gigi left the only roof that had ever shown him kindness. In the gray dawn he crept out to the highroad. There was no time to be lost, for already the east was growing pink, and soon the sun would be making long shadows on the open road. Giuseppe would surely spy him and bring him back. As soon as he was outside the farm enclosure, Gigi began to run. But he found that he was stiff and sore from his fall of the day before, and from the many beatings which he had received of late. Every bone in his body ached, and especially his head, which throbbed so as to make him faint. Still he ran on. For more than anything else he feared being captured and sent back to the Gypsies. At last Gigi came to the great tree where branched the cross-road to the north. Here he turned aside. Then he drew a deep breath, feeling safer. He ceased running, and presently, being hungry and tired, he sat down upon a stone and opened the bundle which Mother Margherita had given him. He found bread and cheese, and began to eat greedily, until he remembered that he knew not where he should find dinner and supper. He looked at the remnant of bread and cheese longingly, but at last wrapped it up and put it back into the little pouch which, as was the custom in those times, he wore at his belt. The lane upon which he was now traveling was shadier than the highroad, and as he went on the trees grew even taller and bigger. Apparently the way was leading through the outskirts of a forest. The lane was more crooked, also. Gigi could not see far either before or behind him, because of the constant turnings. Suddenly, he stopped short and listened. There was a sound; yes, there certainly was a sound on the road behind him,--the noise of galloping hoofs. Gigi was seized with a panic. Without stopping to think, he plunged from the road into the forest, and began to run wildly through the underbrush. He did not care in which direction he went,--anywhere, as far as possible from the pursuing hoof-beats. On, on he plunged, sometimes sprawling over roots of trees, sometimes bruising himself against low branches or stumbling upon stones which seemed to rise up on purpose to delay him; torn by briars and tripped by clutching vines. But always he ran on and on, this way and that, wherever there seemed an opening in the forest, which was continually growing denser and more wild. How long he wandered he did not know. The sun was high in the heavens when at last, wholly exhausted, Gigi fell upon a bank of moss. His weary bones ached. He was too tired to move, but lay there motionless, and presently he fell into a troubled sleep. When he awoke with a start, it was growing dark, and he was very hungry. He felt for the pouch into which he had put his bits of bread and cheese, but it was gone! He must have lost it when pushing through the bushes. What was he to do? He knew he must find his way back to the highroad, where he could perhaps beg a supper at some cottage. But how was he to know which way to go? He looked up and around him in despair. He was in the midst of the wildest kind of forest. The trees grew close together, and there was no path, no sign that men had ever passed this way. Moreover, it was growing darker every minute. Already the shadows behind the trees were black and terrible. Gigi suddenly remembered that there were fierce animals in the forests. In those days, all over Europe bears and wolves and many kinds of wild beasts, large and small, wandered wherever there were trees and hiding-places; in fact, one might meet them anywhere except in cities and towns. And sometimes in winter, when they were very hungry, bold wolves prowled even in the market-places. Gigi shuddered. He dared not think of sleep, alone in this dreadful place. He must try to find the road. Once more he crawled to his feet and began to stagger through the darkness, groping with his hands to ward off the branches which scratched his face and the thorns which tore his garments into rags. Now there began to be strange sounds in the forest. The birds had ceased to sing, save for a chirp now and then as Gigi's passing wakened some tired songster. But there were other noises which Gigi did not understand, and which set his heart to knocking fearfully; the cracking of twigs far off and near at hand; little scurries in the underbrush as he approached; now and then the crash of something bounding through the bushes in the distance; sometimes a squeak or a chatter which sounded terrible to the little boy's unaccustomed ears. And finally, far off in the forest, came a long, low howl that set his teeth to chattering. Was it a wolf? The thought was more than Gigi could bear. He fainted, and fell forward into a bed of soft green moss. VIII THE RESCUE Gigi must have lain all night where he fell. For when he opened his eyes the sun was shining dimly through the dense leaves of the tree overhead. He remembered only the last thing he had heard before his eyes closed,--that long howl in the darkness. So it was with a thrill of terror that he felt a strange touch on his face. Something warm and wet was passing over his cheek. Something soft and warm was cuddling close to his side. He thrust out his hand feebly, groping at something to help him rise. His fingers closed in thick, soft hair. Suddenly Gigi knew what was happening to his face. Some big animal was licking it with a coarse but gentle tongue! Was it the wolf that had howled? A dreadful thought! Gigi screamed aloud. He struck at the creature with all the strength he had, which was little enough. "Get away! Go along with you!" he cried in Gypsy gibberish. In answer, the animal uttered a whine, very gentle, very piteous; and it began to lick the hand which had struck it. Gigi's eyes had now grown used to the half-light. Suddenly he saw what had lain beside him, keeping him warm all night. It was a great shaggy dog, brown and white. Around his neck was a heavy collar of leather studded with nails. Gigi did not like dogs. The only ones he knew had always chased the Tumblers and barked at them as they entered or left a village. Sometimes they had snapped at Gigi's heels so viciously that he had cried out. And then Cecco would cuff him for making a fuss. But this dog seemed friendly. He looked up in Gigi's face, and wagged his tail pleasantly. He whined and put his nose in Gigi's hand; then he got to his feet and ran away a few steps, looking back at the boy and waiting. Gigi did not know what it meant. But when the dog saw that the boy was not following, he went back and repeated his action. Several times he did this, and still Gigi lay looking at him, too tired and too weak to make an effort, even to think. At last the dog came back once more. This time he took Gigi's hand between his teeth, very gently, and began to pull him in the direction toward which he had first gone. Then Gigi knew. The dog was trying to lead him somewhere! A throb of hope warmed his heart. Perhaps this was a friend who would bring him out of the dreadful forest to some place where he could eat. For oh, he was so hungry! He dragged himself to his feet, and tried to follow, leaning a hand on the dog's neck. The creature was wild with joy, and began to bark and wag his tail furiously. Even this motion made the boy totter, he was so weak. He took a few steps, then he had to stop. He was sore all over, dizzy and faint. He lay down on the ground with his head between his hands. And once more the good dog crept near and poked his wet nose into Gigi's face, licking his cheek. The boy reached out a hand and patted him timidly. It was the first time Gigi had ever felt friendly toward an animal! When the dog found that it was of no use to try to lead Gigi on, he sat still and seemed to think for a few moments. Then he came close and crouched in the moss beside Gigi, whining softly and rubbing his nose against the boy's knee. Evidently he wanted his new friend to do something. The boy looked at him wearily, and wondered. He took hold of the collar about the dog's neck. Yes! that was it! The dog barked and wagged his tail, but did not move. He was still waiting. Gigi looked at the big fellow lying there. He was almost as large as the little donkey who bore the luggage of the Tumblers upon their journeys. He was big enough to carry Gigi himself. Was that what the creature meant? Gigi lifted one leg over the dog's back, keeping hold of the collar as tightly as he could. The animal rose to his feet with a glad bark. Yes, this was what he wanted. He began to move forward slowly, for Gigi was a heavy burden and his feet nearly touched the ground. Slowly they moved through the forest, a quaint pair of wanderers. Sometimes Gigi felt faint and ill, and lay forward, resting his head on the dog's soft neck. Sometimes they stopped to rest. Then Gigi lay flat on the moss, with the dog stretched out close to his side. But they were both unwilling to waste many minutes so. [Illustration: A quaint pair of wanderers.] IX THE ANIMAL KINGDOM Presently Gigi and the dog came to a clearing in the forest. All about was as wild as anything they had passed. But here, quite alone, stood a little hut made of logs and branches twisted together. The first thing that Gigi saw, after the hut itself, was an old man in a coarse gray gown, sitting on a stump, reading a book. His head was bare, and he had a long white beard. His feet were bare, too, and he wore leather sandals. A rope was tied about his waist. Gigi had sometimes seen men so dressed plodding along the highroad or begging from the townsfolk. If he thought about them at all, he believed them to be some rival sort of performers, like the Tumblers themselves. It seemed very queer to see one of the Gray Men here in the lonely forest,--and with such strange companions! Gigi stared and stared again, rubbing his tired eyes to make sure that they saw aright. On the old man's knees was curled, asleep, a comfortable white cat. Three little kittens played with the knotted ends of his girdle, swarming up and down the gray gown of the reader. On his shoulder perched a squirrel, busily eating a nut which he held in his little paws. Close by, a brown and white deer grazed about the door of the little hut. A great black raven hopped gravely about the old man's feet, now and then picking up a bug. Lying peacefully asleep in front of the hut door, like a yellow mat of fur, a fox was stretched. In and out among the rose-bushes of a tiny garden which was planted beneath the window of the hut, hopped several brown hares, seeming much at home. The old man's head nodded forward on his book. He could sleep soundly, it seemed, with all these little live things swarming about him. Even as his gray locks swept the page, a thrush fluttered down and lighted gently on the bald crown, beginning to sing so sweetly that Gigi held his breath. All this the boy saw in that first glimpse before he and the dog parted the bushes and came out into the clearing. In that instant everything changed. The dog gave a sharp bark of pleasure. The old man let the book fall from his hand, and sat staring. The animals leaped from their slumbers and scuttled away in every direction, some into the hut, some into the neighboring bushes, some melting as if by magic into the forest. The squirrel and the thrush took shelter in the treetops. Only the raven, with ruffled feathers, remained at the old man's side, turning a fierce little eye upon the newcomer. By this time Gigi had thrown himself from the dog's back, and stood feebly leaning against a tree. Released from his burden, the dog bounded forward, and was soon leaping upon the old man's shoulders, covering his face and hands and feet with eager kisses. "Down, Brutus, down!" said the old man, in a tongue which Gigi could not understand. "Where hast thou been so long, good dog? And what new pet hast thou brought for my colony?" He looked towards Gigi with keen, kind eyes. "Come hither, my lad," he said in the same tongue. But Gigi only stared, not understanding. He was growing afraid of this queer old man, who spoke a strange language and had wild animals for his friends; who read, too, in a great black book! Gigi had heard of wicked wizards and sorcerers, and he believed that he saw one now. He turned about and tried to run away. But his poor head grew dizzy, and before he knew it he had fallen, and lay sobbing and shivering, unable to rise. Presently he felt the dog's gentle tongue licking his face. A moment after, kind, strong arms lifted him and bore him into the little hut. The old man laid Gigi on a cot beside the window, and after laying his hand on the boy's head and wrist, went away and returned with something in a cup. "Drink this, my child," he said. And this time Gigi understood. He drank and felt better. Then the old man asked him in the tongue which Gigi knew, "Are you hungry, lad?" The boy nodded, and his eyes must have told how nearly starved he was. The old man went swiftly to a little cupboard in the wall, and soon came back with bread and milk in an earthen bowl. "Eat," he said, lifting Gigi's head on his arm. "Eat this good bread, my son, and drink the warm milk of my friend the doe, which I had just set aside, not expecting you. Then you shall sleep here on my pallet. And soon we shall be right smiling and happy all!" The kind old eyes beamed on Gigi while he devoured his breakfast like a starved animal, without a word of thanks. When he had finished, the kind old hands brought water and bathed the tired body, bound up the bleeding hands and feet with refreshing ointment, and laid Gigi back again to rest upon the cot beside the rose-screened window. There Gigi lay and slept; slept and dreamed; dreamed and went over again by fits and starts the strange adventures of the past two days. But strangest of all, though by far the pleasantest, was that picture which he had seen when he came out into the clearing upon the back of Brutus. And this picture, with queer variations, filled the foreground of Gigi's dreaming. X THE HERMIT _They shall not hurt nor destroy in all my holy mountain; for the earth shall be full of the knowledge of the Lord, as the waters cover the sea_.--HOLY WRIT. For three days Gigi lay on the pallet of the good Hermit, near to death. And for three days the great dog lay on guard by his side. The Hermit went softly to and fro, taking tender care of the boy and giving him medicine made from wonderful herbs which he had found in the woods. Often he knelt in a corner of the hut, before a rude wooden Cross, and said prayers; this seemed to give him strength for his work and hope for its result. So that when he rose, his face would be bright and happy. This was he doing the third morning when Gigi awoke, feeling better. The ache was gone from his limbs and the dizziness from his head. He awoke with a long sigh, and for the first time since he lay down on the Hermit's pallet he looked around him with interest. At first he did not know where he was. The hut was small and bare. In one corner was a cupboard where the Hermit kept his scanty supply of food and the medicines which he distilled. Against the wall was a bench, beside a table made of a tree-stump, and on the table lay a great black book. Opposite the bed was the Cross of wood fastened to the wall, and below it the good Hermit knelt with bowed head. Gigi wondered what he was doing. He himself knew no prayers. Gigi's eyes wandered to the door, which stood open. On the sill the cat and her kittens were playing. Outside he could catch a glimpse of various animals frisking about the dooryard. Birds sang merrily in the trees overhead and in the bushes just outside the window. The raven hopped into the doorway and stood looking saucily at Gigi, with head on one side. It was all so peaceful, so quiet, so different from anything which Gigi had known, that he thought it must be a dream. He sighed again, and turned over, stretching out his arm. In doing so he touched the hairy neck of Brutus, who was still sleeping by his bed. Instantly the dog sprang up and began to lick the boy's face. At the same moment, with a pious gesture, the Hermit also rose and came toward the cot, smiling kindly. "You are better, my son?" he asked, laying a cool hand upon Gigi's forehead. "Ah, yes! You will soon be quite yourself." Gigi stared up at him contentedly. "Who are you?" he asked. He had never been taught manners, and he could no longer hide his curiosity. "I am a Hermit," answered the old man. "I live here alone with my animals, as you see. I pass the days in prayer and meditation, studying the Lord's Holy Book and the living works of His hands." "Why do you live away from men?" asked Gigi again. The Hermit's face grew sad. "Men are wicked and cruel, child," he said. "Men hurt and kill one another. They love to slay the innocent animals for sport. In their kingdoms is no love. I have made myself here an animal kingdom, where all is love and peace." "Do all animals know you?" asked Gigi, wondering. "With time I can make friends with them all," said the Hermit, smiling. "One has but to love and understand and be patient. See!" He gave a peculiar call. Instantly there came tumbling into the hut, until it nearly overflowed, a strange medley of creatures,--hares, mice, birds, kittens, squirrels. Last of all peered into the doorway a deer and her little speckled fawn. The dog sat quite still, not moving a muscle. He had been trained not to frighten his more timid neighbors. "Follow the example of Brutus, my son," said the Hermit gently. "Make no sudden movement and do not speak. They know my voice, and they will learn yours. But you are still a stranger to them, and must expect them to be shy." The animals crowded lovingly about the Hermit, some springing upon his shoulders and knees, the birds flitting about his head. Gigi thought he had never seen so wonderful a sight. "Oh!" thought he, "if I could only do this, what money might I not take from a crowd on market-days!" After talking to his pets and caressing them tenderly, the old man dismissed them to the outdoor sunshine, so that he was alone with Gigi, who could then be free to move and speak once more. "The beloved innocents!" said the Hermit, with a sigh. "Who could ever willfully injure one of them. God's creatures?--But now, my son, tell me about yourself," he broke off. "Who are you? Whence do you come? Whither are you going?" "I do not know," said Gigi simply, in answer to all three questions. And then he told his story as he had told it to Mother Margherita. The old man listened pitifully. "Poor little lad!" he said. "Men have been cruel to you, also. You have no home, no friends, no past, and no future. What shall we do with you?" "Oh, let me stay with you!" cried Gigi, clasping his hands. "You are so good and wise. Teach me! Teach me to be good and wise, too. Take me into your animal kingdom, and teach me to make them all my friends. I could do such tricks with them,--far better than tumbling. I should grow rich!" The old man shook his head. "That cannot be," he said. "I cannot teach men to grow rich. Nor would I see my animals made ridiculous for money. I came here to be a hermit. I vowed to have nothing more to do with human folk, only with the animals whom they persecute. But I never thought that a child would seek my roof." Pie looked at Gigi doubtfully. The boy returned the look, and the brown spot on his eyelid trembled piteously. The Hermit blinked. "Yes, you are a poor little animal, too," he said at last. "You are ignorant and innocent as they. I cannot turn you away. Perhaps I can teach you better things than tricks. Perhaps I can make you a disciple and a Christian. If you are teachable, I can make you wise with the knowledge of herbs and healing. If I send back to the world which I have left one man useful, tender, strong, and good, perhaps he may be able to do more than I have done to stay the march of evil." Gigi did not understand the words at all, but the tone was kind. He pushed the bandage from his head, looked up at the Hermit, and smiled his own strange smile. "I think you will not beat me," he said. The brown spot on his eyelid gave him the wink of mischief. "Beat you!" The old man's face broke into an answering smile, and he rocked to and fro with pleasure in Gigi's little joke. Then he bent forward suddenly, and stared into the boy's face with a keen look. "The wicked eye of him!" he said, talking to himself. "How like it is! Strange, strange! About nine years old, he is. Nine years ago--" He paused, gazing at Gigi, and murmuring under his breath. "What are you wearing about your neck?" he asked suddenly. Gigi put his hand to a tiny silver chain which just peeped above his green doublet, and drew out a flat piece of silver of strange shape, and with one side carved deeply with a notched Cross. "Where did you get this?" asked the Hermit, strangely excited. "I do not know," said Gigi, wondering. "I have worn it always. Not even Cecco dared take it from me. I have heard him say so. But I do not know why!" "The lost one!" cried the Hermit, embracing Gigi, with tears in his eyes. Then, crossing himself, he added piously, "Dear little lad! We are in the Lord's hands. Gigi, you shall stay with me until the time is come. But you wear the Cross, a blessed emblem. I shall call you no more by that heathen Gypsy name. You shall bear the beloved Christian name of John, to which perhaps you have as good a right as any. Ah! I will not tell you more. I will wait until I see if you be worthy indeed. If not--his son shall never know!" All this Gigi did not understand. But he was happy to know that he might stay. And he began his new life as one of the Hermit's animal kingdom by hugging close old Brutus, his first four-footed friend, who had brought him safely to this haven. XI THE PUPIL _But ask now the beasts and they shall teach thee, and the fowls of the air and they shall tell thee_.--HOLY WRIT. Gigi the Gypsy was now become John; no longer an outcast and a wanderer, but a happy little Christian boy. Surely no child ever lived so strange a life as he. Surely no boy ever had such queer playmates, or studied in so wild a school. First of all he had to become acquainted with his oddly-mixed family of two-footed and four-footed brothers. Brutus was his friend from the beginning. The great dog seemed to have adopted for his very own the boy whom, led by some kindly angel, he had found that night in the forest. But the other creatures were shy at first. They ran at the sound of John's shrill boyish voice, and shrank from his quick movements. They hid in the bushes when he came dashing and dancing into the clearing after a romp with Brutus, and it would take some patience to coax them back again. John saw that this troubled the good old Hermit, whom he loved better every day, and he tried to imitate his teacher's gentle voice and manner and his soft tread. The little tumbler was himself light as a feather, and graceful as the deer, his new-found sister. He was quick to learn and naturally gentle, though his cruel life had made him careless and rough. Soon he had made friends with all the Hermit's pets, so that they knew and loved him almost as well as they did the master of this forest-school. In his green doublet and hose, clumsily patched with pieces of gray serge from the Hermit's own cloak, John rambled about the wild woods, looking like one of the fairy-folk of whom legends tell. Often he went with the wise old man, who gave him lessons of the forest which he knew so well. John learned to steal on tiptoe and surprise the ways of the wood-folk,--the shy birds and the shyer little brothers who live in the moss and mould. He grew wise in the lore of flowers and herbs, and could tell where each one grew and when it blossomed, and which ones, giving their life-blood for the sake of men, could cure disease and bring comfort to the ailing. At night they watched the moon and the far-off, tiny stars. These, too, became friends, many of them known to John by name. He loved each one, for the Hermit said that they also were his brothers and sisters, like the birds and beasts and fishes; all being the children of that Father who had made this beautiful world to be the home where all should live together. But the book of Nature was not all that John studied in these days. He learned to read also the written language of men, and studied the wise and holy words which have kept goodness before men's sight since knowledge began. Until now John had never opened a book or held a pen. But the Hermit taught him wisely and well, and soon he was in a fair way to become a scholar. A busy life he led, what with his studies indoors and out and his duties about the hut,--for the Hermit taught him to be deft in all tasks, however simple and homely. John could cut up firewood or cook a porridge with as happy a face as he wore when he played with Brutus or sang the morning hymn of praise at the good Hermit's side. One thing his teacher would not have him forget. He must practice his tumbling every day. For the Hermit said, "No skill once learned will ever come amiss, my son. You spent years and suffered hardly to gain this agility. It seems to me not frivolous nor undignified, but a beautiful thing, to keep one's body lithe and graceful even as are the free-natured animals. Then practice, John; and some day even this skill may not come amiss." So the boy practiced daily in front of the cabin. He danced and tumbled; he turned somersaults and stood on his head; he leaped with a pole and swung nimbly as a monkey from the limbs of the overhanging trees. And the circle of animals watched him gravely, marveling no doubt at the strange antics of their brother; but, being now used to his voice and manner, neither annoyed nor shocked by anything which he might do. [Illustration: The circle of animals watched him.] When the day was over, John would throw himself on a soft bed of moss under a tree, beside the Hermit seated on a log. Then they would read or talk, and tell stories of what they had seen in the world of men. Brutus would be curled down between them. Blanche and her kittens, big and little, would play with John's hair as he lay there. The squirrel, perched on the boy's doubled-up knees, would chatter and crack nuts. The brown hares would run to and fro over his feet, while the doe and her little fawn nibbled the grass close by, listening to the sound of the human voices as though they liked it. What a happy home it was! John wondered if ever any boy was so lucky as he. XII THE BEAR John had grown to love the little four-footed brothers dearly, and they were great friends of his. But still the Hermit seemed to have a charm about him which John lacked, and which drew even the strange new creatures to him and made them trust him from the first. John longed to learn this secret. But when he asked the old man about it he looked at the boy kindly and said,-- "It will come, my son, with time. Love, live, and learn." John had been with the Hermit some months, when happened an adventure that interested him more than anything which had befallen. He was walking one day with the old man in a part of the forest far distant from their hut. They were looking for a rare and wonderful herb which the sage needed to distill a certain precious balm. "This should be the spot," said the old man, going toward a heap of rocks around which grew a tangle of shrubs and creepers. "The plant which I seek is shy, and hides in the shadows of sheltered places. Yonder is a cave, where first I made my dwelling when I came to the forest, before I built the hut in which we now live. And at the entrance, I remember, grew the herb of grace, which more than once has done me service in healing the hurts of my pets." The Hermit plunged eagerly forward to the rocks. John followed close behind. At the entrance to the cave the old man stooped to pluck the herb which they had come so far to seek, and John, clambering beside him, bent curiously to peer into the cave. Suddenly a sound from within made him start. The Hermit paused in his task, and both stared motionless into the blackness of the cave. Presently the sound came again,--a deep growl ending in a whine. "Some animal in pain," whispered the Hermit to John. "Stay you here, my son. I will discover what it may be." "Nay, father!" pleaded the boy. "It may be some fierce creature; it may hurt you. Do not go!" The old man turned beaming eyes upon him. "Never yet have I been hurt by an animal," he said gently. "My body bears only the scars of human hands. I am not afraid. But do you stay here, my son. You have not yet quite learned the language of dumb things." "I shall go with you!" said John to himself. He seized the staff which the Hermit had dropped, and followed close upon his heels. Soon their eyes became more used to the darkness of the cave, with which the Hermit was already familiar. Presently out of the shadows in a far corner they spied two red eyes glaring upon them. Behind the eyes bulked a huge, apparently shapeless form. It half rose as they drew near, and again they heard the growl of anger. But as the creature made a sudden movement, the growl turned into a howl of agony, and it rolled back into the corner, whimpering. John plucked the Hermit by his robe. "It is a bear!" he said. "I have met them sometimes upon the highways, traveling with mountebanks. And the men told me that they were very fierce and hard to tame. Be careful, my father! Go not near, I beseech you!" But the old man paid no heed to his words. Bending forward, he made a strange sound in his throat, a soothing, cooing noise. The bear heard it, and ceased to whine. They saw the ugly head rear up and look at the Hermit wildly. Again he made the sound, and stooping without fear brought his face close to the bear's great body. The animal did not move. Presently the Hermit turned to John. "The poor beast has a wounded paw," he said. "An arrow has hurt it badly." He unfastened from his girdle a cup which he always carried in his wanderings. "Here, my son," he said, "fill this at the spring which we passed yonder. The creature suffers from thirst." John hesitated. "Is it safe to leave you here alone with this wild beast?" he asked. The Hermit smiled. "Quite safe," he said. "Do you think I need your protection? Brother Bear will soon know me for his friend." When John returned he found the Hermit sitting on the floor of the cave, with the bear's paw resting on his knee. The animal was quiet, save for a whimpering now and then. John could see his little red eyes fixed upon the Hermit with a curious look of wonder and appeal. He seemed unable to move, and the Hermit touched the beast quite naturally, as if he were a great kitten. The bear stirred and turned his eyes when John entered. "Thanks, son," said the Hermit, taking the cup from the boy's hand; and, turning again to' the bear, he held it to the animal's mouth. "Drink, brother," he said. Eagerly the bear lapped up the water. "Now, my son," said the Hermit to John, "go you to the entrance of the cave and pluck me a handful of the healing herb-leaves. I must bind up this suffering paw." "Surely, father," begged John, "you will not try to touch the creature's wound. He will tear you to pieces!" The old man turned reproachful eyes upon him. "Son," he said, "I have tried to teach you obedience. Go, get me the leaves." Without more words John hastened to do as he was bid. When he returned with a handful of the plant, he found that the Hermit had bathed the wounded paw of the now quiet animal. He had torn a strip of linen from the shirt which he wore under his gray robe, and was making this into a bandage. Soon he had crushed the leaves and had bound them upon the foot of the bear, who lay still and gentle under his hands. John stared, amazed. "Now we will go home," said the Hermit softly, "and you, John, shall return with food for this poor hungry brother. You will soon make him your dear friend also. For, you see, he asks only love and patience. Men have been cruel to him. But we will be kind to our Brother Bear." Thus John learned a new lesson of courtesy to the wilder, bigger beasts. That same day he made the long journey a second time, bringing the bear his dinner, with a comb of wild honey which the Hermit had found on the way home. And he had the joy of seeing the creature act no longer like an enemy, but like a timid friend. Day after day John went and ministered to the sick animal. At last, there came a joyous time when the bear rose to greet him on his approach. The injured paw was healed. And when John left the cave that night, the bear hobbled at his heels, even to the clearing where the Hermit lived. He would not go farther at that time. He sat down on his haunches outside the border of tall trees, and when John tried to coax him he looked at the hut doubtfully. At the sight of Brutus he made lumberingly away. A few evenings later, the bear came of his own accord to beg for his supper; and at last this became a custom. Soon he also was accounted a member of the animal kingdom, and became good friends with them all. In time John taught him many tricks, such as he had seen the mountebanks do with their traveling bears. But unlike them, John taught only by kindness; and his bear learned the faster. XIII A FOREST RAMBLE "Father," said John one summer afternoon, when his tasks for the day were quite finished, "Brutus and I are going for a long walk." "Very well, my son," answered the Hermit, "I will bide here and read my book, for the heat has made me somewhat weary. But see that you return before sunset." "Yes, father," said John. Slinging over his shoulder a little basket in which to fetch home any strange plants which he might find in the forest, John whistled to Brutus, and the pair trotted away together as they loved to do. The Hermit looked after them, and smiled. "John is a good boy," he said. "One day he will be a fine man. May the Saints help me to make him worthy of his father and of the name he bears." Then he turned to his beloved book. John and Brutus went merrily through the forest, the boy singing under his breath snatches of the cheerful hymns that he and the Hermit loved. The dog ran ahead, exploring in the bushes, sometimes disappearing for long minutes at a time, but ever returning to rub his nose in John's hand and exchange a silent word with him. They were not going for any particular errand to any especial spot. They were just rambling wherever the forest looked inviting; which is the nicest way to travel through the woods,--especially if one of you can be trusted to find the way home, however wavering may be the trail that you leave behind. It was what John loved to do more than anything in the world. The woods were cool and green and full of lovely light. It was so still and peaceful, too! The tiny queer noises all about, which once, before he knew the kingdom of the forest, had frightened him so much, now filled John with the keenest joy. Often he paused and listened eagerly. He liked to feel that he was surrounded everywhere by little brothers, seen and unseen. With a word to Brutus, which made the dog lie down and keep perfectly quiet, John would steal forward softly and peer through a screen of bushes, or into a treetop, and watch the housekeeping of some shy brother beast or bird. Once he flung himself flat on the ground, and lay for a long time eagerly watching the antics of a beetle. A little later, with Brutus patiently beside him, he sat cross-legged for ten minutes, waiting to see how a certain big yellow spider would spin her web between two branches of a rose-bush. They wandered on and on. A great golden butterfly rose before them from a bed of lilies, and together he and Brutus ran after it; not to capture and kill it, oh no! for to John the wonder of the flower with wings lay in the life which gave it power to move about and pay calls upon the other blossoms that must be always stay-at-homes. John chased it gaily, as one brother plays with another. And when it lighted on a rose-bush or a yellow broom-flower, or poised on a swaying blade of grass, he crept up and admired its lovely colors without touching the fragile thing. But at last, as if suddenly remembering an errand which it had forgotten, the butterfly soared quickly up and away over the treetops and out of sight. "Good-by, little brother!" called John after it. "I wish I could fly as you do and look down upon the kingdom of the forest! Then indeed I would learn all the secrets of our friends up in the treetops there, who hide their nests so selfishly. Oh, I should so love to see all the little baby birds! To be sure, some that I have seen in the ground-nests are ugly enough. Oh, the big mouths of them! Oh, the bald skins and prickly pin-feathers! Ha! ha!" John laughed so heartily that Brutus came running up to see what the joke was. "O Brutus!" cried John. "I think I know why the father and mother birds build their nests so high. They are ashamed to have any one see their funny little ones before they are quite dressed!" Brutus looked up in John's face and seemed to smile. The boy and the dog often had talks together in this wise. "I think I will ask them," said John. "Now, Brutus, lie still." He gave a peculiar whistle, waited a moment, and repeated it, twice, thrice. At the first call there was a fluttering in the branches overhead. At the second call one saw the silhouettes of tiny bodies dropping from branch to branch ever nearer to the boy below. At the third, there was a flutter, a rush of wings, and a flock of dear little birds came flying to John's shoulder, to his out-stretched arms, to his head; so that presently he looked like a green bush which they had chosen for their perch. John talked with them in his own way, with chirps and lisping of the lips, and they were no more afraid of him than of a good-natured tree. But after a while, a fly, which had been tickling Brutus's nose, grew so impertinent that the poor dog had to punish him with his paw. At the sudden movement the birds fluttered away, and John looked reproachfully at his friend. But when he saw the drop of blood on the dog's nose he forgave him. [Illustration: John talked with them.] "Poor Brutus!" he said. "You kept still as long as you could, I know. And indeed, it is time we were moving. Come, Brutus!" The pair continued their voyage of discovery. The woods are so full of thrilling stories for those who know how to read them! A field-mouse's nest in a tuft of grass; a beehive in a hollow tree; tracks of a wild boar in the muddy edge of the brook; a beautiful lizard changing color to match the leaves and moss over which it crept. John longed to carry this little brother home to join the circle of pets. But he knew it was kinder to leave him there, where perhaps he had a home and family. And oh, the flowers! So many kinds, so fragrant and so beautiful! John gathered a great armful to carry back to the Hermit. And so the minutes went; the shadows began to lengthen, and it was time to turn homeward. XIV THE WOLF-BROTHER John whistled to Brutus, to call him for the home-going. But just then he spied a new plant whose name he did not know. He was stooping over to examine the lovely pink blossoms, when Brutus came bounding up to him, behaving strangely. He whined and looked distressed; he started away into the bushes, begging John to follow. Evidently he had found something which he wished John to see. The boy laid down his armful of flowers and ran after the dog, as swiftly and softly as he could; for he did not know what forest secret he might be about to discover. Brutus led him straight to a hollow under a great rock. And there John soon saw the cause of the dog's excitement. Stretched out on a bed of leaves were four little gray bodies. John ran up to them with a cry. "Why, they are puppies!" he said. "Brutus, you have found some little brothers of your own!" Brutus whined and sniffed about the rock strangely. John bent over the little bodies, which lay quite still and seemed to be asleep. He touched one softly. It was stiff and cold. "Oh, they are dead, poor little things!" said John. "I am so sorry. I hoped to take them home to my father. How came they here, I wonder? They must have starved to death!" Just then John saw one of the puppies give a tiny shiver. Its legs moved feebly and its eyes opened. "Ah! One of them still lives!" he cried eagerly. "Perhaps I can save its life, the dear little thing!" He took the gray body up in his arms and hugged it tenderly, but it made no response. Then, laying it down again on the leaves, he drew from his basket a crust of bread which he had brought to nibble while he walked. (It is such fun to have something to nibble when one goes for a ramble in the woods!) John ran to the brook which babbled close by, and, dipping the bread in the water until it was soft, returned to put some in the mouth of the little gray thing that lay so pitifully on the leaves. "Eat, little brother!" said John. Brutus looked on gravely. The puppy opened its mouth feebly and swallowed a bit of bread. After the first taste it grew eager, and began to nibble hungrily. John gave it all he had, and was overjoyed to see it gradually gain strength. But still it could not stand on its weak little legs. "We must take him home, Brutus," said John. "We will make him well and strong, then we shall have another little dog to be your baby brother." Brutus said nothing, though perhaps he knew better. Presently he was trotting homeward; tracing backward, as no human being could have done, the winding way by which they had come through the dense forest. Behind him came John, carrying the little gray creature tenderly in his arms, and with the basket full of flowers on his back. And so at last they reached the hut, in the door of which stood the Hermit, shading his eyes and looking anxiously for them. "My son!" he cried gladly when they appeared. "You were gone so long that I feared you were lost, even with Brutus to guide you. It is after sundown. Where have you been, and what do you bring there?" "We have been--I know not where," said John; "farther than I have gone since I came to the forest. It must be near the homes of men. For see! We have found a little dog! His brothers were lying dead beside him; I think they were starved to death. But this one lives, and some day I hope he will grow into a big dog like Brutus,--though indeed he does not look much like him now!" So John prattled eagerly, laying the little creature in the old man's arms. But the Hermit looked at it and looked again. Then he smiled at John. "Ah, Son!" he said. "This will never be a dog like Brutus. You have brought home a baby wolf!" "A wolf!" cried John. "He looks quite like a puppy, and he is gentle, too!" "They are much alike," said the Hermit. "You saved this poor little cub in good time, John. He is very weak. Probably his mother was killed by some hunters, who left her little ones there to starve. That is what they do, John, never stopping to think what suffering they cause. But let us now feed this little fellow with warm milk, and we shall soon have him as gay as ever. I am glad that you brought him, John. We needed a wolf-brother in our kingdom." "But, Father! a wolf!" cried John, with a shudder. He had not forgotten the horror of his first night alone in the forest, and the long howl which had made him lose his senses. "Oh, will he not grow big and eat us up, my father? Yes; that was why Brutus acted so strangely. He knew it was no puppy, although I told him so." "It is quite safe to keep him, John," said the Hermit. "We cannot turn him out to starve, for he is too young to care for himself. You will see to-morrow that he will play like any puppy. Brutus and he will be great friends,--they are relatives already. Once upon a time Brutus had a wolf for his ancestor. And as we ourselves know not from whom we may be descended, so must we treat all creatures as our brothers. Yes, this wolfkin will grow up lean and ugly-looking, like any wolf. But we will teach him to be kind and gentle, John, even as Brutus is." And the Hermit was right. The wolf-cub soon became the pet and plaything of the animal kingdom. With food and care he grew into a round, roly-poly ball of fur. He played merrily with Brutus and the kittens. And though at first he was a bit rough, they and John taught him better ways, so that he kicked and bit his friends no longer. As the months went by, they watched him change gradually from cub to wolf. They were sorry to see him lose his puppy looks and frisky manners. But what could they do? It is a great pity, but no one has yet discovered how to make babies of any sort remain babies. Gradually he lost his roundness. He grew longer and longer, until he was stretched out into four feet of gaunt yellowish-gray wolf. But still he remained quiet and gentle with his friends, quick to learn and ready to obey. He was a perfectly good wolf, and he loved John so dearly that he could scarcely be separated from him. He followed the boy wherever he went, and lay down beside him when he slept, like any watch-dog. And though he was so gentle in the animal kingdom, the Hermit knew that it would go hard with any one who should try to hurt Wolf's little master. Yet he and Brutus were the best of friends. The good dog was too noble to be jealous. XV THE GREEN STRANGER For five happy years John lived with the good Hermit, and became a sturdy lad of fourteen before anything new happened of great moment to the animal kingdom. In all this time he had seen no human creature except the Hermit himself. Their hut was so far in the forest that no travelers ever passed that way. But John was never lonely, for he had the kindest of fathers in the Hermit, and the happiest of comrades and playmates in the circle of pets, ever increasing, who gathered about the abode of peace. Brutus was still his dearest friend. But the wolf was almost as intimate. As for Bruin, he was never a constant dweller with the colony, but came and went at will. Sometimes he disappeared for weeks at a time, and they knew that he was wandering through the forest which stretched for miles in every direction, pathless and uninhabited. And sometimes they wondered what adventures the big brother might be enjoying. "If only he could tell me!" wished John. But this kind of gossip was still impossible between them. One day John was out in the forest, not far from the Hermit's hut, cutting wood for the winter, which was near at hand. He was alone, for a wonder. The wolf had come with him, but had now trotted away into the forest on business of his own. The bear had disappeared some weeks before, on one of his pilgrimages. Brutus was at that moment with the Hermit in the hut; for the dog divided his attentions between the young friend and the old. John had lifted his axe to attack a certain tree when, with a scurry of little feet, a frightened hare came bounding past him, ears laid back and eyes bulging with fear. It was so strange to see a startled creature in this peaceful wood, that John dropped his axe wonderingly. Then he noted that the birds were chattering nervously overhead, and his quick ear caught furtive rustlings in the underbrush all around him. The forest was alive with fears. Presently the wolf came bounding past, with wild eyes, evidently making for the hut. John called, but the frightened creature did not pause. Very soon John heard over his shoulder an unusual sound. He turned quickly, and saw a sight which made his heart rise in his throat. Across an open glade in the wood his friend the bear was lumbering on all fours, wild-eyed, with lolling tongue and panting breath. Close behind him came on foot a young man, several years older than John, dressed in a suit of green velvet, with a plumed cap. In his hand he bore a long spear, and he was charging upon the bear with a cruel light in his eyes. Suddenly Bruin made for a tree, and began to climb, clutching the bark frantically with his claws. At sight of his prey about to escape, the stranger gave a loud, fierce cry and dashed forward, at the same time drawing from behind his shoulder a bow such as men used in hunting. He fitted an arrow to the string, and was about to shoot, when John sprang forward with blazing eyes. "You shall not shoot!" he cried. "This is a peaceful wood. You shall not kill my friend the bear." [Illustration: You shall not kill my friend the bear.] At this unexpected happening, the young man turned with a start and a snarl, like a dog from whom one would take away his bone. "Who are you?" he cried angrily. "How dare you interrupt my sport! Do you know who I am?" "I do not care who you are!" answered John. "You shall not hunt in these woods, You must go away." "Go away!" The face of the stranger was white with rage. He turned from the tree in which the bear had now found a place of safety behind a crotch, and pointed his arrow at John. The lad saw his danger. Even as the stranger drew the arrow to its head John leaped forward; before the other knew what was happening, John seized him in his arms and with a mighty effort wrenched away the weapon. It was wonderful how easily he mastered this fellow, who was some inches taller than himself. Beside himself with rage, the stranger grappled with John, and then began a wrestling match strange to see. If the bear up in the tree knew what it all meant, he must have been very much excited. The two lads clinched, swayed, and finally fell to the ground, rolling over and over. The stranger pummeled and kicked, scratched and bit. John merely defended himself, holding his enemy firmly and trying to keep him under. It was easy to see that he was the stronger of the two. Presently the young man began to weaken, and at last John felt the stranger's body grow limp in his clutch. He felt a thrill of triumph such as the Hermit certainly had never taught him. But suddenly, remembering the duty of a noble foe, he rose to his feet, leaving the stranger lying where he was. He was not badly hurt. Presently he also rose, sullenly, and pulled on his cap which had fallen off. John had taken possession of his spear and bow. He now gravely handed an arrow to the young man. "You may keep that," he said politely. "I think you can do no harm with that." The stranger turned crimson, and his face was wicked to see. "You shall pay for this!" he spluttered, with sobs in his voice. "No one can injure me without danger. You shall--" At this moment, not far away in the direction of the Hermit's hut, a horn sounded. Once, twice, thrice, it blew vigorously, as if giving a command. Both John and the stranger started. "I must go!" muttered the latter to himself. "Needs must at that call." And without another word or glance at John, he ran to his horse, which was tethered close by, and was soon galloping away in the direction of the bugle-call. Trembling with excitement and with alarm at this coming of strangers to the forest which so long had been at peace, John hurried back to the hut. But Bruin remained safe in his tree. He seemed to have no wish to come down And learn what all these strange doings meant. XVI THE HUNT John found the Hermit sitting as usual beside the door of his hut, reading his book. He was surrounded by his family of pets. Brutus bounded to meet John, but the boy was too excited to give him the usual caress. "Father!" he cried, "have you heard or seen nothing? There are strangers in the forest, wicked strangers who hunt our friends the beasts. I have but now come from such a terrible scene!" He covered his face with his hands. The Hermit started to his feet. "What has happened?" he quavered. "Just now the wolf came leaping into the hut; but I feared nothing. Your clothes are torn. Your face is bloody. Who has been hurting you, my son?" But before John could answer came again the call of a bugle, this time very near, "_Tara_! _Tara_! _Tara_!" "Huntsmen!" cried the Hermit. "Send Brutus into the hut." John drove the dog inside, and some of the house-pets with him. Already the others had taken alarm at the threatening noise and were scattering in every direction. Nearer and nearer came the sound of galloping hoofs, the baying of hounds, the shouts of many men. John and the Hermit stood with pale faces, waiting. Suddenly into the clearing bounded a frightened deer,--a slender dappled creature with brown eyes. Straight to the Hermit she ran, and dropped panting at his feet. "It is our doe!" cried John, his face turning whiter. "O father! They are hunting her!" The old man said nothing, but stooped and threw his mantle over the trembling creature. Hardly had he done so when the hounds burst into the clearing, barking fiercely, rushing towards the spot where the deer lay. The Hermit raised his staff and stepped forward with a quick word. Instantly the dogs paused, cringing. They snarled and snapped their teeth, but made no motion to draw nearer. There was another loud bugle-blast, and a group of horsemen burst into the open space. "Hola! Hola! The stand!" cried the foremost rider, flourishing his sword. The others clustered about this leader. He was a tall, oldish man, red-faced and fierce-eyed. Like the stranger whom John had met, he was magnificently dressed in green velvet, with a gold chain about his neck, and a star blazing on his breast. He wore also a green cap bound with a gold band, from which a golden feather drooped to his shoulder. The gloves which he wore, the baldric of his bugle, and the hilt of the sword which he brandished aloft, glittered with jewels. When he spied the Hermit standing with upraised staff over the deer, while the dogs cowered at his feet, he drew up his horse and gave a shout of wonder. Then once more there was a moment of intense silence in that spot whose quiet had been broken by such a din. Thereafter the splendid leader of the hunt spoke in a brutal voice. "Ho! Who are you who interrupt our hunt and stand between us and our quarry? Stand aside, old man, whoever you are. This is no place for you. The deer is ours." He flourished his jeweled sword eagerly. "I shall not stand aside," said the Hermit. "This doe is mine, my friend and companion. Her milk has nourished me many a day, and she shall not die in this place which is my home." "Shall not die?" cried the huntsman hoarsely. "Do you know to whom you speak?" "I can guess," said the Hermit quietly. "From his cruelty and his free speech I judge it must be he who calls himself king of the realm beyond this forest." "King of this forest and lord of all that dwell therein," shouted the huntsman ferociously. "And who are you who dare oppose me?" "I am a hermit," said the old man simply. "My service is to God, whom you dishonor. My friends are the creatures whom you hunt. My study is to save life, which you would destroy. Depart, and leave in peace this place where life is sacred." "Depart!" roared the King, while his nobles crowded around him, murmuring and bending threatening looks upon the Hermit and the lad. "Not till yonder animal is slain. Ho, have at her!" With prick of spur he urged his horse forward. But quick as thought the Hermit with his staff drew a circle around himself and John and the doe, which still lay panting at his feet, wrapped in the gray mantle. "Dare not to cross this line!" he cried. "This ground is holy. Years ago in the Father's name I consecrated it. 'Tis holy as any cathedral, and 'tis sanctuary for man and beast. Hear what the Lord says to you: 'They shall not hurt nor destroy in all my holy mountain.'" The Hermit raised his hand and spoke a word to the horses that were being urged forward. With a shrill whinny they rose on their hind legs, pawing the air, and refused to advance. "What witchcraft is this!" cried the King, spurring his steed cruelly. But the animal, like the dogs, obeyed the Hermit's will rather than the King's. "No witchcraft," said the Hermit, still guarding the deer with his upraised staff. "It is the Lord's will. You, who have ever disobeyed His holy word, perhaps know not how dear to Him were the birds and beasts. His first companions. His childhood friends. And to this day, for He Himself hath said it, not a sparrow falleth without His knowledge and pity. O wicked man! How then can you delight to kill?" The King gazed at the Hermit like one in a dream. "How dare you say such things to me, your King?" he said at last. "You are no king of mine, thank God!" said the Hermit. "I am an exile. I am of no land. This forest is my domain, my animal kingdom. Depart, I beg, without more bloodshed. O King, already in time past the hunt has cost you dear. Will you not take heed lest the Lord punish you further for your sins?" The King turned pale. "This is certainly witchcraft!" he muttered. "What know you of the past?" he cried, almost as if against his will. "I know much," said the Hermit calmly. "I know that hunting cost the life of your eldest son. Will you not heed that warning, lest more ill befall?" There was a stir among the nobles, and John saw the young man with whom he had wrestled a short time before spur his horse forward to the King's side. His face was black and angry. "Sire--father," he said. "Will you not end this parley and slay them all? I would have a hand in it for the sake of that young cub there!" and he shook his fist toward John. But more he did not say; perhaps he was ashamed to tell how the wood-boy had got the best of him. "Ay," said the Hermit, pointing a finger at him and shaking it sadly. "The second son follows in the footsteps of his brother, and like his father is cruel, bloodthirsty, revengeful. Beware, O King! Beware, King's son! For happiness was never yet distilled from innocent blood, nor life from death." The King shuddered, as all could see. "I hunt," he said,--and it was strange to see how he was almost apologetic,--"I hunt all animals mercilessly, because through them the Prince my son was slain. I will hunt them out of my kingdom, until not one remains. I will slay them until the ground is soaked with their blood! Not an animal, save such as are of use, shall exist in all my land. I will have no pets--no singing birds. I hate them all!" "Ay," said the Hermit, shaking his head sadly, "you hate them all! But I love them all. And here they come to me. 'The sparrow hath found a house and the swallow a nest where she may lay her young.' I will protect them with my life. You dare not kill me, O King! Godless though you are, once you were a Christian, and you know the meaning of the words I spoke when I said that this was holy ground." He drew from his bosom the iron Cross which he wore, and held it up before the King. The monarch shrank back and seemed to hesitate. Suddenly he wheeled his horse and blew a blast upon his bugle. "Back!" he cried somewhat bitterly. "We will not linger here for a paltry doe. Let us leave this cursed wood and this crusty hermit. Back to our own demesne, where we shall find sport enough, I dare say." Once more he blew his horn and bounded forward out of the clearing; the nobles after him, and the cowed, disappointed dogs trailing at the rear with tails between their legs. John could not help feeling sorry for them. Poor things! They at least knew no better. John was just stooping to pet the frightened deer, when an arrow whizzed over his shoulder and struck the creature in the haunch. The poor animal gave a cry of pain, and blood dyed the gray mantle of the Hermit, the first blood shed in that place of peace. With a shout of anger John leaped up and looked over his shoulder. A familiar wicked face grinned back at him, as a horse and rider galloped into the forest. The King's son had skulked behind to shoot that shaft. "My son!" cried the Hermit, laying trembling hands on John's shoulder. "It was meant for you. You would have died had you not stooped at that moment to caress the doe." "Poor doe!" said John, kneeling beside her and busying himself with the arrow. "You have saved my life. Now we must save yours. My father, I think she is not badly hurt." And he began to stanch the blood and bind up the wound with the skill which the Hermit had taught him. But the old man stood for a long time gazing into the forest after the party of huntsmen. "A murderer and a coward," he said. "In sanctuary he has shed innocent blood. For many evil deeds the price will surely be paid. And the price is heavy." XVII THE MESSENGER The little deer was not greatly hurt by the cowardly hunter. John and the Hermit nursed her tenderly, and so great was their knowledge of healing balms that she was soon nibbling the grass about their dooryard, as sprightly as ever, save for a slight lameness in one leg. Bruin was with them once more, a constant guest in the little circle. The fright of that day when the hunters came to the forest had affected all the animals, who clung closely to their two human friends, and did not venture far from the hut. Although John and the Hermit had never spoken together of the King since that terrible day, the boy thought often about him, and about the young Prince with whom he had wrestled for the life of the bear. And John was troubled by many things. He thought how great must be the suffering among the helpless animals when men so cruel were in power. If animals were treated so, how must the poor and lowly people fare at the hands of their lords and masters? Were the mighty so cruel to one another,--to children and women and aged people? All these were weak and helpless, too. John remembered the Hermit's tales of war and the wickedness of cities, and his heart grew sick. What a terrible world this was to live in, if the great and powerful were so bad! But when John was most unhappy, longing to change it all, he would look around the little hut where, surrounded by his animal friends, the dear old Hermit sat under the wooden Cross, reading out of the great book. Then John grew happy once more. For the Hermit had taught him well from that holy volume. "It will all come right some time," he said to himself. "Some day the Lord will teach men better, and all will be peace and love as it is here. But oh! If only I were big and strong and powerful, so that I could help to hasten that happy day!" One evening, several weeks later, they sat as usual in the midst of their circle of pets. The Hermit, with the raven on his shoulder and the cat on his knee, was reading from the book. John, on a bench by the window, was using the last light of an autumn day to make a basket for gathering herbs. The gaunt wolf lay at his feet. Beside him rested the bear, snuffling in his sleep; and stretched out between him and the Hermit, Brutus snored peacefully. On John's shoulders roosted their carrier pigeon, and several kittens played about his legs. The deer lay on a pallet in the corner. It was a very peaceful scene, and every one seemed to have forgotten the fright of a month before. Suddenly John said: "Father, tell me about the King." The old man started, and placing a finger in the book to mark the place, looked at John with surprise. "Why should we speak of him?" he asked uneasily. "This is the hour of peace and meditation on pleasant things." "I have thought about him so much," said John. "I cannot tell why, but I am unable to forget him. I want to know more of him and of his son." The old man shook his head. "I am sorry," he said. "Did you care so much for his gorgeous clothes and jewels, his horse and band of followers? Have they turned your head, foolish boy? Did you find anything to admire in their talk and manner and looks? I am disappointed, John!" "Nay, I did not admire anything about them," John hastened to say. "I saw that the King was cruel. I believe well that he was also wicked. But he seemed to have friends. How can a bad man have friends? And why do the people allow him to be their king?" "Ah, John!" cried the Hermit, "it is not so easy to find a good king! Perhaps his people do not care; perhaps they know no better. Perhaps he is so powerful that they have no choice but to obey him." "Is the King so wicked?" asked John, wondering how the Hermit knew so much. "What has he done that is bad?" The old man hesitated; then he turned to John with a gesture that the boy did not understand. "Listen, John," he said. "I will tell you some things that this King has done. It is well that you should know. Years ago, before you were born, he was not the lawful king in this Country. The true king was his brother Cyril, who was good and kind, ruling wisely and well. But suddenly he died. Those in his service guessed that his brother Robert, this present King, had caused his death by poison. So Robert became king. A stormy time he had of it, at first; for the whole land loved King Cyril. Many accused Robert, and refused to do him honor,--especially one holy man, John, King Cyril's friend and physician. Yes, my son, he bore the same blessed name as yourself. This man the people loved dearly, for he was wise and generous with his wisdom. He healed them freely of their hurts. He went about the country doing good, bringing love and good cheer wherever he went. He was honored almost as a saint. But because he dared lift his voice against the King--he died. No one knew how it happened. At the same time his little son disappeared; men believed that he also was slain by the cruel King. The people were furious; they stormed and threatened. But alas! gradually the voices of their leaders were silenced. Some died suddenly, as John had done. Some disappeared. Some were banished from the kingdom. Some went away, broken-hearted; who knows where they may be now?" "Oh, how could the people forget their King and the holy man who had been good to them?" cried John. "How could they allow that bad man to be their king?" "The people?" said the Hermit sadly. "The people so soon forget! Do you not recall how, ages ago, the people treated the best Man who ever lived? These folk dared not seem to remember. They were selfish and lazy. The new King was rich and powerful. They found it easier to grumble and do nothing else. And when the King said, 'Hunt!' they hunted. When he commanded, 'Hate all animals; have no pets!' they obeyed him. But it is a gloomy land, a sad land, of which Robert is king!" "Oh!" said John, "how do you know so much, my father?" "Do not ask," said the Hermit. "One day I will tell you, but not now." "Oh, he is a wicked King, who ought to die!" burst out John, throwing up his arm angrily. "Would I were a man, and I would go kill him. But I will do it when I am grown!" At his rough tones and gestures the birds fluttered away, frightened, and the animals slunk into the corners, trembling. The peace of the little hut was rudely disturbed. "Nay, my son, nay!" cried the old man in horror. "Say not such wicked words! See how you frighten our peaceful friends. What have I tried to teach you? It is not yours to avenge. The Lord himself will punish as he sees best. Perhaps even now he chastens that wicked heart. Already the King has lost his dearest, oldest son. He was killed five years ago while hunting a wild boar in the forest. But now--" At this moment there was a loud knock on the door of the hut. The Hermit and John started and looked at each other in wonder. When had such a thing happened before! Brutus and the wolf arose, bristling. The bear growled savagely. The raven gave a screech of fear and burrowed under John's cot. There was a moment's pause. Then the Hermit, crossing himself, called loudly,-- "Enter, if your errand be peace. Enter, in the name of the Lord." Quickly the latch clicked and the door flew open. Into the midst of the startled group stumbled a man, breathless and covered with dust from head to foot. His hat was gone. His hair was disheveled, and his eyes bloodshot. "Hasten!" he cried, turning to the Hermit. "You are the man I seek,--you, skilled in herbs and healing. The King sends for you." [Illustration: The King sends for you.] "The King!" The Hermit and John spoke the word together, staring wildly. "Yes, the King," repeated the man. "I have killed my horse to get here. He fell in the forest yonder, even as I spied the light from your window. There is no time to be lost. We must go on foot to the nearest town, where horses may be had. Hasten, old man, and bring your herbs and balsams." "But whither? And for what purpose?" asked the Hermit, still standing with one trembling hand on the holy book. "The King's son is wounded," cried the messenger. "Five days ago he was hunting the deer, and an arrow, glancing falsely, pierced his breast. He was grievously hurt. Even now he may be dying. Why do we waste words? The physicians have done their best, but they have given him up at last. The King raved; he was beyond reason. Suddenly, in his madness he spoke of you, the wizard of this forest. He recalled that day when you cursed him for the sake of your brute creatures. He vowed it was all enchantment. 'Send for the wizard!' he cried. 'Let him cure my son. He dare not refuse, for he claims to be a servant of God.'" The Hermit was trembling now with emotion. "It is the Lord's will!" he said. "He was wounded while hunting an innocent beast. On the strength and speed of another beast hung his chance for life. And now, only with the aid of another can we reach him in time.--Nay, upon a fourth we must rely to find our way out of the forest. Brutus only can help us. But let us hasten. Come, my friend! Back to the city once more." Calling to the dog, he began to make hurried preparations for departure. John ran to him. "Do not go to the wicked man!" he whispered. "They may kill you. Oh, what should I do then?" The Hermit shook his head. "I must go," he said. "It is written, 'Do good to them that hate you.' There is no question of my duty." "Oh, let me then go with you, father," pleaded John. The Hermit laid his hand on the boy's head, and looked at him tenderly. "The time is not yet ripe, my son," he said. "Who knows what all this may mean? Wait a little longer. Stay and care for our little friends. From the nearest village I will send Brutus back to you. You will not be lonely, with your work and play as usual. Do not neglect either. Adieu, my dear son!" And he blessed John. Embracing the boy and bidding farewell to the other friends, the Hermit took his staff and bag of simples, and wrapped his cloak about him. "I trust you, John," he said at the door. "Be patient, obedient, and wise." Then in the folds of his cloak he took the carrier pigeon. "I will send you word by our friend, if need be," he said, as he went out into the darkness. Brutus and the messenger followed him closely. The door banged behind them, and John was alone with the circle of frightened, cowering creatures. He threw himself on his knees before the Hermit's table, and laying his head on the book, began to weep, he scarcely knew why. XVIII THE CARRIER PIGEON A evening of the next day, just as John had finished his simple supper, he heard a scratching at the door. It was Brutus, returning footsore and weary. Tied to his collar John found a message from the Hermit. "Be of good cheer," it read. "We mount excellent steeds to ride to the King. If by God's help I may save the young man's life, I will return to you speedily thereafter. If it be the Lord's will that other things befall, I will send the carrier pigeon with news. Bear a good heart, my son. Keep to your studies, your exercise, and your devotions as if I were with you. So when I return I shall find you a little stronger, wiser, a better champion of the good. Farewell!" John read this letter eagerly, and set himself to obey the master's wishes. But now the days seemed long indeed. In spite of the many friends who shared the hut with him, John felt very lonely, and longed for the dear old man's return. But now he had something more to think of: the good King Cyril and the holy man, his friend, who had borne the name of John. And he longed to be some day a man like that. The Hermit had been gone for nearly a week. One day John was sitting by the door of the hut, busy with his studies, when he heard a _whir_ in the air overhead. Glancing up, he saw the flash of snowy wings, and presently the carrier pigeon came fluttering down to his shoulder. "Ah, my dear bird!" cried John, tenderly taking the creature in his hands and lifting it to peck at his lips as it always loved to do. "You have come to me safely from far away. You have come from the place where my dear father is. Have you brought me word from him?" With a soft coo the pigeon nestled closer in John's arms. Reaching under its wing, he found a scroll of writing tied there securely with a silken cord. "A letter from my father!" he cried, untying it eagerly. It was indeed a long letter in the good man's clear script. It told of their safe arrival, after a hard journey through the night; of their reception by the King. They had come almost too late. But when they arrived the Prince was still breathing. They were ushered into his chamber, where he lay white and still. No one could rouse him to life or consciousness. By his bedside sat the King, his face like a mountain-top wrapped in clouds. "Save my son!" he had cried when he saw the Hermit. "Save my son, sorcerer, and I will give you whatever your heart craves." "I am no sorcerer," the Hermit had answered. "I am God's servant, with some skill in healing, because I have studied the work of His hands and the uses of His gifts. If it be His will, I may save the young man. If otherwise, we may not hope to prevail." "Oh, he must not die!" cried the King. "You foretold it, I remember, in the forest. But think--he is my only son. He must be king after me. He must live!" "Other sons have died," said the Hermit solemnly. "Other princes have not lived to reign. And what of them?" The King shuddered. "Save my son!" he repeated. "Only save this boy, and I will do whatever you ask." "Then" (said the Hermit's letter) "I did my best. I bathed the youth's wound with my healing balsam. I gave him soothing draughts to drink. I sat by his bedside and prayed that the Lord's will might be done through me. And then came a change. A faint color blossomed in his cheeks. His lips trembled; his eyes opened and he looked at me. Then he sighed and closed his eyes. What he thought I know not. But he had paused in his march towards death. From that day he mended. The Prince's wound is now healed. The King's gratitude knew no bounds. He promised me rewards beyond belief,--which, as you know, mean naught to me. "But, John, a strange thing has befallen. The Prince should now be well upon the road to health. He should be gaining strength every day. There seems no reason otherwise. But such happens not. He lies passive and dazed. He seems not to care whether he lives or dies. He never speaks nor smiles, only looks sometimes at me as if he wanted to ask me something. The doctors say that he is slowly dying. "And now, John," concluded the Hermit's letter, "now comes the reason for these long, tedious words to you. I have done my utmost, but I am powerless. Will you come? Will you try what your own skill and youth may do? It may be your mission in life to save this lad who tried to kill you. I know that if he could but once smile, he would get well. Therein lies your power. Come, as quickly as you may. Bring with you our animal friends who cannot be left behind. Brutus will lead you to the village, and thence you must find your way to the Capital. And one word more: if you find yourself in trouble or need, show the silver talisman which you wear about your neck, and I think all will be well. Remember my teachings, John, and come as soon as may be." When John had finished the letter, he stood for a moment quite dazed. He was to leave this place where all was peace and happiness, and go back among men whom he feared! He was to go to the very King whose name he shuddered to remember,--the King who had killed his brother and that holy man John with his little son! He was to do all this for the sake of the enemy who had hunted the bear, who had injured the gentle deer, who had aimed to take John's own life! He grew sick at the thought. Yet,--it was the Hermit himself who summoned him. And he remembered the good man's teachings. "How I can help I know not," sighed John, "but I must go!" He laid his head upon the feathers of the carrier pigeon and shed some bitter tears. Then, placing the bird gently on the tree beside him, he straightened himself bravely. "I will go!" he said. "I will go joyfully, as one should who hopes to be worthy to bear the name of John." Just then Brutus came sauntering from the hut, shaking himself lazily after his nap. "Ho, Brutus!" called John, snapping his fingers. "Shall we go on a journey together, you and I? Shall we take these little friends on a wonderful pilgrimage? And will you be my guide, as you were once before, good Brutus?" The dog seemed to understand. He pricked up his ears, and leaped up to John's shoulders with a joyous bark. Then, rushing to the edge of the wood, he looked back, inviting John to follow. "Oh, let us be off!" he seemed to say. "I have been longing to go to our dear master. Let us hasten, little brother!" "Not so fast!" said John. "We have first to gather our provisions and make ready our company of pilgrims. I must take all the food I can. For I dare not trust wholly to the silver Cross. What could my father mean by that?" Still wondering, John set about his preparations. They did not take long. There was neither lock nor bolt on the door of the Hermit's hut, nor aught of value to hide. When John's basket was packed with simple food, and the animals were gathered about him outside in the little clearing, he rolled a stone against the door, and they were ready to go. XIX THE JOURNEY A strange company they were, these citizens of the Animal Kingdom traveling to town! Foremost went Brutus, leading the way and feeling very important with a bundle bound upon his strong back. Gray and gaunt, the wolf trotted along at his side, like another dog. Next came John, with a knapsack on his shoulders, in which three little kittens slumbered beside the provisions for their journey; there were always new kittens in the Animal Kingdom. On his shoulder perched the raven, and by a rope he led the bear, whom he felt safer to have close by his side. Sometimes the bear trotted on all fours. Sometimes he walked upright like a big brown man, towering over John's head. Now before and now behind them went Blanche the cat, pretending as cats do that she was neither following nor leading, but traveling quite independently of them all. Frequently she disappeared into the bushes or up a tree, but soon came scampering past, when she would stop to make a hasty toilet. Overhead fluttered from tree to tree the carrier pigeon and the other birds, who were John's pets and bound to follow wherever he went. The deer and her fawn went part way with them, and the little rabbits hopped a staccato accompaniment for some time. But John did not urge them to follow. He knew they were better off in the forest, where they could take care of themselves. All day they fared on the uneven path by which, nose to earth, Brutus led them. And at last, weary and spent, they came to the little village where the Hermit had taken horse for the longer journey. John paused at the first house in the village and knocked at the gate. A burly fellow came to the door. "Hello!" he cried. Starting back when he saw the strange group gathered in his dooryard. "What means all this?" [Illustration: A strange company.] "If you please," said John politely, "we go upon a Journey to the King, and we seek shelter. Will you let us sleep in your stable, friend?" "Sleep in my stable!" muttered the man, "a beggar with a band of outlaw animals! A wolf and a bear! No, indeed. I have too much respect for the safety of my cattle and for the King's laws." He was about to shut the door in John's face. But the lad had a sudden thought. He would try at this first place the value of the Hermit's hint. "Stay," he said, "one moment, friend." Fumbling in his breast, he drew out the silver medal which he wore about his neck. "I was to show this--" he began. But he saw the man start, and, shading his lantern with his hands, peer more closely at the object. Then he stared at John's face with wonder. "In God's name!" exclaimed the man, "who are you who travel with this strange company?" John looked almost as surprised as he. "A poor pilgrim, on the King's errand," he said. "We ask only a corner of your stable with a bed of straw to lie on. Give us shelter, kind friend, and to-morrow speed us on our way." The man still stared at John as though he saw a fairy. But now he threw the door wide open. "Enter," he said. "I cannot refuse you. Enter my house. You shall have a bed and supper, fair boy; but what of these?" and he turned troubled eyes upon the animals. "Nay," said John simply, "I ask no better bed than theirs, my fellow pilgrims. Thank you for your hospitality, kind friend. May we all sleep in your stable? My animals are quite safe company. They will hurt nothing that hurts not me." John smiled then in his happy, trustful way, and the face of the man looking into his brightened as if by reflection. His coarse mouth broadened into a smile. "They shall sleep soundly in the hay," said he kindly, "though it be against the law. I will risk even the bear and the wolf for the sake of that you wear about your neck. But the stable and the company of beasts are not fit for the like of you. That I know, though you be in rags. Come into the house, young stranger." "Have you forgotten," said John gently, "how once a stable sheltered the greatest King of all among the humblest beasts? I have often had worse beds than a pile of sweet straw. I shall be happy enough among my friends." The man hung his head for a moment, then raised it and looked at John strangely. "I _had_ forgotten," he said. "Who are you? Who are you who talk so wisely, and who wear that silver Cross upon you?" "I am John, the Hermit's pupil, and I am very tired," was the answer. "May we not rest now? To-morrow perhaps we will show you some pretty tricks to pay for our night's lodging." "_John_," mused the man, "that is a good name! I want no pay from any one who bears that name." And still eyeing John strangely, he led the way to the stable door. He bade them good-night; and thereupon the straw the two-footed and four-footed pilgrims rested peacefully together, nestled in a warm mass of fur and feathers, flaxen hair, and woolen rags. In the morning the farmer brought them food, and his family came with him to see the strange visitors. For so many animals had never before been seen together in that country. John put Bruin and Brutus through their tricks, and the children clapped their hands joyously at the sight. Then John himself tumbled and danced for them, and they were in an ecstasy. At the end of the performance they clung about the boy's neck and flung themselves upon the animals, declaring that they must not go away, and begging them to stay forever. But John shook his head, smiling. "I must be off," he said. "I must do the King's errand." And so they went upon their way, the children watching them wistfully out of sight. But the farmer went with them some little distance to point out the road; and when he left them he spoke a last word of warning. "The King has no love of animals," he said. "There are none in all the kingdom save those for use and those he hunts to kill. There are no pets nor playmates for the children; no birds even in his forests. Beware his wrath, my lad, when he has word of your caravan." "I am going to the King," said John simply. "We go to save the life of his son." The farmer stared again at John with a strange expression. "You, to save his life!" he muttered. "I cannot understand it all!" And he passed his hand over his forehead. "I have some skill at healing. Farewell!" cried John gaily. "We shall be safe, I know." "Ay, with that silver thing on your neck," said the man to himself, shading his eyes to watch them out of sight. "John; the Hermit's pupil; a boy with the knowledge of healing, and a smile,--Saint Francis! What a smile! He is like our holy John come back again as a child. Who can he be?" And he crossed himself devoutly as he went back to his work. But John and his friends went sturdily upon their way. Up and down hills they traveled; along dusty roads; through lonely stretches of moor and plain. They caused great excitement in the villages through which they passed. It was years since the townsfolk had seen a dancing bear; years even since they had enjoyed the frolics of a cat and kittens. The raven was a source of delight. The birds that followed overhead and came at John's call, perching on his arms and shoulders, filled the children with envy. The wolf looked so fierce that they were afraid of him; but his brother Brutus was petted in a way to spoil any ordinary dog. Yet he kept his temper and his poise, and endured their homage meekly. Often, in the country through which they passed, John found sick persons to whom he could bring relief, and gladly he used the knowledge which the Hermit had taught him. It seemed that there were few in that land who had the skill of healing, and many of the sick had long suffered for lack of the simple remedies which John had often used for his pets. He saved several lives. Oh! that was joy for John! The people were very grateful, and would have paid him anything he wished. But all he asked was food or shelter for himself and his friends. Then they spoke his name softly and kissed his hands, which made John laugh. John found it easy enough to earn all the food he needed in the villages. Remembering his mountebank days, he had but to hold a little performance in the public square. Every one would hurry to see Bruin do his tricks and John himself turn somersaults and walk on his hands; after which the bear would dance and pass the hat, into which the pennies rained generously. But it was harder to find lodgings for the night. Knowing the King's hatred for animals, men feared to shelter this caravan. Only when John would pull from his breast the talisman of silver would they soften and yield to his wishes, wondering and almost worshiping, as the farmer had done on that first day. John himself was the most wondering of them all. For he saw no reason why the silver Cross should have such power. Sometimes he wondered if it was bewitched; but he knew the good Hermit would not have bade him rely on magic. Yet it made him almost afraid, so that he used this power only when he had to for the sake of the weary animals. He himself was welcome everywhere,--perhaps for the sake of his yellow hair and blue eyes, which were a wonder in that country; but more likely for the smiling ways and cheerful speech of him, that made his passing through that gloomy land like the passage of a sunbeam through thick clouds; and blessings followed after him. And so, after six days of travel, they came at last to the King's city. XX THE ARRIVAL About sundown John with his train came to the gates of the city where the King lived. They were all very hungry, dusty, and tired. A watchman on the wall, with telescope to his eye, had spied them afar off. "Hello!" he cried. "What is this coming down the highroad? It seems a small caravan, creeping and writhing like a caterpillar. The head of it seems human. But, by my faith! the rest of it is like nothing I have seen for many years! What ho! Let us be on guard. It may be an enemy of the King." The warders ran to arms. And so it happened that a crowd of them were gaping at the entrance when John and his companions came up. The lad was almost exhausted. But when he saw the way barred by a band of frowning armed men, he doffed his cap and smiled his own peculiar smile. "Good-evening, friends," he said. "We have been long in reaching your city. We are glad to be at the gates at last." "Who are you?" asked the Captain gruffly, stepping forward and barring the way, while his companions gazed in amazement at the wolf and the bear who were huddled at John's side. "I come on an errand to the King," said John. "Please guide me to him quickly, for it is an urgent matter." "To the King!" sneered the Captain; and the warders echoed his laugh. "No one goes to the King in such company as you bring. You must know that. They are outlaws, all,--and you too, I dare say!" "I know not. But I must see the King, and that quickly," said John. "I come with these friends to heal the King's son, if I can." "Ha! More sorcery!" interrupted the Captain. "No, you shall not enter here. The King allows no animals in his domain. How you have brought them so far I cannot guess!" "Well, I bear this," said John, drawing out the silver talisman. The men bent forward to look at it, then fell back, staring at one another with astonished faces. "Who is he?" they whispered among themselves. "What shall we do?" "Let me pass, good friends," begged John, looking up in their faces with his simple smile. "I will promise to do no harm. Among friends my friends are quite harmless. But tell me, I pray you, where I may find the good Hermit who healed the Prince's wound? I come at his bidding." At these words the guards pulled themselves together and exchanged looks. They began to swagger. "Ah, is it so?" growled the Captain. "You are a friend of the wizard himself. We must let the King know of this. Yes, you shall enter. Here! Take him captive! Off with him to the prison." "To prison!" cried John in amazement. "For what ill deed, I pray?" But already the guards were pressing forward upon him. At the sight of their threatening looks Brutus ran in front of John and began to growl warningly, crouching ready to spring upon the first who should lay hands on the boy. The wolf bristled and showed his fangs. And the bear, rising on his hind legs, growled and blinked his little red eyes so terribly that the men fell back. John was protected by powerful friends. The other animals shrank close to him, and the raven began to scream. [Illustration: John was protected by powerful friends.] "Have a care!" warned John. "My friends are armed with sharp teeth and claws, and they will not readily let a stranger touch me." "He is a wizard!" muttered the soldiers; but they shrank back, afraid to touch him. "Why do you treat me thus?" asked John wistfully. "Because you say you are a friend to that vile magician of the woods, by whose arts the Prince was wounded, they say, and who yet holds him at death's door." So spoke the Captain of the guards. "The Prince still lives. But when he passes, the King has decreed that the wizard shall die the death. You come in time to share it, if you be his pupil!" "Oh, hasten, hasten!" cried John, clasping his hands. "Please take me to him! Perhaps I may yet save the good old man. If it is not too late, perhaps I can also save the Prince." "Ay, we will take you to him fast enough, if you will call off your growling beasts," said the Captain. "Nay, we must all go together," answered John, who saw how they meant to trap him. "Oh, come, let us be moving, for there is no time to lose!" Grumbling, but afraid either to delay or to venture near John, the guards formed in a hollow square about him and his pets, and they all began to march in a strange company through the city streets to the palace. A crowd gathered as they passed. Men, women, and children craned their necks to look at this group of animals, such as had not been seen in the city for years. They gazed, too, at the handsome yellow-haired boy, and whispered among themselves, "Who is he? What has he done?" John noticed that the faces of the people who gazed at him were set and hard. They seemed sad and hopeless. He pitied them. "It is a kingdom without love," he said to himself. Yet, as they looked, their faces changed. A new something came into their eyes. A whispering went around among the crowd, increasing to a murmur, like the sound of bees. They came at last to the palace, where the crowd was forced to pause. But, surrounded by the band of soldiers, John and his party went in and on, led by the Captain himself, at whose word or gesture doors flew open and servants bowed. Through long, glittering halls, lined with mirrors in which their rags and dust, draggled feathers and matted hair showed pitifully, limped John and his weary friends. Up a grand marble staircase, with wondering footmen lining either side, pattered on muddy feet Brutus and his gray brother, and the bear, clumsily erect at John's side. Behind mewed the tired Blanche, whose kittens John carried in his arms, while the carrier pigeon and the raven perched on his shoulder. But the other birds had remained outside in the trees of the palace garden. XXI THE PALACE At last they came to a great hall, full of people who seemed met for some solemn purpose. At the door stood the Grand Chamberlain in lace and velvet, holding in one hand his staff, and in the other an hourglass at which he was gazing earnestly. "What is this?" he said sternly, as the Captain approached with his prisoners. "Do you not know that this is a moment of life and death?" In a few whispered words the Captain explained matters. The Chamberlain stared sullenly at John. "No more wizardry!" he said at last. "We have had enough of that. The King has just passed judgment on the sorcerer. In five minutes he is to die. The doctors declare this to be the only hope for the Prince's life." "Oh, let me see him! Let me see my good father!" begged John, clasping his hands piteously. "I may yet save his life, I and these friends." As he said this, John had a sudden thought. He fumbled in his bosom for the silver Cross, and held it out with trembling hands so that the Chamberlain could see it. The man started back, turning pale and letting fall his staff of office. "What does this mean?" he cried, "Who is this lad? How came he by this token?" Once more the Captain whispered to him. The Chamberlain looked wildly at John, then at the hourglass, in which the last grains of sand had sifted down. "The time has come," he said; "the fatal moment is here! I should give the signal for which the executioners wait. But something holds me back. In Heaven's name, what does it all mean? Is it sorcery or--" "It is the Lord's will," said John quietly. "Oh, pray, let me see the King." "I do not understand," muttered the Chamberlain hoarsely. "But, in the name of the talisman which you wear, enter. Go alone. I dare not face the King with his order disobeyed." A broad aisle was left open down the hall through the ranks of lords and ladies. At the end of it was a tall gilt throne. And on the throne, clad in purple and gold, John saw a figure sitting, pale and terrible. It was the King. John knew his cold, cruel face, although the man had greatly altered in those weeks since the day of hunting in the park. For now the King's hair was snow-white and his body was bent like that of an old man. John fixed his eyes upon this figure and began to walk forward steadily. Beside him paced Brutus, looking up anxiously into the boy's face. In his right hand John led the bear, walking upright. The wolf slunk behind, with lolling tongue. In his arms John still carried the kittens, and on his shoulder perched the raven, while Blanche trotted behind him. It was indeed a strange sight. A hush came upon the hall, and every one stared open-mouthed as they passed along. At last the King himself, who was sitting with bent head, noticed the silence and glanced up. John, with his queer group, was now almost at the foot of the throne. The King started up with a cry of rage and surprise. He glared at the lad and at the animals with blazing eyes. "What does this mean?" he shouted. But at that moment John himself gave a cry. He had seen a figure that he knew, and, forgetting all else, he was hurrying towards it. At one side of the throne stood the Hermit, pale and sad, with his hands tied behind his back and a rope about his neck. He was guarded on each side by a man with a drawn sword. "My father!" cried John, throwing himself upon the good man's neck before the wondering guards could interfere. At the same time Brutus gave a loud bark of joy and leaped upon his master. "My dear son!" cried the Hermit, with tears in his eyes. "I thought not to see you again!" At the sound of his voice the cat gave a loud "Miaou!" and ran to him. The kittens squeaked and tried to climb his gown. The bear growled contentedly and trotted to his side. The wolf leaped to him with fierce pleasure. The raven hopped to his feet with a scream of Joy, and the carrier pigeon, with a soft "Coo!" fluttered to his shoulder. To the watching men and women of that court it seemed a miracle. For a moment all was silent. Then the King found voice. "What does this mean?" he cried again. "How have this vagrant and his vile beasts found entrance to my palace? It is the hour for execution, not for mummery. Why is not the signal given?" "O King," said John timidly, "they let me in because I said that I came to cure your son, if may be." "More sorcery!" howled the King, beside himself with rage. "Take him away! Slay them all,--the old man, the boy, the animals! I have waited too long already. Perhaps even now my son is dead!" He rose, trembling. But the Hermit's voice rang out now, loud and clear. "O King," he cried, "enough talk of sorcery and magic. This boy has come to help your son, who sought to slay him. He has brought the animals whose lives you covet, to show you how much you may owe to them. Lo, this carrier pigeon bore my message bidding him to come,--not for my sake. For I told him nothing of the danger in which I lay. This noble dog guided him to the village by a path which only he could follow. Now with these other animals he hopes to amuse the Prince and awaken him to life. There is no magic in this; only love, O King--the love which is lacking in your sad and sullen kingdom." There was a murmur in the crowd, which swayed forward toward John and the Hermit. For some seconds the King stood speechless, staring at the Hermit and the group around him. Then, with a wave of his hand, he bade the guards stand back. He turned to a black-gowned man on his right who had just entered the hall. "Does my son still live?" he asked in a choking voice. The doctor nodded gravely. "He still lives, Sire. But he is very low. He cannot survive many minutes." The King paled. "Let us hasten," he said. "It is the last chance. Perhaps the boy has skill." Then, turning to the little group of people from the forest, he beckoned grimly. "Come with me," he said. "Save my son's life, and you save your own. Otherwise I swear that you shall all die the most hideous and painful of deaths." Descending from the throne with tottering steps, for the King had grown a feeble old man, he led the way from the great hall. Behind him came the doctor and the Hermit. John followed, with the animals in his arms and close about his heels. So they came to the door of a room in one wing of the palace. XXII THE PRINCE'S CHAMBER At the door the King paused and turned back to the little company which followed him. "You may enter," he said, "and try your skill on the Prince, who is near to death. If you cure him, I will give you whatsoever reward you may demand. But see that you do not fail!" The King's voice was full of menace. "Enter, in the name of whatever magic you use." "In the name of love we come," said the Hermit gently; "and in the name of love we shall do our best for your son, O King. Enter softly, John. You must do without me now. Leave our larger, clumsier friends outside with me." Softly John tiptoed over the sill, carrying the kittens in his arms, with the dove on his shoulder, and the white cat following behind. In the centre of the room was a couch, hung with a splendid canopy of purple and gold. Beneath a purple coverlet fringed with gold lay the Prince, white as the lace of the pillow on which his black curls rested. His eyes were closed, and he looked still and lifeless. The hand which lay outside on the purple velvet was as white and transparent as the hand of a marble statue. On one side of his bed sat a doctor in a black velvet gown, and several attendants stood about with long faces and tired eyes. On the other side of the couch a little girl crouched on a low stool. She was a pale, pretty little thing, younger than John, and her dress of brilliant red made her sad, dark eyes look all the more sorrowful as she gazed at John wistfully. It was Clare, the Prince's only sister. As they entered the room the King made a sign to the doctor, who shook his head sadly. The King crossed to the bed and bent down over his son, touching the cold face. But it did not change. Neither the lips nor eyelids trembled, and John could see no sign of life in that still body. How different, he thought suddenly, from the vigorous figure which had wrestled with him in the forest. How different that face from the one which had looked back at him triumphantly after the arrow had struck the poor deer! "He does not hear nor see," said the King gloomily. "He scarcely breathes. What will you do?" John hesitated. He had made no plan; he hardly knew with what hope the Hermit had summoned him and his pets thither. It seemed a hopeless task. The King frowned at his daughter. "Why is this girl allowed here?" he said gruffly. "Leave the room." "Oh, Sire," pleaded the little Princess, with tears in her eyes, "please let me stay! When my brother is so ill, surely my place is at his side. I will be quite still, indeed I will. Only do not send me away!" John looked at her and thought how like a gentle little animal she was, so timid, and with such large, beseeching eyes. John had never known any little girls. Now he thought they would be very pleasant things to have in an animal kingdom. "Please let her stay, King," he said gently. "She can do no harm." "Very well. Let her stay," said the King impatiently. "But what will you do? What magic have you, boy?" Suddenly John had an impulse. He stepped forward with the squirming kittens and laid them on the velvet coverlet close by the Prince's marble hand. The doctor arose with a cry of horror; the attendants rushed forward. The little Princess drew a long breath. But the King raised his hand. "Let the boy alone," he commanded. "Even this madness shall be humored. There is no hope now but in him." The kittens began to frisk and gambol about the velvet, and the old cat, with a contented purr, jumped up beside them. She was tired, poor thing, and glad to find a soft bed. At that moment those who were watching saw a change come upon the Prince's face. His eyelids quivered. His lips moved slightly. The King raised his hands and trembled. Then began a frolic upon that royal bed such as for ten years had not been seen in all the kingdom. Up and down, around and around, the kittens chased one another. They rolled over and over, kicking and biting. They played with their mother's tail. They scampered over the still body of the Prince himself, and one of them, coming to his hand, began to play with the white fingers, nibbling at them and licking them with warm little pink tongue. And what happened? Slowly the Prince's eyes opened. For a moment they gazed blankly at the frolicking kittens. Then his lips gradually parted, and the flicker of a tiny smile came upon them. The King clasped his hands over his eyes, and gave a cry of joy. The little Princess laid her head on the pillow beside her brother's and wept silently. The kitten which was playing with the Prince's hand rolled over on its back and began to kick at the royal fingers. A tiny red scratch appeared on the milky skin. At the same moment a bit of color came into the Prince's white lips and cheeks. He turned his head, and lifting his hand stroked the soft ball of fur. The little thing responded immediately, arching its back and beginning to purr. Presently the Prince's other hand stole out from under the coverlet. He drew the kitten feebly to his face and rubbed his cheek against the silky fur, and he smiled! [Illustration: He stroked the soft ball of fur.] The doctor turned to the King. "He will live," he said. "It must be magic!" "He lives! My son lives!" cried the King, bending over the Prince in a transport. The Prince opened his eyes and looked at him, and a change came upon his face. The smile faded, and he closed his eyes wearily. "Your Majesty," said John, speaking gently, "if you will allow me to give the Prince a healing draught which I myself have made from life-giving herbs, I think now he will sleep and waken refreshed." "Do as you will!" cried the King. "Whatever you wish shall be done in the palace. Whatever you ask shall be given." With a word and a gentle touch John roused the Prince, who swallowed the draught which the boy gave him. "Now let us leave him to sleep," said John. But when they would have removed the cat and kittens, a cloud came over the Prince's face, and his hand wandered feebly, as if craving the touch of the silky fur. "We will leave them here," said John. "They are what he needs." "Oh, let me stay too!" cried the little Princess, with shining eyes. And across the room she and John smiled at each other, as he nodded, saying, "Yes, O King, I pray that you will let the little maid stay." So they withdrew from the chamber, and left the Prince to dream with his new friends sleeping about him, and the little sister with her head upon the pillow at his side. And all night long he slept like a baby with a smile upon his face. The Prince's cure had begun. XXIII THE CURE There was wonder and excitement in the palace, for the news of John's success had been told from mouth to mouth. The King ordered the Hermit's chains to be removed, and he and his pupil were treated with utmost honor. But they refused all gifts which the monarch made them; and he was annoyed. In the morning John and the Hermit went once more to see their patient. They found him and the little Princess playing with the kittens, and both looked up with a smile when the visitors entered. But at sight of John the Prince's color faded and the smile died on his lips. John bore the white pigeon in his hands, and going to the bedside bent over the Prince with a gay manner. "You are better?" he asked. The Prince's eyes looked into his wonderingly. "Why do you try to help me?" he asked. "Once I tried to kill you." The little Princess gasped. "I came to heal and help you if I could," said John, laughing. "I brought my pets to cheer you. See, here is the dove of peace. She brought me the message which has saved your life. Will you not love her as I do?" He placed the bird on the Prince's breast, and with a gentle coo the creature nestled there confidingly. Tears came to the Prince's eyes. "You are very good," he said. "I tried to kill your pets in the forest." "O brother!" cried the little maid, clasping her hands with a sob. "How could you!" "Let us forget that," said John brightly. "Let us be friends. You will get well and learn to love the animals for their own sake." "Oh, yes!" said the little girl. "I never saw any before, but how can one help loving these dear little pets,--and the lovely bird?" She stroked the white feathers tenderly. But the Prince covered his face with his hands and seemed to be weeping. "I cannot forget!" he said brokenly. John felt very uncomfortable. "If only I could make him laugh, now!" he thought. Then an idea came to him,--a funny idea which made his eyelids quiver and the brown spot wink. With a twist of his body he suddenly stood upon his head at the foot of the Prince's couch, and, waving his feet in the air, began to walk about the chamber on his hands. The Prince uncovered his eyes and gazed in astonishment at such antics. Presently John regained his feet, and kissing his hand began to turn somersaults vigorously all about the apartment. The little Princess clapped her hands and began to laugh. The Prince watched him, fascinated. Presently, as John's high spirits broke out into fuller pranks and gyrations, the Prince's lips quivered. He began to grin. "Oh, you are a tumbler," he said. "I am glad you have come here! Do it again." So John did it again; and this time the Prince, watching him, echoed the gay laugh of the little Princess. "It is as good as a play," he said, feebly wiping the tears of merriment from his cheeks. "I wish I could do it myself!" [Illustration: I wish I could do it myself!] "You must get well first," said John, laughing. "I will try," said the Prince, with a new spirit in his tone. And from that moment he began to grow stronger. Now came days when the palace was much happier than it had been for years. The presence of the animals was in itself a joy to the King's people, long starved for the lack of pets. And John's sunny face and quaint smile were reflected on all about him. There is nothing so catching as good humor, and John started an epidemic which spread through the palace, and indeed through the whole city. No one knew how it happened. But before long the flaxen-haired boy was the pet of the whole town. Not only was he welcome always in the Prince's chamber, but every door at which he knocked opened gladly to him, and he was at home wherever he went. Only the King held aloof. He had grown strangely grim and sullen since his son's cure was assured. The King was jealous. What with the animals to play with and John's tumbling, the Prince was continually in gales of laughter, and every day he grew plumper and more rosy. Sometimes it was Brutus who amused him; often the cat and kittens, his first friends. The raven became a great favorite after his introduction to the Prince, which happened in this wise. John had delayed to bring the bird into the royal chamber, he was so mischievous. But one day when the Prince seemed very merry, John slipped out and fetched the black fellow on his shoulder. On being invited to do so, the raven hopped gravely to the foot of the bed, where he perched, eyeing the Prince with little round eyes and head cocked knowingly. Presently the bird gave a queer screech, and began to imitate John's own laughter so exactly that the Prince shook with mirth. At this the raven stood upon one leg gravely, and began to sidle along the footboard of the bed. Presently he spied some fruit carved on the wooden uprights, and making a dart began to peck at the pears and peaches. Then, discovering his mistake, once more he began to chuckle, this time so heartily that he seemed ready to have a fit. And as he listened the Prince's mouth widened and he burst into roars of laughter. "Hush, you foolish bird!" said John reprovingly. "Be not so noisy in a Prince's chamber. It is not good manners!" and he threw his handkerchief over the raven's head. But the Prince protested. "Let him do his pleasure," he said, laughing. "I have not seen anything so funny for many a day. I shall teach him many tricks." So the raven stayed with the Prince, and learned many tricks. And the carrier pigeon stayed. And the others stayed,--all but the wolf, who would never leave John,--making themselves quite at home on the Prince's velvet couch. And the little Princess played with them, enjoying the happiest hours of her life. One only of the animals the Prince had not seen. The Hermit and John agreed that until he was stronger he must not see the bear whom he had once tried to kill. For they knew that now it would make the Prince sad and ashamed to remember that day in the forest. Such a change had come upon the young man! He was no longer hard and cruel, but tender and affectionate. The King felt the change, and it made him angry. XXIV THE KING Daily, as the Prince grew stronger, he became more and more devoted to the animals, to John and the good Hermit. He could scarcely bear them out of his sight. When they were with him his face lighted with smiles, and he seemed to blossom as a flower does in sunshine. Only in the presence of the King he grew silent and sad once more. The light passed from his eyes as he looked at the grim old man. A visit from the King was almost enough to undo the good effects of a whole day of happiness. The King knew this, and it made him furious. He did not see that it was his own fault; that it was the badness in him which made the Prince shrink. He thought it was the doing of some one else. He grew to hate the Hermit and John and the animals, of whom his son and daughter were so fond. In his heart he cared little for any one. He had never loved the Princess Clare, and the Prince was dear only because one day he would be king. Yet Robert hated to see them love any one else. The King was resolved to put an end to this state of things as soon as might be. But he dared not do anything yet for fear of causing his son to fall ill again. He sat and brooded and planned in his wicked heart what he would do when the Prince should be well once more. And for him the time went slowly which others found so happy. Of all this the Prince and John guessed nothing. For the King seemed to them no more gruff and grum than usual. All the wishes of the strangers were regarded, and they were treated like distinguished guests in the palace. But the Hermit kept his eyes open. And one other was not blind to the King's hatred. Clare, the little Princess who had never been loved by her father, knew the meaning of the black looks which he sometimes cast upon the two forest-comers, and her heart was uneasy, for she loved them both. The Prince grew so much better that he could walk about. One day he was lying upon his couch in a balcony overlooking the royal park. The Hermit sat close by, reading aloud from the book which he was teaching the Prince to love, as he had taught John. The little Princess bent over her embroidery frame at the foot of the couch, and John himself, on the floor at her feet, was playing with Brutus. The other animals and birds were straying about the balcony, or lay cuddled in the Prince's lap. John thought how like this scene was to the Animal Kingdom in the woods; yet how unlike. And he glanced from the Prince to the Princess with a smile of content. It seemed hardly possible that this was the land where no pets were allowed; where hunting was the favorite sport of the King and his son! Suddenly, in a pause of the reading, the Prince put out his hand. "Friends," he said, "you have taught me many things in these weeks that you have dwelt under this roof. You have cured me; you have made me laugh. I have been thinking much of late how it is that where you come folk are happy. Your faces make the world smile. How different from my father and me! We have always made every one weep. There has been something wrong, I know not what. No one loves us,--not even Clare here." "O brother!" protested the little maid, "I have always loved you. But never so dearly as now, when you have grown so kind." John spoke gently. "You will change all this when you are king," he said. The Prince shook his head. "No, they will never love me as they do you. I would fain be different, but I can never be like you, John. You should be king, not I." John laughed. "And what would become of the Animal Kingdom then?" he said. "My father and I have been talking together. We must soon go back to our woods and our little friends there." "Oh, you must not go!" gasped the Prince, turning pale. "You must never leave me! I can never again be alone with the King!" He looked so terror-stricken that the Hermit and John were silent for pity. "I have been thinking," went on the Prince gravely, "that when I am king, if that time ever comes,--and they say that it must, since there is no other son of our house,--I shall need much help, for I am weak and not wise. You, good father, I would have you for my counselor. And you,"--he laid his arm affectionately on John's shoulder,--"you shall be my brother and share the throne with me." "Nay, thrones cannot be shared thus," said the Hermit, looking at both boys with some agitation. "You are a king's son. But we are of the woods, my Prince. I at least have other work to do. As John says, there is the Animal Kingdom--what is to become of that?" "Why, there will be no need for you to go to find it," answered the Prince eagerly. "When I am king all shall be changed. This shall be the Animal Kingdom. There shall be no more hunting or killing here. There shall be pets,--more than in any other land. For I have seen how unhappy are folk who live without them." "Now God be praised!" cried the good Hermit, with tears in his eyes. And John embraced the Prince heartily, while the little Princess clapped her hands and cried with shining eyes, "Oh! we shall all live together forever and ever, as happily as if this were the lovely forest which is John's home." "Nay," said the Hermit gravely, "I cannot live here. I must go back to my woods. I have vowed never again to live away from my Forest Kingdom. But you, John, have taken no vow. Will you stay here with the Prince, or will you go back with me? Make now your choice." John looked wistfully at the Prince and Princess, for he loved them well. He looked at the animals who crowded around him and seemed to be listening to his words. He knew how eager they were to be back in the forest. He looked at the Hermit. "Oh, stay!" cried the Prince. "Stay and be my brother, and I will make you rich and powerful." "Oh, stay!" begged the little Princess. "Stay and be my brother, too!" But John shook his head. "I cannot stay," he said. "If my dear father will have me for his pupil still, I will go back with him. For though it is pleasant here, I love best the life of the woods and the freedom of the forest. And I long to learn what no one in this kingdom can teach me: the art of healing and helping, as did that good John whose name I bear." The Hermit's face beamed like May sunshine, but he said nothing. "Then I will go to the forest with you!" cried the Prince. "I will not stay here. I do not want to be king. I too would be free and happy in the Kingdom of the Forest." "And I will go also!" said the Princess. "Hush!" said the Hermit gravely. "That may not be. Your duty lies here. When you are king, my Prince, you can make your kingdom into a happy place. Then, little Princess, you will be proud of it and of him. Your duty is to the kingdom where you were born, and to the people of it, whom you can make happier and better. But perhaps, some day when I am gone to a still fairer kingdom, John will be able to help you, as another John once helped another King." At this moment there was a noise at the window which led to the balcony, and the King stepped out to them. How long he had been standing inside, how much of their talk he had heard, no one knew. The Princess flushed; but the Prince turned pale as he greeted his father respectfully. John and the Hermit exchanged glances. They were not afraid for themselves, but they dreaded the King's wrath for his son and daughter, who had threatened to run away. The King stood for a moment, looking at the group with a frown. Then a peculiar smile twisted his lips. "Ah!" he said, "I have intruded, it seems, upon a council of State. I fear that I interrupt your plans, my son. But I trust that you and these noble visitors will pardon my desire to learn the state of your health. You must not be over-excited." He waved his hand toward the Hermit and John, then bowed low to each of the animals in turn, with bitter mockery. The Princess trembled, for she saw how angry the King was. "We have no secrets, my friends and I," said the Prince with dignity. "We have nothing to conceal of which we are ashamed." The King looked at him quickly, as if suspecting that his words meant some reproach. But he only said, "That is well." Then his manner changed. He tried to appear merry and genial. "And now, my son," he said, "since you are so much better, I wish to plan a festival in your honor, to celebrate your cure." The little Princess looked at him quickly. She suspected some treachery. But the Prince seemed pleased. "For me?" he said. "A festival in which these friends may share--these friends who saved my life?" "Ay," answered the King, bowing to the group once more with a peculiar smile. "Surely, it shall be also in honor of these friends to whom we are so grateful." The Hermit and John bowed. The King went on suavely: "We will have a pageant, with music and games and singing. But chiefly the people clamor to see our young friend do the wonderful tricks of which they have heard. I myself would fain see what you, my son, have found so amusing. My lad,"--he turned to John with a strange tone in his voice,--"you shall dance and tumble and put your animals through their paces, for the applause of my people. I command you to appear before us this day week and do your sprightliest. It is not often that we have the honor of entertaining a mountebank at court." He spoke the word "mountebank" sneeringly, and John flushed. But seeing the Hermit sitting with downcast eyes, he merely answered:-- "I shall obey your Majesty's commands." "Then that is settled," said the King, with a grunt of satisfaction. "And you,"--he turned to the Prince,--"you will then be strong enough to sit at my side on the throne. It is well." He quite ignored the little daughter who with a pale face shrank in one corner. With one last glance at the group, the King swept from the balcony. "A fete!" said the Prince, clapping his hands. "A grand fete in your honor, my kind friends. That will be rare sport! John, you shall make the whole city laugh, even as you have cured me." "I shall do my best," answered John. "Yes, I will teach some of my little friends new tricks for that fete." And he laughed as he thought how the Prince and Princess would stare when they saw Bruin dance. John and the Prince left the balcony arm in arm, to talk over the plans for the fete. But the Hermit still sat with bent brows, thinking. "Why did he call John a mountebank?" he asked himself. "He hates us. He is planning some mischief, I believe. It is time we were back in our Animal Kingdom." He looked up. The Princess was touching his arm and her face was very pale. "Father," she said, for so the royal children loved to call the good old man. "Father, there is mischief in the air. Oh! do be on your guard. For I think it would break my heart if anything should happen to you or to dear John." The Hermit stroked her hair gently. "Dear child," he said, "we will take care of him, you and I and the animals." XXV THE FETE The day for the festival came at last. The Prince was now quite strong and well, and had taken a joyous part in the preparations. The palace was decorated with flowers; bands were playing, fountains splashing in the courtyard; banquets were spread at all hours for any one who would partake. The palace was merrier than it had been for years; and the centre of all the joy, the core of the day's happiness, was John. His praise was on every one's lips. His name, even more often than the young Prince's whose health they were celebrating, was spoken in love and tenderness. But all this John did not seem to know. He only saw that every one was very kind; that the world might be a very happy place to live in, if love ruled the kingdoms of it. And he made ready for his share in the merrymaking with a light heart. It was great fun to play at being a mountebank once more for the people who loved him! Yet he was not sorry that the next day he and the Hermit were going back to the kingdom in the forest. He was longing for the peace and quiet of the woods, and the little wild friends who awaited them there. The King he never saw. That monarch seemed anxious to keep out of his way as far as possible. John did not know that he and the Hermit were being carefully watched by the King's spies, and that they were really prisoners in the palace. For they were treated honorably, and the King sent word that John must ask for whatever he wished to make his performance a success. John asked for little. Upon one thing, however, he had set his heart. He had made for that occasion a tumbler's suit of green silk, with trunks of cloth-of-gold--just such a suit as Gigi had worn when he was one of the mountebank company. But the boy who pranced gaily about the palace in this gorgeous attire was a very different fellow from the sad-eyed little Gigi. John was tall and sturdy and full of life. His eyes sparkled with fun and good humor, and looked at the world frankly as if expecting kindness from every one. So much had five years of love and humanity done for the little wanderer. When John appeared in the courtyard ready for his performance, dressed in the familiar colors of long ago, he could not help chuckling to think how things had changed with him. Instead of Cecco and the Giant, by his side waddled the great bear on his hind legs; while Brutus walked sedately on his other side, and the gaunt wolf stalked behind. The park was thronged with people, soldiers and citizens and peasants from the country, jostling one another for a sight of John and his pets,--and whispering among themselves with an excitement which John could not understand. For after all he was going to give a simple little show of tumbling such as they must have seen many times. "It is the animals," he thought. "It must be the animals that they are so eager to see." John walked along, smiling into the faces which met his kindly, and the brown spot on his eyelid gave him the mischievous look which always made folk laugh. It was amid a ripple of good-natured laughter that he and his pets made their way to the platform which had been erected in front of the palace. Here on a high seat sat the King, and beside him the Prince, with a flush of pleasure on his thin cheeks. Gaily dressed lords and ladies stood about the throne. But somewhat apart and surrounded by his pets sat the Hermit in his gray robe, with folded arms. His hood was pulled over his face so that John could not see how grave he was. Two armed men stood behind him, but by his side, with her hand on his shoulder, was the little Princess. John smiled at her, when he bowed low to the people on the platform. And the little maid answered with a flash of affection; but her face was very pale, and her hand trembled on the Hermit's shoulder. John led forward his animals and they began their tricks. The Hermit saw the Prince start when Bruin appeared. Evidently he recognized the animal which he had once tried to kill. Merrily John urged the clumsy fellow to dance, and every one laughed heartily at the sight. Only the King sat grim and sullen. [Illustration: John urged the clumsy fellow to dance.] Then John put a plumed hat on the bear's head, took his arm, and the two strutted about the platform like a pair of dandies. The audience burst into roars of mirth. Even the Hermit's sides were shaking, and the little Princess rocked to and fro with merriment. Straight up to the Prince marched the twain, and at John's command the bear bowed and held out his hand politely. "He salutes you, his brother," said John to the Prince. "He begs you to be friends with him always." The Prince bowed in return, with a bright flush in his cheeks. "I salute you, brother," he replied. "Never again will I hunt you or any animal, wherever I may be." From the foremost of the crowd who heard these words came a loud "Hurrah!" and caps were tossed in the air. Evidently the Prince's sentiment was popular in the city. "Tut, tut!" said the King, "we will see about that!" He bit his lip and bent a frown upon the group before him. The Hermit saw him whisper a word into the ear of one of his courtiers, who bowed and disappeared. Now John put Brutus and the wolf through their tricks, which were wonderful indeed; for the dog was very intelligent, and had learned all that the best educated dog nowadays can do, and more beside. Then the wolf's leaping was a thing to wonder at, he was so lithe and strong. Over Brutus he leaped, over John's head, over the bear, over John standing on the bear's broad back. At the end the Prince applauded heartily, and calling up the dog and the wolf, placed a golden collar about the neck of each. "Good friends," said the Prince, "you helped to save my life, you and your brothers, and your masters. I give you these. But them I never can repay if I live to be as old as Noah, who was the first to gather pets about him. I hope that in time there may be many pets throughout the kingdom." He glanced timidly at the King. "Hurrah!" shouted the people. "Long live the Prince. Long live John and his animals! Hurrah! Hurrah!" "No more of this!" The King made a gesture, and the shouting stopped, changing into sullen murmurs. The King was not popular, it seemed. "Let the performance proceed!" he commanded. "I do not like these interruptions." Once more the Hermit saw him whisper to a servant, who went away quickly on some mysterious errand. Now, with a happy face, John himself stepped forward and showed his skill and strength and grace. He turned somersaults backward and forward; he stood upon his head and danced upon his hands. He did all the old tricks which he had learned of the tumblers, and more of his own invention, till the people shouted rapturously, "Bravo! Bravo! Hurrah for our John!" With his eye on the Prince, John began to caper at his merriest. He danced high, leaping like a grasshopper, and seeming to bound like thistledown. All the while his eyes twinkled, and the people laughed with delight. "Bravo! John, bravo!" shouted the Prince, clapping his hands. "Come here and let me decorate you, my friend." And as John bowed before him the Prince placed upon his bosom a beautiful star of diamonds that gleamed and sparkled like a cobweb full of dew. "Hurrah! Hurrah! Long life to John! John! John!" shouted the people, as if they loved the name. And the Hermit saw that the King turned pale and shook with wrath at the sound. The next moment he grasped the arms of his chair and stared into the crowd eagerly. Suddenly he arose, and, waving his sceptre, commanded silence. John bowed and turned to the King, waiting to hear his pleasure. But instead of the speech which every one expected, they saw the King gazing down into the crowd before him, and on his lips was a malicious smile. But he looked very old and sick, and he tottered as he held to the arm of his throne. XXVI THE TALISMAN John turned his head to see at what the King was staring. There was a movement in the crowd. Men were being elbowed forward. A noise of harsh voices arose, and to the platform crowded three figures in rags and tatters. They forced their way directly in front of the platform, and stood staring up. John stepped forward to see what it meant, and in a moment fell back with a cry of dismay. He was looking into the eyes of Cecco, Tonio and the Giant! "Hi! Master Gigi!" cried Tonio's hateful voice; "so here we find you setting up as a tumbler on your own account. Your Majesty," he cried, appealing to the King, who was listening with a wicked grin on his face, "this is our boy. We own him. He ran away, but he belongs to us. Give him to us again!" The little Princess screamed and clung to the Hermit's arm; but he sat motionless, watching. The people began to murmur and jostle the three strangers. But the King raised his hand, and they listened to him. "We will hear these men," he said. Then, turning to John, he added smoothly, "And after that, sirrah, you shall answer for yourself." The Hermit rose and took a step forward, still holding the little Princess by the hand. Brutus broke away from the page who held him, and crouched growling at John's side. Then Tonio raised his voice, and cried louder, pointing at John with his skinny hand. "He is our boy," he said. "We taught him his trade; let him deny it. Now he is robbing us of our fair dues. He is a runaway. Give him back to us!" Still John stared at him, too dazed to answer. But the Hermit took another step forward, and said sternly:-- "He is your boy, you say. How did you come by him?" "We bought him for a gold piece," they said in chorus. "That was years ago. For ten years he traveled with us. And then he ran away. His life is ours; let him deny it if he can!" John stood silent, horrified at the fate which seemed to confront him. For in those days children who were bought and sold in this cruel way were the slaves of the masters who had purchased them. The Prince had fallen back, pale and trembling. But the King now spoke again, gazing with malicious eyes upon the two wood-folk whom he hated. "What have you to say for yourselves?" he asked. "You who do not deny that you are a runaway; you, old man, who stole the lad and must be punished most severely therefor, have you any reason why I should not give the one of you up to these mountebanks, his lawful masters, and the other of you to punishment and death? Speak!" The King's voice was harsh and cruel. His eyes glittered fiercely. Still John was silent. "Seize him!" commanded the King. "Seize them both! Off with them to prison!" The guards stepped forward, unwillingly enough. But at that moment John drew himself up. His eyes flashed; he grasped in both hands the staff over which he had made the wolf leap, and braced himself for defense. "They shall not take me!" he cried. "I will not go with them. I will die sooner. To me, my brothers!" and he gave a shrill, peculiar cry by which he and the Hermit were wont to call their pets. [Illustration: To me, my brothers!] Instantly the Hermit ranged himself at John's side. At the same moment Brutus placed himself, barking and growling, before the twain. Breaking from the leash by which he was held, the wolf came leaping towards them, and stood bristling beside the dog, showing his terrible fangs. With a savage growl Bruin burst his chain and came lumbering to the defense of his friends, and the three devoted animals made a stout and terrible wall about them. But this was not all. From the corners where they were crouched came running the other, gentler pets. Here scampered the cat and her kittens, mewing pitifully. Across the platform hopped the raven. The carrier pigeon fluttered to the Hermit's shoulder. And from the trees all roundabout came winging, with a call answering to John's, a flock of birds who had followed him from the forest, and who had been hidden in the forbidden trees of the King's park until this very hour. They fluttered like a cloud about the heads of the pair, so that one could scarcely see them. Every one stood amazed; even the King sank back in his seat, stupefied. The guards fell back with lowered weapons. The crowd was silent, staring open-mouthed. Then a murmur arose, and words passed from man to man. "A miracle! It is a miracle! They must be God's saints!" But Tonio was not long silent. "Tricks! Tricks!" he cried. "Gigi has become an animal-trainer. But he is our boy still. Give him to us!" "Seize them!" repeated the King in a choking voice. Once more the guards made a rush forward. But the animals leaped up and stood at bay so fiercely that they dared not come nearer. The Hermit raised his hand, and there was sudden silence. He faced the King and spoke sternly. "O King," he said, "you see that they will never take us alive. In sight of all these people will you add more deaths to your record?" The murmur of the crowd grew louder. "Nay, all has not yet been said," he went on. "Listen, O King. You judge too quickly. There is not proof enough of the lad's ownership." "Not enough?" snarled the King. "I say there is enough and to spare. Can this boy dispute the words of these men?" John now looked at the Hermit eagerly. His heart beat with hope of something, he knew not what. The King sneered. "You see!" he cried triumphantly. But once more the Hermit held up his hand. "Will you not question these fellows further?" he asked. "Dare you hear more, O King?" "Dare I!" blustered the King, "and why not, pray? If there be more to say, tell it," he commanded the mountebanks. "Ay," they answered eagerly, "we can indeed prove that the boy is ours." "Tell how you came by him," interrupted the Hermit, in a tone not to be disobeyed. Tonio answered sullenly:-- "We have told already. We bought him for a gold piece, of a fisherman on a distant coast. He had found the babe, nearly dead with cold and hunger, floating in a basket on the sea. It was a castaway, a foundling; no one wanted it. We took it away with us, and had hard work to make it live." "Is that all?" asked the Hermit. "Was there nothing to prove that this is the same child?" He said this in a loud voice so that every one could hear. "Proof!" cried Tonio, shaking his fist at John fiercely. "Who can mistake him in that suit, the very one we gave him? Look at his mop of yellow tow and his eye with the brown spot over it. No one who has seen it could forget that spot. Ay, there is still another way to prove him ours. I see the gleam of silver around his neck. He still wears the chain and the bit of silver which he dares not remove, because there is magic in it, they say. It was on his neck when the fisherman found him. Look, and see if we do not say truth!" John still stood motionless, looking in the Hermit's face. But at these last words the old man stepped behind him and drew the silver talisman from the boy's breast, laying it out on his green silk bosom, where it glittered for all to see. Cecco and Tonio and the Giant gave a cry of triumph. But from the crowd behind them rose a murmur of different meaning. Men began to crowd forward eagerly. "Yes, look!" cried the Hermit, pointing at the medal. "The Cross of the good man John, the friend of King Cyril! Which of you does not know and love it?" The murmur of the crowd swelled into a shout,--"Who is he? Who is the lad? We will know!" "Who but John," answered the Hermit, with kindling eyes. "Who but John, the good man's son,--my brother's son. I know, for I christened the child, and I saw the King hang this Cross about the baby's neck, a Cross like the one he had given John himself. This is the child who disappeared fourteen years ago. The King sent him away to be killed. But the servant to whom the task fell was less cruel. The child was set adrift on the ocean, and escaped as you have heard. Will you let him be lost again?" "No! No!" roared the crowd. "He shall not go! He shall not go!" And they seized the three mountebanks and hustled them away. With a shout the King's own guards rushed forward to help in this matter. There was a cry at the back of the platform. The King had fallen in a fit. But few at the moment were thinking of him. The people were throwing up their caps and dancing joyously. "John! John!" they shouted. "We knew the silver Cross which the holy John always wore when he went about doing good to us. Oh, we remember now! We shall never again forget! John! Hurrah for his son John!" John himself stood bewildered, and the animals around him shivered and looked surprised. They were not used to such tumults. Suddenly John felt his hand clasped softly. The little Princess was at his side, looking up in his face and smiling through tears. "Dear John!" she said. "Now you are safe. Now you will be our brother indeed!" "Yes, he is safe," said the Hermit, embracing the boy tenderly. "My John! My brother's son! Oh, how I have longed to tell you and claim you for my nephew! But I vowed that I would wait until you had proved yourself worthy of him, worthy of the name by which I christened you. And you are worthy, O my dear John, even to wear the silver Cross!" "I do not understand yet," said John. "Who am I? And why do the people shout my name and seem to love me so much?" "You are the son of John, the holy friend of the people," answered the Hermit. "But you, my father,--for so I must call you still," said John; "who are you, and how came you to be living in the forest?" "I was but a humble servant of God," said the Hermit. "But when King Cyril died, and my brother and you were gone, there was not happiness for me in the city of sorrow. I became an exile. I fled to the forest with the hunted animals who were my brother's friends. And there I made a home for them, a kingdom of my own, with Brutus for my prime minister. And there, after many years, you came to find me, my dear son! It was a miracle!" Now the Prince came forward and laid his hand timidly on John's shoulder. "John," he said, "now you know how less than ever you have reason to love the rulers of this land. But oh, John! I beg you to forgive us. Be my brother, John; and if you can forget, let me be your friend!" "My brother and friend!" cried John; and the two hugged each other affectionately, while Brutus leaped up and licked the face first of one, then of the other, and the other animals frisked joyously. "Hurrah! Hurrah!" shouted the people, "They are like good King Cyril and his friend the holy John. Let it be so! Let it be so! Hurrah! Hurrah!" CONCLUSION And so it turned out to be. For soon the old King died, worn out by wicked passions, and Prince Hugh became King. Then began a new order of things. The land was now a happy kingdom, full of love and peace. Like his uncle, the new monarch became known as the Good King. In his realm was never hunting or cruel sport. The houses of his subjects were full of pets. And the palace itself was a perfect menagerie, so that John called it "The Ark." There were hundreds of new four-footed friends in the park and palace; and hundreds of two-footed friends in the trees and dovecotes. To and fro they went between the city and the forest. For all ways were safe now to wandering creatures. A highroad was made connecting the King's city with the Hermit's wood. And the path to the door of the hut was worn smooth. For this soon became a favorite place of pilgrimage. There in the Forest Kingdom lived the good Hermit and John his nephew, with their circle of pets. And these also went back and forth between the forest and the city. For John was the Prince's dear friend and companion, and spent many weeks of the year in the palace with the two whom he loved. His pets were as eagerly welcomed there as he. Brutus had his own rug by the young King's fireplace. The wolf made a faithful guardian of the palace gate, while John was inside. Bruin wandered about the halls at his pleasure. The cat purred contentedly on the brocade furniture, with ever-new kittens frisking about her. The raven often perched on the back of King Hugh's chair and made wise sounds. And while waiting to carry a message to the Hermit in the forest, the carrier pigeon loved to nestle in the arms of the young Princess, who grew prettier and prettier every day. To the Kingdom in the Forest came folk from everywhere. The quiet of the Hermit's retreat was often broken. But nevertheless the old man was happy. For he saw his boy fast growing into the man he had hoped him to be, the copy of his father, beloved John. With the silver Cross on his bosom, the strange, merry smile ever on his face, and a kind word always on his lips, John ministered to all who needed him; and he went far and wide to find them. He was always happy, whatever he might be doing; alone with the Hermit and his animal friends; helping the troubled and the ailing; wandering with Brutus and the wolf through the still lonely parts of the wood; studying the never-failing wonders of the Kingdom in the Forest. But he was happiest of all, perhaps, when the King and Princess came to visit him, as they loved to do,--without servants or followers, with only an animal or two. For this country was the safest and most peaceful in the world. [Illustration: King and Princess came to visit him.] Then they would all dress in simple green and brown and go out into the forest to ramble and to become acquainted with the wild creatures. There they met the old friends of the wood who had not gone with the others on that famous pilgrimage. And the deer, the fox, the squirrel, the rabbits, and the birds were always glad to see them. Here John could teach the young King to tumble and turn somersaults to his heart's delight, without any one to say, "How undignified!" For whatever the friendly beasts and birds thought of these antics, they never spoke critically of the matter. Here also John taught the Princess the secret lore of the forest, so that she became almost as wise and skillful as he. But no one could say, "How unladylike!" For she grew sweeter and dearer every day. And the good old Hermit watched them always with loving eyes. 
45265	----	THE STORY OF A FIERCE BAD RABBIT [Illustration] THE STORY OF A FIERCE BAD RABBIT BY BEATRIX POTTER _Author of "The Tale of Peter Rabbit," etc._ [Illustration] LONDON FREDERICK WARNE & CO., LTD. AND NEW YORK [_All rights reserved_] _Copyright in all countries signatory to the Berne Convention._ FREDERICK WARNE & CO. LTD., LONDON PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN [Illustration] THIS is a fierce bad Rabbit; look at his savage whiskers, and his claws and his turned-up tail. THIS is a nice gentle Rabbit. His mother has given him a carrot. [Illustration] [Illustration] THE bad Rabbit would like some carrot. HE doesn't say "Please." He takes it! [Illustration] [Illustration] AND he scratches the good Rabbit very badly. THE good Rabbit creeps away, and hides in a hole. It feels sad. [Illustration] THIS is a man with a gun. [Illustration] [Illustration] HE sees something sitting on a bench. He thinks it is a very funny bird! [Illustration] HE comes creeping up behind the trees. AND then he shoots--BANG! [Illustration] [Illustration] THIS is what happens-- BUT this is all he finds on the bench, when he rushes up with his gun. [Illustration] THE good Rabbit peeps out of its hole, [Illustration] [Illustration] AND it sees the bad Rabbit tearing past--without any tail or whiskers! PRINTED FOR THE PUBLISHERS BY R. J. SKINNER LTD., 4 CARMELITE STREET, LONDON, E.C.4. 
60655	----	STAR OF REBIRTH BY BERNARD WALL _Atanta knew the red star was the home of his people after death.... And for months now it had been growing brighter._ [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, February 1959. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Everyone should have known. They should have known as surely as though it were written in the curved palm of the wind. They should have known when they looked up at the empty sky; they should have known when they looked down at the hungry children. Yet somehow they did not know that their last migratory hunt was almost over. The straggling band had woven its slow trail among the mountains for forty days of vanishing hopes and shrinking stomachs. Ahead of the main party, the scouts had crawled until their knees and palms were raw; but still there was no track of game, and the only scent was that of the pungent air that rose from the ragged peaks of ice. At last they halted, only a few footsteps from The Cave of the Fallen Sun, the farthest western reach of their frozen domain. In the rear of the column the women threatened the children into silence and the scouts went first to the mouth of the cave to look for signs of an animal having entered. Presently the scouts stood up with their massive shoulders drooping, turned to the rest and made a hopeless gesture. Atanta, who stood alone and motionless between the scouts and the rest of his band, knew that all were waiting for him to use his magic to make a great leopard appear in the empty cave. "A _very_ great leopard," he thought sarcastically. Enough to feed them all for a hundred days. A leopard so huge it would whine pitifully while they killed it. A leopard so gigantic that it would not leave its footprints in the snow. Indeed, Atanta was sure, the leopard his people wanted would be much too large to fit into the cave. Well, perhaps there would be a bird. He held himself very tall and straight so that his dejection might not show to either his people or his gods. But after forty days of the trackless hunt, Atanta felt with certainty that the gods were deaf or dead ... or at least very far away. The sun was hot and the gods were gone, and he would not keep his people waiting with false hopes. He closed his eyes and took up the crude bone cross that hung from his waist, and he cursed the gods with silent venom. And when his chastisement of the delinquent gods was done, he dropped the cross to dangle at his waist again. Two hunters moved stealthily forward, their spears disappearing before them into the cave. It was somehow pathetic, Atanta felt, the way they moved so courageously into the empty darkness. How many caves had there been, Atanta wondered, since they left the mouth of the river? Fully a dozen, always empty, except for the scattered bones of bears and men. Perhaps he should have kept his people at the river. No, he told himself. He had done the only thing he could do. The season had been bad and their meager catch of fish carefully stored. But the already heavy ice thickened with the approach of winter and made fishing almost impossible. When their supplies were almost gone, he had done as so many had done before him. He had led his people on the futile hunt, hoping for the miracle of a dozen sleeping bears or a great white leopard. Such miracles had happened in the past. Once he had gone with his father on such a winter hunt. But miracles without footprints were quite another matter. That was the way his people lived: just existing when the catch was good, starving when it was not. Presently the two hunters stepped out of the darkness with the blunt ends of their spears dragging behind them, and their countenances told the others that the cave was indeed empty. Children began to cry. Women picked up their packs and slung them across their shoulders. The men mumbled inaudible words that turned into whisps of smoke in the icy air. At Atanta's signal, everyone entered the ice-floored cave, thankful at least to be out of the blinding brightness of the sun and snow, and into the soothing dark where they could rest. Atanta stood while his people stretched their furry bodies out over the frozen ground. He looked down at his woman who lay before him, watching him with her black eyes large and warm. It made his stomach clutch itself into an angry knot, to see her young face so drawn with exhaustion and hunger. There were lines in her face he had never seen before; the fur of her head and body had lost its sheen and was now brittle and dry. She patted the ice and motioned him to lie down beside her; but he turned his eyes away from her, because he knew that he must tell the others before he could rest. "Listen to me," he said, and his voice rang through the ice-sheeted cave. The tired eyes of the men and women opened and everyone sat up. How should he tell them? They were waiting now. Should he simply say it swiftly and have done with it? Tell them that they had followed an impotent god until now they were to die? Surely he should prepare them somehow. Prepare them for the importance of what he was to say. "Listen, for I tell you of the end of the empty caves." He stood silent for a moment watching hope filter into their faces, hope that made their dull eyes shine in the semi-darkness. "Do not let joy curl your lips until you have listened, for it would be a false joy." The lines of tiredness and worry returned to the faces about him. Atanta did not look down at his woman's face, for she knew him very well and she would know what he had to do. * * * * * "We are told of a time long ago, when the cave of man was filled with food as the night is filled with stars, and the caves and the men covered the five corners of the world. But these were not the caves that we know now. They were magic caves, and these were magic men. The men of that long-ago world created the very mountains into which they dug their caves. The mountains they created raised their peaks through the highest clouds, and every mountain held countless caves ... caves stuffed with bear and fish and captive winter winds. These were magic times when every man was a priest. Every man could make fire blossom from nowhere and every man could fly through the air like a bird. "All this was long ago when the world was young, and the world was hot, and our people could live in the heat. But Nuomo the God of Night became jealous of these magic men, for he had seen them fly into the night itself in search of the stars. And so Nuomo wrapped his black wings around the world and shook it for ten tens of days. The world cracked and burst with flame that sprouted up into the darkened sky. The people ran in terror and their mountain-caves were sucked down into the earth or burned into ash by the flame. At the end of the ten tens of days, Nuomo thought that all were dead and so he rolled a sheet of ice across the earth to cool it. "Only one man was able to escape the wrath of that ancient god. He was an old man with only little magic and he felt himself on the edge of death. He look from his body a rib which he fashioned into a son. But he made the son in such a way that he could live upon the ice itself, as we do now. "The son knew that the old man was about to die, and so he said: 'Father, use your magic to make a woman to keep me from being lonely.' "'Woman!' the old man cried. 'I should think you would want me to teach you the use of magic.' "'Yes, father,' the son answered, 'if you can.' "'No,' the old man told him. 'I am so near to death there is no time. A woman will have to do.' "And so the old man drew from his chest another rib which he fashioned into a woman. This being done, he turned to his son and said: 'My son, the time has come for me to die. Do not mourn for me, for when each evening comes you will see my home--the red star which travels quickly in the night. For many ten tens of years, I have been preparing it to become a suitable place to be born again. When your time comes, you too will be welcome there.' "Thus saying, the old man placed his hands upon the shoulders of his son. Then he wrapped his cloak about him and rose up into the heavens to the star of rebirth. "Only when the old man had gone to the star of rebirth, did the son turn to his woman. Only then did he see that she had not been made in his image, for she was hairless and delicate and not made to live upon the ice. She was a Hotland woman. But the son, whose name was Dectar, took his woman whose name was Sontia, shielded her from the icy winds and comforted her as best he could. Some of their children had hair and loved the cold; some were weak and hairless and did not. In those days the hunting was good and the strong sheltered the weak, fed them, carried them on the long hunts. But Sontia was a jealous woman. Jealous of her strong husband and their offspring of his kind. She prayed to Ram, God of the Sun, and begged him to melt the ice. And so the ice began to melt, leaving the Hotlands a paradise for weak selfish creatures. Sontia deserted Dectar, taking with her those of their children who were hairless and weak like herself. "When the ice began to melt, we sons of Dectar were forced to hunt farther northward year by year. The game became not so plentiful as it had been. Our people learned to fish and hunt as we do now--to fish in the summer, to hunt when the ice becomes thick. "But the jealous sons of Sontia who swarm in the Hotlands were not content to see us perish year by year. Even to this day, if we should wander down to the edge of their domain to beg for a few scraps of food, they would answer our plea with death. And even in death they would allow us no dignity, but would strip us of our hides and wear them in mockery. "I tell you of this now, because when a man comes on a long hunt which ends in an empty cave, it is well to remember and be proud of the successful hunts of other years." Atanta took the white bone cross carefully from about his waist. "It was I who first saw this god go across the sky." He held up the cross for all to see. "It went slowly like a bird from horizon to horizon and I knew that it was not a bird for it did not flap its wings, but kept them still and outstretched. I believed it to be the god who would fill our hunting trails with game, but now I know that this god is impotent. At worst it is a foolish god, lying somewhere on the white floating ice of heaven, wallowing in idleness while my people starve." He dropped the cross to the smooth ice floor, knelt and smashed the cross into pieces with one swift blow of his hammerstone. When he looked up the people were silent and unmoving. Perhaps he had been a fool. Perhaps he had told them nothing they didn't know. Perhaps they had already given up and knew that they would die here in the cave and that he could produce no magic to help them. "Will you take another god?" one of the scouts asked. "I see no other god to take." "Then do you think we can be delivered without a god?" Wasn't it evident? Surely they must know. Should he tell them there was no deliverance, with or without a god? "I don't know," he lied. "I don't know." Ark's woman drew a strip of leather from the mouth of a sleeping child and put it in her own mouth. "Then you'll have to deliver us yourself," she said and lay down to go to sleep. A sudden rage burned in Atanta's brain. The muscles in his square jaw trembled as he glared at the sprawling furry figures, who would lie there and die while they waited like children for him to provide for the future. Abruptly he turned and left the cave, and walked out under the yellow sun that made the ice-covered mountains shimmer. He felt that he must get away from them. He did not want to die with fools. * * * * * The sun blazed hot upon the hair of his head and back as he traveled rapidly downward and away from his people in the cave. He traveled too quickly to think of anything else but where his next footstep should be, and within an hour he was at the edge of a great ice field that stretched itself out before him like the footprint of a giant. There could be no more swift traveling now. Cautiously, he started out over the empty plain, prodding the ice before him with his spear. It was not that they were children. He knew that he had been wrong to judge them so. There was nothing they could do. They had walked their lives away on the long hunt that ended now without a sign or scent of prey. And he, Atanta, had led them. They were strong and loyal people, too, for if he ordered them up and back along the trail that they had come, each man would go without a word and hope that there was some magic Atanta had yet to use. But the animals were gone and the gods were gone, and there was but one thing left. He would go down below this range where the Hotlanders were known to be. Probably he would simply die in the sun. If not, the Hotlanders would kill him on the spot, as they were usually so quick to do. The Hotlanders had good magic. Not as good as his ancestors', Atanta was sure. But still, they could kill a man from a great distance, simply by pointing a magic charm and making a certain noise. Perhaps the Hotlanders wouldn't see him and perhaps he would not die in the sun. Perhaps he would find some game by the edge of the Hotlands. Perhaps.... The sun had tucked itself behind a white western peak when Atanta at last came to the end of the ice field. Tired now, he crouched for a moment like a bird with his bottom sitting squarely upon his heels. Presently his tiredness became true exhaustion, so he dug himself a little space in a shadowed snow bank and then covered himself with a mound of snow. While Atanta slept, a great lost bird came on the last feeble rays of light, flapping its black wings because there was no wind to glide upon and there was no footing but the frozen ground. When above Atanta, the bird caught a slight scent in the air, held its wings stiff and tilted itself to glide in slow circles that became smaller and smaller and ever lower until at last the bird's tired feet sank deep into the snow beside the mound where Atanta lay. The bird folded its wings about itself and pecked at the mound, its beak digging cautious holes in the snow. Atanta stirred slightly at this intrusion, and the bird drew its beak away and flapped its wings against the windless air and flew away. When Atanta woke, the night wind had curled itself with a scream about the mountains and brought with it a fresh snow. He dug himself from his bed and smiled with his eyes closed at the night that sent the wind and snow to caress his hair. When he opened his eyes, his face was tilted upward to the sky, and he smiled at the lonely stars. The moon was full and heavy tonight, and it hung low in the western sky. Atanta wished his woman could be here beside him, nestling close to him in the soft snow, her delicate hands caressing the hair on his cheek. He thought of her hands rubbed raw from the straps of the heavy pack. Perhaps it was better that he had left without saying goodbye. He felt rested enough to go on, and was about to hoist himself to his feet when the red star caught his attention. For months now it had been growing brighter with every night that passed, as if heralding some important event. This was the red star of rebirth, and he wished he could believe that he and his people would someday go to live there; but he no longer believed in anything. It was then that Atanta saw the god. It was a great and fearful god that turned the black night yellow and screamed louder than the wind. In an instant it fell out of the sky; then the yellow light was gone and the voice of the god was gone, and the dark night returned and the voice of the wind returned. Atanta fell to his knees and his trembling hand etched out the sign of the cross in the snow. Surely this must be a sign. The god had come out of the sky and fallen in the path before him--forbidding him to go into the lowlands. He knew he must pray and ask forgiveness but for many moments he was too frightened to pray, and when the fear subsided, he was too proud. Why should he pray to a god who would let his people starve? He raised his eyes, and saw the very head of the god peering up above the next rise. He stood up with a semblance of dignity on his unsteady legs. When the god did not move from behind the rise for many minutes, Atanta's courage overbalanced his fear and he kicked the snow with his foot and obliterated the sign of the cross. He waited for the god to strike him dead, but nothing happened. The head of the god was motionless. Atanta set out with cautious steps. Presently he hid behind a little ice dune where he could see the god in its awesome entirety. Now he was close enough to hurl his spear at it if the god suddenly struck in anger; and he gripped the spear in readiness. Suddenly he was filled with a new awe, for he realized that this was not the god of the cross! There were no stiff wings at its side. It was like a huge shining spear with its dull end stuck in the snow and its point stretching up to the sky. But how could this be a god? Perhaps he should not yet pray. Time had shown there were many false gods. Presently a black mouth appeared magically in the side of the great still thing. The mouth sucked in the icy air for a moment and then extended a long jagged tongue down to the fresh snow. Atanta saw something move in the blackness of the gaping mouth and then a figure stepped out onto the tongue and looked about at the falling snow and the white jagged mountains in the darkness. It was the figure of a man. At least it was in a man's shape, but it did not look like a man of the mountains nor did it look like the man-creatures of the Hotlands. It walked slowly and laboriously down the tongue, and it seemed to be made of the same shiny stuff as the tongue and the flying wingless god itself. For a moment, Atanta wondered which was the god. The great huge thing with the mouth and the tongue, or the man-thing? The stranger stepped off the tongue into the snow where he knelt and scooped up the snow in his arms, tossed it into the wind which hurled it to the ground again. Then he stood and clutched his head. For a moment Atanta thought he had taken his own head off, but then he could tell that he had taken a covering off his head which he tossed into the snow. Then it seemed that the man had been entirely covered, like the men of the Hotlands who wore furs. Presently the man had taken off all his covering, and stretched his furry arms up to feel the sweetness of the wind. Atanta leaped up, shouting his surprise. For this was a true man. For a moment the man was startled and then his face filled with joy. Showing his empty palms, he began to walk slowly toward Atanta. Atanta moved to meet him, the dark fur of his shoulders glistening in the moonlight. He spoke, but the man did not understand. Then he pointed up to the sky, then to the man, and tilted his head questioningly. The man smiled and nodded his head. He pointed to the sky, but not straight up. He pointed to a spot low in the west. He pointed to the star of rebirth. While Atanta watched in unbelieving awe, the man touched his own chest, then stooped to lay his palms on the snow at his feet. Then he pointed once more to the red star and made a rapid upward gesture. Then he laid his closed hands beside his head and pretended to be asleep. His fingers opened and closed, again and again. "Many sleeps," said Atanta, understanding. "Tens of ten sleeps." Smiling, the man straightened and made a rapid downward gesture, ending with his palms again on the snow. Then he stepped forward, placing one hand on his chest, the other on Atanta's. The two furry men stood as tall and straight as their dignity could make them, and their faces were bright with joy. Then Atanta took the hammerstone out of the binding about his waist, and tossed it into the snow. The man nodded. Stepping back, he lifted his hand in an arc across the sky, and offered Atanta the stars. 
12170	----	Proofreaders THE WOLF HUNTERS A Tale of Adventure in the Wilderness BY JAMES OLIVER CURWOOD 1908 To my comrades of the great northern wilderness, those faithful companions with whom I have shared the joys and hardships of the "long silent trail," and especially to Mukoki, my red guide and beloved friend, does the writer gratefully dedicate this volume CONTENTS Chapter I The Fight in the Forest II How Wabigoon Became a White Man III Roderick Sees the Footprint IV Roderick's First Taste of the Hunter's Life V Shots in the Wilderness VI Mukoki Disturbs the Ancient Skeletons VII Roderick Discovers the Buckskin Bag VIII How Wolf Became the Companion of Men IX Wolf Takes Vengeance Upon His People X Roderick Explores the Chasm XI Roderick's Dream XII The Secret of the Skeleton's Hand XIII Snowed In XIV The Rescue of Wabigoon XV Roderick Holds the Woongas at Bay XVI The Surprise at the Post Illustrations: With his rifle ready Rob approached the fissure (Frontispiece) Knife--fight--heem killed! The leader stopped in his snow-shoes THE WOLF HUNTERS CHAPTER I THE FIGHT IN THE FOREST Cold winter lay deep in the Canadian wilderness. Over it the moon was rising, like a red pulsating ball, lighting up the vast white silence of the night in a shimmering glow. Not a sound broke the stillness of the desolation. It was too late for the life of day, too early for the nocturnal roamings and voices of the creatures of the night. Like the basin of a great amphitheater the frozen lake lay revealed in the light of the moon and a billion stars. Beyond it rose the spruce forest, black and forbidding. Along its nearer edges stood hushed walls of tamarack, bowed in the smothering clutch of snow and ice, shut in by impenetrable gloom. A huge white owl flitted out of this rim of blackness, then back again, and its first quavering hoot came softly, as though the mystic hour of silence had not yet passed for the night-folk. The snow of the day had ceased, hardly a breath of air stirred the ice-coated twigs of the trees. Yet it was bitter cold--so cold that a man, remaining motionless, would have frozen to death within an hour. Suddenly there was a break in the silence, a weird, thrilling sound, like a great sigh, but not human--a sound to make one's blood run faster and fingers twitch on rifle-stock. It came from the gloom of the tamaracks. After it there fell a deeper silence than before, and the owl, like a noiseless snowflake, drifted out over the frozen lake. After a few moments it came again, more faintly than before. One versed in woodcraft would have slunk deeper into the rim of blackness, and listened, and wondered, and watched; for in the sound he would have recognized the wild, half-conquered note of a wounded beast's suffering and agony. Slowly, with all the caution born of that day's experience, a huge bull moose walked out into the glow of the moon. His magnificent head, drooping under the weight of massive antlers, was turned inquisitively across the lake to the north. His nostrils were distended, his eyes glaring, and he left behind a trail of blood. Half a mile away he caught the edge of the spruce forest. There something told him he would find safety. A hunter would have known that he was wounded unto death as he dragged himself out into the foot-deep snow of the lake. A dozen rods out from the tamaracks he stopped, head thrown high, long ears pitched forward, and nostrils held half to the sky. It is in this attitude that a moose listens when he hears a trout splash three-quarters of a mile away. Now there was only the vast, unending silence, broken only by the mournful hoot of the snow owl on the other side of the lake. Still the great beast stood immovable, a little pool of blood growing upon the snow under his forward legs. What was the mystery that lurked in the blackness of yonder forest? Was it danger? The keenest of human hearing would have detected nothing. Yet to those long slender ears of the bull moose, slanting beyond the heavy plates of his horns, there came a sound. The animal lifted his head still higher to the sky, sniffed to the east, to the west, and back to the shadows of the tamaracks. But it was the north that held him. From beyond that barrier of spruce there soon came a sound that man might have heard--neither the beginning nor the end of a wail, but something like it. Minute by minute it came more clearly, now growing in volume, now almost dying away, but every instant approaching--the distant hunting call of the wolf-pack! What the hangman's noose is to the murderer, what the leveled rifles are to the condemned spy, that hunt-cry of the wolves is to the wounded animal of the forests. Instinct taught this to the old bull. His head dropped, his huge antlers leveled themselves with his shoulders, and he set off at a slow trot toward the east. He was taking chances in thus crossing the open, but to him the spruce forest was home, and there he might find refuge. In his brute brain he reasoned that he could get there before the wolves broke cover. And then-- Again he stopped, so suddenly that his forward legs doubled under him and he pitched into the snow. This time, from the direction of the wolf-pack, there came the ringing report of a rifle! It might have been a mile or two miles away, but distance did not lessen the fear it brought to the dying king of the North. That day he had heard the same sound, and it had brought mysterious and weakening pain in his vitals. With a supreme effort he brought himself to his feet, once more sniffed into the north, the east, and the west, then turned and buried himself in the black and frozen wilderness of tamarack. Stillness fell again with the sound of the rifle-shot. It might have lasted five minutes or ten, when a long, solitary howl floated from across the lake. It ended in the sharp, quick yelp of a wolf on the trail, and an instant later was taken up by others, until the pack was once more in full cry. Almost simultaneously a figure darted out upon the ice from the edge of the forest. A dozen paces and it paused and turned back toward the black wall of spruce. "Are you coming, Wabi?" A voice answered from the woods. "Yes. Hurry up--run!" Thus urged, the other turned his face once more across the lake. He was a youth of not more than eighteen. In his right hand he carried a club. His left arm, as if badly injured, was done up in a sling improvised from a lumberman's heavy scarf. His face was scratched and bleeding, and his whole appearance showed that he was nearing complete exhaustion. For a few moments he ran through the snow, then halted to a staggering walk. His breath came in painful gasps. The club slipped from his nerveless fingers, and conscious of the deathly weakness that was overcoming him he did not attempt to regain it. Foot by foot he struggled on, until suddenly his knees gave way under him and he sank down into the snow. From the edge of the spruce forest a young Indian now ran out upon the surface of the lake. His breath was coming quickly, but with excitement rather than fatigue. Behind him, less than half a mile away, he could hear the rapidly approaching cry of the hunt-pack, and for an instant he bent his lithe form close to the snow, measuring with the acuteness of his race the distance of the pursuers. Then he looked for his white companion, and failed to see the motionless blot that marked where the other had fallen. A look of alarm shot into his eyes, and resting his rifle between his knees he placed his hands, trumpet fashion, to his mouth and gave a signal call which, on a still night like this, carried for a mile. "Wa-hoo-o-o-o-o-o! Wa-hoo-o-o-o-o-o!" At that cry the exhausted boy in the snow staggered to his feet, and with an answering shout which came but faintly to the ears of the Indian, resumed his flight across the lake. Two or three minutes later Wabi came up beside him. "Can you make it, Rod?" he cried. The other made an effort to answer, but his reply was hardly more than a gasp. Before Wabi could reach out to support him he had lost his little remaining strength and fallen for a second time into the snow. "I'm afraid--I--can't do it--Wabi," he whispered. "I'm--bushed--" The young Indian dropped his rifle and knelt beside the wounded boy, supporting his head against his own heaving shoulders. "It's only a little farther, Rod," he urged. "We can make it, and take to a tree. We ought to have taken to a tree back there, but I didn't know that you were so far gone; and there was a good chance to make camp, with three cartridges left for the open lake." "Only three!" "That's all, but I ought to make two of them count in this light. Here, take hold of my shoulders! Quick!" He doubled himself like a jack-knife in front of his half-prostrate companion. From behind them there came a sudden chorus of the wolves, louder and clearer than before. "They've hit the open and we'll have them on the lake inside of two minutes," he cried. "Give me your arms, Rod! There! Can you hold the gun?" He straightened himself, staggering under the other's weight, and set off on a half-trot for the distant tamaracks. Every muscle in his powerful young body was strained to its utmost tension. Even more fully than his helpless burden did he realize the peril at their backs. Three minutes, four minutes more, and then-- A terrible picture burned in Wabi's brain, a picture he had carried from boyhood of another child, torn and mangled before his very eyes by these outlaws of the North, and he shuddered. Unless he sped those three remaining bullets true, unless that rim of tamaracks was reached in time, he knew what their fate would be. There flashed into his mind one last resource. He might drop his wounded companion and find safety for himself. But it was a thought that made Wabi smile grimly. This was not the first time that these two had risked their lives together, and that very day Roderick had fought valiantly for the other, and had been the one to suffer. If they died, it would be in company. Wabi made up his mind to that and clutched the other's arms in a firmer grip. He was pretty certain that death faced them both. They might escape the wolves, but the refuge of a tree, with the voracious pack on guard below, meant only a more painless end by cold. Still, while there was life there was hope, and he hurried on through the snow, listening for the wolves behind him and with each moment feeling more keenly that his own powers of endurance were rapidly reaching an end. For some reason that Wabi could not explain the hunt-pack had ceased to give tongue. Not only the allotted two minutes, but five of them, passed without the appearance of the animals on the lake. Was it possible that they! had lost the trail? Then it occurred to the Indian that perhaps he had wounded one of the pursuers, and that the others, discovering his injury, had set upon him and were now participating in one of the cannibalistic feasts that had saved them thus far. Hardly had he thought of this possibility when he was thrilled by a series of long howls, and looking back he discerned a dozen or more dark objects moving swiftly over their trail. Not an eighth of a mile ahead was the tamarack forest. Surely Rod could travel that distance! "Run for it, Rod!" he cried. "You're rested now. I'll stay here and stop 'em!" He loosened the other's arms, and as he did so his rifle fell from the white boy's nerveless grip and buried itself in the snow. As he relieved himself of his burden he saw for the first time the deathly pallor and partly closed eyes of his companion. With a new terror filling his own faithful heart he knelt beside the form which lay so limp and lifeless, his blazing eyes traveling from the ghastly face to the oncoming wolves, his rifle ready in his hands. He could now discern the wolves trailing out from the spruce forest like ants. A dozen of them were almost within rifle-shot. Wabi knew that it was with this vanguard of the pack that he must deal if he succeeded in stopping the scores behind. Nearer and nearer he allowed them to come, until the first were scarce two hundred feet away. Then, with a sudden shout, the Indian leaped to his feet and dashed fearlessly toward them. This unexpected move, as he had intended, stopped the foremost wolves in a huddled group for an instant, and in this opportune moment Wabi leveled his gun and fired. A long howl of pain testified to the effect of the shot. Hardly had it begun when Wabi fired again, this time with such deadly precision that one of the wolves, springing high into the air, tumbled back lifeless among the pack without so much as making a sound. Running to the prostrate Roderick, Wabi drew him quickly upon his back, clutched his rifle in the grip of his arm, and started again for the tamaracks. Only once did he look back, and then he saw the wolves gathering in a snarling, fighting crowd about their slaughtered comrades. Not until he had reached the shelter of the tamaracks did the Indian youth lay down his burden, and then in his own exhaustion he fell prone upon the snow, his black eyes fixed cautiously upon the feasting pack. A few minutes later he discerned dark spots appearing here and there upon the whiteness of the snow, and at these signs of the termination of the feast he climbed up into the low branches of a spruce and drew Roderick after him. Not until then did the wounded boy show visible signs of life. Slowly he recovered from the faintness which had overpowered him, and after a little, with some assistance from Wabi, was able to place himself safely on a higher limb. "That's the second time, Wabi," he said, reaching a hand down affectionately to the other's shoulder. "Once from drowning, once from the wolves. I've got a lot to even up with you!" "Not after what happened to-day!" The Indian's dusky face was raised until the two were looking into each other's eyes, with a gaze of love, and trust. Only a moment thus, and instinctively their glance turned toward the lake. The wolf-pack was in plain view. It was the biggest pack that Wabi, in all his life in the wilderness, had ever seen, and he mentally figured that there were at least half a hundred animals in it. Like ravenous dogs after having a few scraps of meat flung among them, the wolves were running about, nosing here and there, as if hoping to find a morsel that might have escaped discovery. Then one of them stopped on the trail and, throwing himself half on his haunches, with his head turned to the sky like a baying hound, started the hunt-cry. "There's two packs. I thought it was too big for one," exclaimed the Indian. "See! Part of them are taking up the trail and the others are lagging behind gnawing the bones of the dead wolf. Now if we only had our ammunition and the other gun those murderers got away from us, we'd make a fortune. What--" Wabi stopped with a suddenness that spoke volumes, and the supporting arm that he had thrown around Rod's waist tightened until it caused the wounded youth to flinch. Both boys stared in rigid silence. The wolves were crowding around a spot in the snow half-way between the tamarack refuge and the scene of the recent feast. The starved animals betrayed unusual excitement. They had struck the pool of blood and red trail made by the dying moose! "What is it, Wabi?" whispered Rod. The Indian did not answer. His black eyes gleamed with a new fire, his lips were parted in anxious anticipation, and he seemed hardly to breathe in his tense interest. The wounded boy repeated his question, and as if in reply the pack swerved to the west and in a black silent mass swept in a direction that would bring them into the tamaracks a hundred yards from the young hunters. "A new trail!" breathed Wabi. "A new trail, and a hot one! Listen! They make no sound. It is always that way when they are close to a kill!" As they looked the last of the wolves disappeared in the forest. For a few moments there was silence, then a chorus of howls came from deep in the woods behind them. "Now is our chance," cried the Indian. "They've broken again, and their game--" He had partly slipped from his limb, withdrawing his supporting arm from Rod's waist, and was about to descend to the ground when the pack again turned in their direction. A heavy crashing in the underbrush not a dozen rods away sent Wabi in a hurried scramble for his perch. "Quick--higher up!" he warned excitedly. "They're coming out here--right under us! If we can get up so that they can't see us, or smell us--" The words were scarcely out of his mouth when a huge shadowy bulk rushed past them not more than fifty feet from the spruce in which they had sought refuge. Both of the boys recognized it as a bull moose, though it did not occur to either of them that it was the same animal at which Wabi had taken a long shot that same day a couple of miles back. In close pursuit came the ravenous pack. Their heads hung close to the bloody trail, hungry, snarling cries coming from between their gaping jaws, they swept across the little opening almost at the young hunters' feet. It was a sight which Rod had never expected to see, and one which held even the more experienced Wabi fascinated. Not a sound fell from either of the youths' lips as they stared down upon the fierce, hungry outlaws of the wilderness. To Wabi this near view of the pack told a fateful story; to Rod it meant nothing more than the tragedy about to be enacted before his eyes. The Indian's keen vision saw in the white moonlight long, thin bodies, starved almost to skin and bone; to his companion the onrushing pack seemed filled only with agile, powerful beasts, maddened to almost fiendish exertions by the nearness of their prey. In a flash they were gone, but in that moment of their passing there was painted a picture to endure a lifetime in the memory of Roderick Drew. And it was to be followed by one even more tragic, even more thrilling. To the dazed, half-fainting young hunter it seemed but another instant before the pack overhauled the old bull. He saw the doomed monster turn, in the stillness heard the snapping of jaws, the snarling of hunger-crazed animals, and a sound that might have been a great, heaving moan or a dying bellow. In Wabi's veins the blood danced with the excitement that stirred his forefathers to battle. Not a line of the tragedy that was being enacted before his eyes escaped this native son of the wilderness. It was a magnificent fight! He knew that the old bull would die by inches in the one-sided duel, and that when it was over there would be more than one carcass for the survivors to gorge themselves upon. Quietly he reached up and touched his companion. "Now is our time," he said. "Come on--still--and on this side of the tree!" He slipped down, foot by foot, assisting Rod as he did so, and when both had reached the ground he bent over as before, that the other might get upon his back. "I can make it alone, Wabi," whispered the wounded boy. "Give me a lift on the arm, will you?" With the Indian's arm about his waist, the two set off into the tamaracks. Fifteen minutes later they came to the bank of a small frozen river. On the opposite side of this, a hundred yards down, was a sight which both, as if by a common impulse, welcomed with a glad cry. Close to the shore, sheltered by a dense growth of spruce, was a bright camp-fire. In response to Wabi's far-reaching whoop a shadowy figure appeared in the glow and returned the shout. "Mukoki!" cried the Indian. "Mukoki!" laughed Rod, happy that the end was near. Even as he spoke he swayed dizzily, and Wabi dropped his gun that he might keep his companion from falling into the snow. CHAPTER II HOW WABIGOON BECAME A WHITE MAN Had the young hunters the power of looking into the future, their camp-fire that night on the frozen Ombabika might have been one of their last, and a few days later would have seen them back on the edges of civilization. Possibly, could they have foreseen the happy culmination of the adventures that lay before them, they would still have gone on, for the love of excitement is strong in the heart of robust youth. But this power of discernment was denied them, and only in after years, with the loved ones of their own firesides close about them, was the whole picture revealed. And in those days, when they would gather with their families about the roaring logs of winter and live over again their early youth, they knew that all the gold in the world would not induce them to part with their memories of the life that had gone before. A little less than thirty years previous to the time of which we write, a young man named John Newsome left the great city of London for the New World. Fate had played a hard game with young Newsome--had first robbed him of both parents, and then in a single fitful turn of her wheel deprived him of what little property he had inherited. A little later he came to Montreal, and being a youth of good education and considerable ambition, he easily secured a position and worked himself into the confidence of his employers, obtaining an appointment as factor at Wabinosh House, a Post deep in the wilderness of Lake Nipigon. In the second year of his reign at Wabinosh--a factor is virtually king in his domain--there came to the Post an Indian chief named Wabigoon, and with him his daughter, Minnetaki, in honor of whose beauty and virtue a town was named in after years. Minnetaki was just budding into the early womanhood of her race, and possessed a beauty seldom seen among Indian maidens. If there is such a thing as love at first sight, it sprang into existence the moment John Newsome's eyes fell upon this lovely princess. Thereafter his visits to Wabigoon's village, thirty miles deeper in the wilderness, were of frequent occurrence. From the beginning Minnetaki returned the young factor's affections, but a most potent reason prevented their marriage. For a long time Minnetaki had been ardently wooed by a powerful young chief named Woonga, whom she cordially detested, but upon whose favor and friendship depended the existence of her father's sway over his hunting-grounds. With the advent of the young factor the bitterest rivalry sprang up between the two suitors, which resulted in two attempts upon Newsome's life, and an ultimatum sent by Woonga to Minnetaki's father. Minnetaki herself replied to this ultimatum. It was a reply that stirred the fires of hatred and revenge to fever heat in Woonga's breast. One dark night, at the head of a score of his tribe, he fell upon Wabigoon's camp, his object being the abduction of the princess. While the attack was successful in a way, its main purpose failed. Wabigoon and a dozen of his tribesmen were slain, but in the end Woonga was driven off. A swift messenger brought news of the attack and of the old chief's death to Wabinosh House, and with a dozen men Newsome hastened to the assistance of his betrothed and her people. A counter attack was made upon Woonga and he was driven deep into the wilderness with great loss. Three days later Minnetaki became Newsome's wife at the Hudson Bay Post. From that hour dated one of the most sanguinary feuds in the history of the great trading company; a feud which, as we shall see, was destined to live even unto the second generation. Woonga and his tribe now became no better than outlaws, and preyed so effectively upon the remnants of the dead Wabigoon's people that the latter were almost exterminated. Those who were left moved to the vicinity of the Post. Hunters from Wabinosh House were ambushed and slain. Indians who came to the Post to trade were regarded as enemies, and the passing of years seemed to make but little difference. The feud still existed. The outlaws came to be spoken of as "Woongas," and a Woonga was regarded as a fair target for any man's rifle. Meanwhile two children came to bless the happy union of Newsome and his lovely Indian wife. One of these, the eldest, was a boy, and in honor of the old chief he was named Wabigoon, and called Wabi for short. The other was a girl, three years younger, and Newsome insisted that she be called Minnetaki. Curiously enough, the blood of Wabi ran almost pure to his Indian forefathers, while Minnetaki, as she became older, developed less of the wild beauty of her mother and more of the softer loveliness of the white race, her wealth of soft, jet black hair and her great dark eyes contrasting with the lighter skin of her father's blood. Wabi, on the other hand, was an Indian in appearance from his moccasins to the crown of his head, swarthy, sinewy, as agile as a lynx, and with every instinct in him crying for the life of the wild. Yet born in him was a Caucasian shrewdness and intelligence that reached beyond the factor himself. One of Newsome's chief pleasures in life had been the educating of his woodland bride, and it was the ambition of both that the little Minnetaki and her brother be reared in the ways of white children. Consequently both mother and father began their education at the Post; they were sent to the factor's school and two winters were passed in Port Arthur that they might have the advantage of thoroughly equipped schools. The children proved themselves unusually bright pupils, and by the time Wabi was sixteen and Minnetaki twelve one would not have known from their manner of speech that Indian blood ran in their veins. Yet both, by the common desire of their parents, were familiar with the life of the Indian and could talk fluently the tongue of their mother's people. It was at about this time in their lives that the Woongas became especially daring in their depredations. These outlaws no longer pretended to earn their livelihood by honest means, but preyed upon trappers and other Indians without discrimination, robbing and killing whenever safe opportunities offered themselves. The hatred for the people of Wabinosh House became hereditary, and the Woonga children grew up with it in their hearts. The real cause of the feud had been forgotten by many, though not by Woonga himself. At last so daring did he become that the provincial government placed a price upon his head and upon those of a number of his most notorious followers. For a time the outlaws were driven from the country, but the bloodthirsty chief himself could not be captured. When Wabi was seventeen years of age it was decided that he should be sent to some big school in the States for a year. Against this plan the young Indian--nearly all people regarded him as an Indian, and Wabi was proud of the fact--fought with all of the arguments at his command. He loved the wilds with the passion of his mother's race. His nature revolted at the thoughts of a great city with its crowded streets, its noise, and bustle, and dirt. It was then that Minnetaki pleaded with him, begged him to go for just one year, and to come back and tell her of all he had seen and teach her what he had learned. Wabi loved his beautiful little sister beyond anything else on earth, and it was she more than his parents who finally induced him to go. For three months Wabi devoted himself faithfully to his studies in Detroit. But each week added to his loneliness and his longings for Minnetaki and his forests. The passing of each day became a painful task to him. To Minnetaki he wrote three times each week, and three times each week the little maiden at Wabinosh House wrote long, cheering letters to her brother--though they came to Wabi only about twice a month, because only so often did the mail-carrier go out from the Post. It was at this time in his lonely school life that Wabigoon became acquainted with Roderick Drew. Roderick, even as Wabi fancied himself to be just at this time, was a child of misfortune. His father had died before he could remember, and the property he had left had dwindled slowly away during the passing of years. Rod was spending his last week in school when he met Wabigoon. Necessity had become his grim master, and the following week he was going to work. As the boy described the situation to his Indian friend, his mother "had fought to the last ditch to keep him in school, but now his time was up." Wabi seized upon the white youth as an oasis in a vast desert. After a little the two became almost inseparable, and their friendship culminated in Wabi's going to live in the Drew home. Mrs. Drew was a woman of education and refinement, and her interest in Wabigoon was almost that of a mother. In this environment the ragged edges were smoothed away from the Indian boy's deportment, and his letters to Minnetaki were more and more filled with enthusiastic descriptions of his new friends. After a little Mrs. Drew received a grateful letter of thanks from the princess mother at Wabinosh House, and thus a pleasant correspondence sprang up between the two. There were now few lonely hours for the two boys. During the long winter evenings, when Roderick was through with his day's work and Wabi had completed his studies, they would sit before the fire and the Indian youth would describe the glorious life of the vast northern wilderness; and day by day, and week by week, there steadily developed within Rod's breast a desire to see and live that life. A thousand plans were made, a thousand adventures pictured, and the mother would smile and laugh and plan with them. But in time the end of it all came, and Wabi went back to the princess mother, to Minnetaki, and to his forests. There were tears in the boys' eyes when they parted, and the mother cried for the Indian boy who was returning to his people. Many of the days that followed were painful to Roderick Drew. Eight months had bred a new nature in him, and when Wabi left it was as if a part of his own life had gone with him. Spring came and passed, and then summer. Every mail from Wabinosh House brought letters for the Drews, and never did an Indian courier drop a pack at the Post that did not carry a bundle of letters for Wabigoon. Then in the early autumn, when September frosts were turning the leaves of the North to red and gold, there came the long letter from Wabi which brought joy, excitement and misgiving into the little home of the mother and her son. It was accompanied by one from the factor himself, another from the princess mother, and by a tiny note from Minnetaki, who pleaded with the others that Roderick and Mrs. Drew might spend the winter with them at Wabinosh House. "You need not fear about losing your position." wrote Wabigoon. "We shall make more money up here this winter than you could earn in Detroit in three years. We will hunt wolves. The country is alive with them, and the government gives a bounty of fifteen dollars for every scalp taken. Two winters ago I killed forty and I did not make a business of it at that. I have a tame wolf which we use as a decoy. Don't bother about a gun or anything like that. We have everything here." For several days Mrs. Drew and her son deliberated upon the situation before a reply was sent to the Newsomes. Roderick pleaded, pictured the glorious times they would have, the health that it would give them, and marshaled in a dozen different ways his arguments in favor of accepting the invitation. On the other hand, his mother was filled with doubt. Their finances were alarmingly low, and Rod would be giving up a sure though small income, which was now supporting them comfortably. His future was bright, and that winter would see him promoted to ten dollars a week in the mercantile house where he was employed. In the end they came to an understanding. Mrs. Drew would not go to Wabinosh House, but she would allow Roderick to spend the winter there--and word to this effect was sent off into the wilderness. Three weeks later came Wabigoon's reply. On the tenth of October he would meet Rod at Sprucewood, on the Black Sturgeon River. Thence they would travel by canoe up the Sturgeon River to Sturgeon Lake, take portage to Lake Nipigon, and arrive at Wabinosh House before the ice of early winter shut them in. There was little time to lose in making preparations, and the fourth day following the receipt of Wabi's letter found Rod and his mother waiting for the train which was to whirl the boy into his new life. Not until the eleventh did he arrive at Sprucewood. Wabi was there to meet him, accompanied by an Indian from the Post; and that same afternoon the journey up Black Sturgeon River was begun. CHAPTER III RODERICK SEES THE FOOTPRINT Rod was now plunged for the first time in his life into the heart of the Wilderness. Seated in the bow of the birch-bark canoe which was carrying them up the Sturgeon, with Wabi close behind him, he drank in the wild beauties of the forests and swamps through which they slipped almost as noiselessly as shadows, his heart thumping in joyous excitement, his eyes constantly on the alert for signs of the big game which Wabi told him was on all sides of them. Across his knees, ready for instant use, was Wabi's repeating rifle. The air was keen with the freshness left by night frosts. At times deep masses of gold and crimson forests shut them in, at others, black forests of spruce came down to the river's edge; again they would pass silently through great swamps of tamaracks. In this vast desolation there was a mysterious quiet, except for the occasional sounds of wild life. Partridges drummed back in the woods, flocks of ducks got up with a great rush of wings at almost every turn, and once, late in the morning of the first day out, Rod was thrilled by a crashing in the undergrowth scarcely a stone's throw from the canoe. He could see saplings twisting and bending, and heard Wabi whisper behind him: "A moose!" They were words to set his hands trembling and his whole body quivering with anticipation. There was in him now none of the old hunter's coolness, none of the almost stoical indifference with which the men of the big North hear these sounds of the wild things about them. Rod had yet to see his first big game. That moment came in the afternoon. The canoe had skimmed lightly around a bend in the river. Beyond this bend a mass of dead driftwood had wedged against the shore, and this driftwood, as the late sun sank behind the forests, was bathed in a warm yellow glow. And basking in this glow, as he loves to do at the approach of winter nights, was an animal, the sight of which drew a sharp, excited cry from between Rod's lips. In an instant he had recognized it as a bear. The animal was taken completely by surprise and was less than half a dozen rods away. Quick as a flash, and hardly realizing what he was doing, the boy drew his rifle to his shoulder, took quick aim and fired. The bear was already clambering up the driftwood, but stopped suddenly at the report, slipped as if about to fall back--then continued his retreat. "You hit 'im!" shouted Wabi. "Quick-try 'im again!" Rod's second shot seemed to have no effect In his excitement he jumped to his feet, forgetting that he was in a frail canoe, and took a last shot at the big black beast that was just about to disappear over the edge of the driftwood. Both Wabi and his Indian companion flung themselves on the shore side of their birch and dug their paddles deep into the water, but their efforts were unavailing to save their reckless comrade. Unbalanced by the concussion of his gun, Rod plunged backward into the river, but before he had time to sink, Wabi reached over and grabbed him by the arm. "Don't make a move--and hang on to the gun!" he warned. "If we try to get you in here we'll all go over!" He made a sign to the Indian, who swung the canoe slowly inshore. Then he grinned down into Rod's dripping, unhappy face. "By George, that last shot was a dandy for a tenderfoot! You got your bear!" Despite his uncomfortable position, Rod gave a whoop of joy, and no sooner did his feet touch solid bottom than he loosened himself from Wabi's grip and plunged toward the driftwood. On its very top he found the bear, as dead as a bullet through its side and another through its head could make it. Standing there beside his first big game, dripping and shivering, he looked down upon the two who were pulling their canoe ashore and gave, a series of triumphant whoops that could have been heard half a mile away. "It's camp and a fire for you," laughed Wabi, hurrying up to him. "This is better luck than I thought you'd have, Rod. We'll have a glorious feast to-night, and a fire of this driftwood that will show you what makes life worth the living up here in the North. Ho, Muky," he called to the old Indian, "cut this fellow up, will you? I'll make camp." "Can we keep the skin?" asked Rod. "It's my first, you know, and--" "Of course we can. Give us a hand with the fire, Rod; it will keep you from catching cold." In the excitement of making their first camp, Rod almost forgot that he was soaked to the skin, and that night was falling about them. The first step was the building of a fire, and soon a great, crackling, almost smokeless blaze was throwing its light and heat for thirty feet around. Wabi now brought blankets from the canoe, stripped off a part of his own clothes, made Rod undress, and soon had that youth swathed in dry togs, while his wet ones were hung close up to the fire. For the first time Rod saw the making of a wilderness shelter. Whistling cheerily, Wabi got an ax from the canoe, went into the edge of the cedars and cut armful after armful of saplings and boughs. Tying his blankets about himself, Rod helped to carry these, a laughable and grotesque figure as he stumbled about clumsily in his efforts. Within half an hour the cedar shelter was taking form. Two crotched saplings were driven into the ground eight feet apart, and from one to the other, resting in the crotches, was placed another sapling, which formed the ridge-pole; and from this pole there ran slantwise to the earth half a dozen others, making a framework upon which the cedar boughs were piled. By the time the old Indian had finished his bear the home was completed, and with its beds of sweet-smelling boughs, the great camp-fire in front and the dense wilderness about them growing black with the approach of night, Rod thought that nothing in picture-book or story could quite equal the reality of that moment. And when, a few moments later, great bear-steaks were broiling over a mass of coals, and the odor of coffee mingled with that of meal-cakes sizzling on a heated stone, he knew that his dearest dreams had come true. That night in the glow of the camp-fire Rod listened to the thrilling stories of Wabi and the old Indian, and lay awake until nearly dawn, listening to the occasional howl of a wolf, mysterious splashings in the river and the shrill notes of the night birds. There were varied experiences in the following three days: one frosty morning before the others were awake he stole out from the camp with Wabi's rifle and shot twice at a red deer--which he missed both times; there was an exciting but fruitless race with a swimming caribou in Sturgeon Lake, at which Wabi himself took three long-range shots without effect. It was on a glorious autumn afternoon that Wabi's keen eyes first descried the log buildings of the Post snuggled in the edge of the seemingly unending forest. As they approached he joyfully pointed out the different buildings to Rod--the Company store, the little cluster of employees' homes and the factor's house, where Rod was to meet his welcome. At least Roderick himself had thought it would be there. But as they came nearer a single canoe shot out suddenly from the shore and the young hunters could see a white handkerchief waving them greeting. Wabi replied with a whoop of pleasure and fired his gun into the air. "It's Minnetaki!" he cried. "She said she would watch for us and come out to meet us!" Minnetaki! A little nervous thrill shot through Rod. Wabi had described her to him a thousand times in those winter evenings at home; with a brother's love and pride he had always brought her into their talks and plans, and somehow, little by little, Rod had grown to like her very much without ever having seen her. The two canoes swiftly approached each other, and in a few minutes more were alongside. With a glad laughing cry Minnetaki leaned over and kissed her brother, while at the same time her dark eyes shot a curious glance at the youth of whom she had read and heard so much. At this time Minnetaki was fifteen. Like her mother's race she was slender, of almost woman's height, and unconsciously as graceful as a fawn in her movements. A slightly waving wealth of raven hair framed what Rod thought to be one of the prettiest faces he had ever seen, and entwined in the heavy silken braid that fell over her shoulder were a number of red autumn leaves. As she straightened herself in her canoe she looked at Rod and smiled, and he in making a polite effort to lift his cap in civilized style, lost that article of apparel in a sudden gust of wind. In an instant there was a general laugh of merriment in which even the old Indian joined. The little incident did more toward making comradeship than anything else that might have happened, and laughing again into Rod's face Minnetaki urged her canoe toward the floating cap. "You shouldn't wear such things until it gets cold," she said, after retrieving the cap and handing it to him. "Wabi does--but I don't!" "Then I won't," replied Rod gallantly, and at Wabi's burst of laughter both blushed. That first night at the Post Rod found that Wabi had already made all plans for the winter's hunting, and the white youth's complete equipment was awaiting him in the room assigned to him in the factor's house--a deadly looking five-shot Remington, similar to Wabi's, a long-barreled, heavy-caliber revolver, snow-shoes, and a dozen other articles necessary to one about to set out upon a long expedition in the wilderness. Wabi had also mapped out their hunting-grounds. Wolves in the immediate neighborhood of the Post, where they were being constantly sought by the Indians and the factor's men, had become exceedingly cautious and were not numerous, but in the almost untraveled wilderness a hundred miles to the north and east they were literally overrunning the country, killing moose, caribou and deer in great numbers. In this region Wabi planned to make their winter quarters. And no time was to be lost in taking up the trail, for the log house in which they would pass the bitterly cold months should be built before the heavy snows set in. It was therefore decided that the young hunters should start within a week, accompanied by Mukoki, the old Indian, a cousin of the slain Wabigoon, whom Wabi had given the nickname of Muky and who had been a faithful comrade to him from his earliest childhood. Rod made the most of the six days which were allotted to him at the Post, and while Wabi helped to handle the affairs of the Company's store during a short absence of his father at Port Arthur, the lovely little Minnetaki gave our hero his first lessons in woodcraft. In canoe, with the rifle, and in reading the signs of forest life Wabi's sister awakened constantly increasing admiration in Rod. To see her bending over some freshly made trail, her cheeks flushed, her eyes sparkling with excitement, her rich hair filled with the warmth of the sun, was a picture to arouse enthusiasm even in the heart of a youngster of eighteen, and a hundred times the boy mentally vowed that "she was a brick" from the tips of her pretty moccasined feet to the top of her prettier head. Half a dozen times at least he voiced this sentiment to Wabi, and Wabi agreed with great enthusiasm. In fact, by the time the week was almost gone Minnetaki and Rod had become great chums, and it was not without some feeling of regret that the young wolf hunter greeted the dawn of the day that was to see them begin their journey deeper into the wilds. Minnetaki was one of the earliest risers at the Post. Rod was seldom behind her. But on this particular morning he was late and heard the girl whistling outside half an hour before he was dressed--for Minnetaki could whistle in a manner that often filled him with envy. By the time he came down she had disappeared in the edge of the forest, and Wabi, who was also ahead of him, was busy with Mukoki tying up their equipment in packs. It was a glorious morning, clear and frosty, and Rod noticed that a thin shell of ice had formed on the lake during the night. Once or twice Wabi turned toward the forest and gave his signal whoop, but received no reply. "I don't see why Minnetaki doesn't come back," he remarked carelessly, as he fastened a shoulder-strap about a bundle. "Breakfast will be ready in a jiffy. Hunt her up, will you, Rod?" Nothing loath, Rod started out on a brisk run along the path which he knew to be a favorite with Minnetaki and shortly it brought him down to a pebbly stretch of the beach where she frequently left her canoe. That she had been here a few minutes before he could tell by the fact that the ice about the birch-bark was broken, as though the girl had tested its thickness by shoving the light craft out into it for a few feet. Her footsteps led plainly up the shelving shore and into the forest. "O Minnetaki--Minnetaki!" Rod called loudly and listened. There was no response. As if impelled by some presentiment which he himself could not explain, the boy hurried deeper into the forest along the narrow path which Minnetaki must have taken. Five minutes--ten minutes--and he called again. Still there was no answer. Possibly the girl had not gone so far, or she might have left the path for the thick woods. A little farther on there was a soft spot in the path where a great tree-trunk had rotted half a century before, leaving a rich black soil. Clearly traced in this were the imprints of Minnetaki's moccasins. For a full minute Rod stopped and listened, making not a sound. Why he maintained silence he could not have explained. But he knew that he was half a mile from the Post, and that Wabi's sister should not be here at breakfast time. In this minute's quiet he unconsciously studied the tracks in the ground. How small the pretty Indian maiden's feet were! And he noticed, too, that her moccasins, unlike most moccasins, had a slight heel. But in a moment more his inspection was cut short. Was that a cry he heard far ahead? His heart seemed to stop beating, his blood thrilled--and in another instant he was running down the path like a deer. Twenty rods beyond this point the path entered an opening in the forest made by a great fire, and half-way across this opening the youth saw a sight which chilled him to the marrow. There was Minnetaki, her long hair tumbling loosely down her back, a cloth tied around her head--and on either side an Indian dragging her swiftly toward the opposite forest! For as long as he might have drawn three breaths Rod stood transfixed with horror. Then his senses returned to him, and every muscle in his body seemed to bound with action. For days he had been practising with his revolver and it was now in the holster at his side. Should he use it? Or might he hit Minnetaki? At his feet he saw a club and snatching this up he sped across the opening, the soft earth holding the sound of his steps. When he was a dozen feet behind the Indians Minnetaki stumbled in a sudden effort to free herself, and as one of her captors half turned to drag her to her feet he saw the enraged youth, club uplifted, bearing down upon them like a demon. A terrific yell from Rod, a warning cry from the Indian, and the fray began. With crushing force, the boy's club fell upon the shoulder of the second Indian, and before he could recover from the delivery of this blow the youth was caught in a choking, deadly grip by the other from behind. Freed by the sudden attack, Minnetaki tore away the cloth that bound her eyes and mouth. As quick as a flash she took in the situation. At her feet the wounded Indian was half rising, and upon the ground near him, struggling in close embrace, were Rod and the other. She saw the Indian's fatal grip upon her preserver's throat, the whitening face and wide-open eyes, and with a great, sobbing cry she caught up the fallen club and brought it down with all her strength upon the redskin's head. Twice, three times the club rose and fell, and the grip on Rod's throat relaxed. A fourth time it rose, but this time was caught from behind, and a huge hand clutched the brave girl's throat so that the cry on her lips died in a gasp. But the relief gave Rod his opportunity. With a tremendous effort he reached his pistol holster, drew out the gun, and pressed it close up against his assailant's body. There was a muffled report and with a shriek of agony the Indian pitched backward. Hearing the shot and seeing the effect upon his comrade, the second Indian released his hold on Minnetaki and ran for the forest. Rod, seeing Minnetaki fall in a sobbing, frightened heap, forgot all else but to run to her, smooth back her hair and comfort her with all of the assurances at his boyish command. It was here that Wabi and the old Indian guide found them five minutes later. Hearing Rod's first piercing yell of attack, they had raced into the forest, afterward guided by the two or three shrill screams which Minnetaki had unconsciously emitted during the struggle. Close behind them, smelling trouble, followed two of the Post employees. The attempted abduction of Wabi's sister, Rod's heroic rescue and the death of one of the captors, who was recognized as one of Woonga's men, caused a seven-day sensation at the Post. There was now no thought of leaving on the part of the young wolf hunters. It was evident that Woonga was again in the neighborhood, and Wabi and Rod, together with a score of Indians and hunters, spent days in scouring the forests and swamps. But the Woongas disappeared as suddenly as they came. Not until Wabi had secured a promise from Minnetaki that she would no longer go into the forests unaccompanied did the Indian youth again allow himself to take up their interrupted plans. Minnetaki had been within easy calling distance of help when the Woongas, without warning, sprang upon her, smothered her attempted cries and dragged her away, compelling her to walk alone over the soft earth where Rod had seen her footsteps, so that any person who followed might suppose she was alone and safe. This fact stirred the dozen white families at the Post into aggressive action, and four of the most skillful Indian track-hunters in the service were detailed to devote themselves exclusively to hunting down the outlaws, their operations not to include a territory extending more than twenty miles from Wabinosh House in any direction. With these precautions it was believed that no harm could come to Minnetaki or other young girls of the Post. It was, therefore, on a Monday, the fourth day of November, that Rod, Wabi and Mukoki turned their faces at last to the adventures that awaited them in the great North. CHAPTER IV RODERICK'S FIRST TASTE OF THE HUNTER'S LIFE By this time it was bitter cold. The lakes and rivers were frozen deep and a light snow covered the ground. Already two weeks behind their plans, the young wolf hunters and the old Indian made forced marches around the northern extremity of Lake Nipigon and on the sixth day found themselves on the Ombabika River, where they were compelled to stop on account of a dense snow-storm. A temporary camp was made, and it was while constructing this camp that Mukoki discovered signs of wolves. It was therefore decided to remain for a day or two and investigate the hunting-grounds. On the morning of the second day Wabi shot at and wounded the old bull moose which met such a tragic end a few hours later, and that same morning the two boys made a long tour to the north in the hope of finding that they were in a good game country, which would mean also that there were plenty of wolves. This left Mukoki alone in camp. Thus far, in their desire to cover as much ground as possible before the heavy snows came, Wabi and his companions had not stopped to hunt for game and for six days their only meat had been bacon and jerked venison. Mukoki, whose prodigious appetite was second only to the shrewdness with which he stalked game to satisfy it, determined to add to their larder if possible during the others' absence, and with this object in view he left camp late in the afternoon to be gone, as he anticipated, not longer than an hour or so. With him he carried two powerful wolf-traps slung over his shoulders. Stealing cautiously along the edge of the river, his eyes and ears alert for game, Mukoki suddenly came upon the frozen and half-eaten carcass of a red deer. It was evident that the animal had been killed by wolves either the day or night before, and from the tracks in the snow the Indian concluded that not more than four wolves had participated in the slaughter and feast. That these wolves would return to continue their banquet, probably that night, Mukoki's many experiences as a wolf hunter assured him; and he paused long enough to set his traps, afterward covering them over with three or four inches of snow. Continuing his hunt, the old Indian soon struck the fresh spoor of a deer. Believing that the animal would not travel for any great distance in the deep snow, he swiftly took up the trail. Half a mile farther on he stopped abruptly with a grunt of unbounded surprise. Another hunter had taken up the trail! With increased caution Mukoki now advanced. Two hundred feet more and a second pair of moccasined feet joined in the pursuit, and a little later still a third! Led on by curiosity more than by the hope of securing a partnership share in the quarry, the Indian slipped silently and swiftly through the forest. As he emerged from a dense growth of spruce through which the tracks led him Mukoki was treated to another surprise by almost stumbling over the carcass of the deer he had been following. A brief examination satisfied him that the doe had been shot at least two hours before. The three hunters had cut out her heart, liver and tongue and had also taken the hind quarters, leaving the remainder of the carcass and the skin! Why had they neglected this most valuable part of their spoils? With a new gleam of interest in his eyes Mukoki carefully scrutinized the moccasin trails. He soon discovered that the Indians ahead of him were in great haste, and that after cutting the choicest meat from the doe they had started off to make up for lost time by running! With another grunt of astonishment the old Indian returned to the carcass, quickly stripped off the skin, wrapped in it the fore quarters and ribs of the doe, and thus loaded, took up the home trail. It was dark when he reached camp. Wabi and Rod had not yet returned. Building a huge fire and hanging the ribs of the doe on a spit before it, he anxiously awaited their appearance. Half an hour later he heard the shout which brought him quickly to where Wabi was holding the partly unconscious form of Rod in his arms. It took but a few moments to carry the injured youth to camp, and not until Rod was resting upon a pile of blankets in their shack, with the warmth of the fire reviving him, did Wabi vouchsafe an explanation to the old Indian. "I guess he's got a broken arm, Muky," he said. "Have you any hot water?" "Shot?" asked the old hunter, paying no attention to the question. He dropped upon his knees beside Rod, his long brown fingers reaching out anxiously. "Shot?" "No--hit with a club. We met three Indian hunters who were in camp and who invited us to eat with them. While we were eating they jumped upon our backs. Rod got that--and lost his rifle!" Mukoki quickly stripped the wounded boy of his garments, baring his left arm and side. The arm was swollen and almost black and there was a great bruise on Rod's body a little above the waist. Mukoki was a surgeon by necessity, a physician such as one finds only in the vast unblazed wildernesses, where Nature is the teacher. Crudely he made his examination, pinching and twisting the flesh and bones until Rod cried out in pain, but in the end there was a glad triumph in his voice as he said: "No bone broke--hurt most here!" and he touched the bruise. "Near broke rib--not quite. Took wind out and made great deal sick. Want good supper, hot coffee--rub in bear's grease, then be better!" Rod, who had opened his eyes, smiled faintly and Wabi gave a half-shout of delight. "Not so bad as we thought, eh, Rod?" he cried. "You can't fool Muky! If he says your arm isn't broken--why, it _isn't_, and that's all there is to it. Let me bolster you up in these blankets and we'll soon have a supper that will sizzle the aches out of you. I smell meat--fresh meat!" With a chuckle of pleasure Mukoki jumped to his feet and ran out to where the ribs of the doe were slowly broiling over the fire. They were already done to a rich brown and their dripping juice filled the nostrils with an appetizing odor. By the time Wabi had applied Mukoki's prescription to his comrade's wounds, and had done them up in bandages, the tempting feast was spread before them. As a liberal section of the ribs was placed before him, together with corn-meal cakes and a cup of steaming coffee, Rod could not suppress a happy though somewhat embarrassed laugh. "I'm ashamed of myself, Wabi," he said. "Here I've been causing so much bother, like some helpless kid; and now I find I haven't even the excuse of a broken arm, and that I'm as hungry as a bear! Looks pretty yellow, doesn't it? Just as though I was scared to death! So help me, I almost wish my arm _was_ broken!" Mukoki had buried his teeth in a huge chunk of fat rib, but he lowered it with a great chuckling grunt, half of his face smeared with the first results of his feast. "Whole lot sick," he explained. "Be sick some more--mighty sick! Maybe vomit lots!" "Waugh!" shrieked Wabi. "How is that for cheerful news, Rod?" His merriment echoed far out into the night. Suddenly he caught himself and peered suspiciously into the gloom beyond the circle of firelight. "Do you suppose they would follow?" he asked. A more cautious silence followed, and the Indian youth quickly related the adventures of the day to Mukoki--how, in the heart of the forest several miles beyond the lake, they had come upon the Indian hunters, had accepted of their seemingly honest hospitality, and in the midst of their meal had suffered an attack from them. So sudden and unexpected had been the assault that one of the Indians got away with Rod's rifle, ammunition belt and revolver before any effort could be made to stop him. Wabi was under the other two Indians when Rod came to his assistance, with the result that the latter was struck two heavy blows, either with a club or a gun-stock. So tenaciously had the Indian boy clung to his own weapon that his assailants, after a brief struggle, darted into the dense underbrush, evidently satisfied with the white boy's equipment. "They were of Woonga's people, without a doubt," finished Wabi. "It puzzles me why they didn't kill us. They had half a dozen chances to shoot us, but didn't seem to want to do us any great injury. Either the measures taken at the Post are making them reform, or--" He paused, a troubled look in his eyes. Immediately Mukoki told of his own experience and of the mysterious haste of the three Indians who had slain the doe. "It is certainly curious," rejoined the young Indian. "They couldn't have been the ones we met, but I'll wager they belong to the same gang. I wouldn't be surprised if we had hit upon one of Woonga's retreats. We've always thought he was in the Thunder Bay regions to the west, and that is where father is watching for him now. We've hit the hornets' nest, Muky, and the only thing for us to do is to get out of this country as fast as we can!" "We'd make a nice pot-shot just at this moment," volunteered Rod, looking across to the dense blackness on the opposite side of the river, where the moonlight seemed to make even more impenetrable the wall of gloom. As he spoke there came a slight sound from behind him, the commotion of a body moving softly beyond the wall of spruce boughs, then a curious, suspicious sniffing, and after that a low whine. "Listen!" Wabi's command came in a tense whisper. He leaned close against the boughs, stealthily parted them, and slowly thrust his head through the aperture. "Hello, Wolf!" he whispered. "What's up?" An arm's length away, tied before a smaller shelter of spruce, a gaunt, dog-like animal stood in a rigid listening attitude. An instant's glance, however, would have assured one that it was not a dog, but a full-grown wolf. From the days of its puppyhood Wabi had taught it in the ways of dogdom, yet had the animal perversely clung to its wild instincts. A weakness in that thong, a slip of the collar, and Wolf would have bounded joyously into the forests to seek for ever the packs of his fathers. Now the babeesh rope was taut, Wolf's muzzle was turned half to the sky, his ears were alert, half-sounding notes rattled in his throat. "There is something near our camp!" announced the Indian boy, drawing himself back quickly. "Muky--" He was interrupted by a long mournful howl from the captive wolf. Mukoki had jumped to his feet with the alertness of a cat, and now with his gun in his hand slunk around the edge of the shelter and buried himself in the gloom. Roderick lay quiet while Wabi, seizing the remaining rifle, followed him. "Lie over there in the dark, Rod, where the firelight doesn't show you up," he cautioned in a low voice. "Probably it is only some animal that has stumbled on to our camp, but we want to make sure." Ten minutes later the young hunter returned alone. "False alarm!" he laughed cheerfully. "There's a part of a carcass of a red deer up the creek a bit. It has been killed by wolves, and Wolf smells some of his own blood coming in to the feast. Muky has set traps there and we may have our first scalp in the morning." "Where is Mukoki?" "On watch. He is going to keep guard until a little after midnight, and then I'll turn out. We can't be too careful, with the Woongas in the neighborhood." Rod shifted himself uneasily. "What shall we do--to-morrow?" he asked. "Get out!" replied Wabi with emphasis. "That is, if you are able to travel. From what Mukoki tells me, and from what you and I already know, Woonga's people must be in the forests beyond the lake. We'll cut a trail up the Ombabika for two or three days before we strike camp. You and Muky can start out as soon as it is light enough." "And you--" began Rod. "Oh, I'm going to take a run back over our old wolf-trail and collect the scalps we shot to-day. There's a month's salary back there for you, Rod! Now, let's turn in. Good night--sleep tight--and be sure to wake up early in the morning." The boys, exhausted by the adventures of the day, were soon in profound slumber. And though midnight came, and hour after hour passed between then and dawn, the faithful Mukoki did not awaken them. Never for a moment neglecting his caution the old Indian watched tirelessly over the camp. With the first appearance of day he urged the fire into a roaring blaze, raked out a great mass of glowing coals, and proceeded to get breakfast. Wabi discovered him at this task when he awoke from his slumber. "I didn't think you would play this trick on me, Muky," he said, a flush of embarrassment gathering in his brown face. "It's awfully good of you, and all that, but I wish you wouldn't treat me as if I were a child any longer, old friend!" He placed his hand affectionately upon the kneeling Mukoki's shoulder, and the old hunter looked up at him with a happy, satisfied grin on his weather-beaten visage, wrinkled and of the texture of leather by nearly fifty years of life in the wilderness. It was Mukoki who had first carried the baby Wabi about the woods upon his shoulders; it was he who had played with him, cared for him, and taught him in the ways of the wild in early childhood, and it was he who had missed him most, with little Minnetaki, when he went away to school. All the love in the grim old redskin's heart was for the Indian youth and his sister, and to them Mukoki was a second father, a silent, watchful guardian and comrade. This one loving touch of Wabi's hand was ample reward for the long night's duty, and his pleasure expressed itself in two or three low chuckling grunts. "Had heap bad day," he replied. "Very much tired. Me feel good--better than sleep!" He rose to his feet and handed Wabi the long fork with which he manipulated the meat on the spits. "You can tend to that," he added. "I go see traps." Rod, who had awakened and overheard these last remarks, called out from the shack: "Wait a minute, Mukoki. I'm going with you. If you've got a wolf, I want to see him." "Got one sure 'nuff," grinned the old Indian. In a few minutes Rod came out, fully dressed and with a much healthier color in his face than when he went to bed the preceding night. He stood before the fire, stretched one arm then the other, gave a slight grimace of pain, and informed his anxious comrades that he seemed to be as well as ever, except that his arm and side were very sore. Walking slowly, that Rod might "find himself," as Wabi expressed it, the two went up the river. It was a dull gray morning and occasionally large flakes of snow fell, giving evidence that before the day was far advanced another storm would set in. Mukoki's traps were not more than an eighth of a mile from camp, and as the two rounded a certain bend in the river the old hunter suddenly stopped with a huge grant of satisfaction. Following the direction in which he pointed Rod saw a dark object lying in the snow a short distance away. "That's heem!" exclaimed the Indian. As they approached, the object became animate, pulling and tearing in the snow as though in the agonies of death. A few moments more and they were close up to the captive. "She wolf!" explained Mukoki. He gripped the ax he had brought with him and approached within a few feet of the crouching animal. Rod could see that one of the big steel traps had caught the wolf on the forward leg and that the other had buried its teeth in one of the hind legs. Thus held the doomed animal could make little effort to protect itself and crouched in sullen quiet, its white fangs gleaming in a noiseless, defiant snarl, its eyes shining with pain and anger, and with only its thin starved body, which jerked and trembled as the Indian came nearer, betraying signs of fear. To Rod it might have been a pitiful sight had not there come to him a thought of the preceding night and of his own and Wabi's narrow escape from the pack. Two or three quick blows of the ax and the wolf was dead. With a skill which can only be found among those of his own race, Mukoki drew his knife, cut deftly around the wolf's head just below the ears, and with one downward, one upward, and two sidewise jerks tore off the scalp. Suddenly, without giving a thought to his speech, there shot from Rod, "Is that the way you scalp people?" Mukoki looked up, his jaw fell--and then he gave the nearest thing to a real laugh that Rod ever heard come from between his lips. When Mukoki laughed it was usually in a half-chuckle, a half-gurgle--something that neither Rod nor Wabi could have imitated if they had tried steadily for a month. "Never scalped white people," the old Indian shot back. "Father did when--young man. Did great scalp business!" Mukoki had not done chuckling to himself even when they reached camp. Scarcely ten minutes were taken in eating breakfast. Snow was already beginning to fall, and if the hunters took up their trail at once their tracks would undoubtedly be entirely obliterated by midday, which was the best possible thing that could happen for them in the Woonga country. On the other hand, Wabi was anxious to follow back over the wolf-trail before the snow shut it in. There was no danger of their becoming separated and lost, for it was agreed that Rod and Mukoki should travel straight up the frozen river. Wabi would overtake them before nightfall. Arming himself with his rifle, revolver, knife, and a keen-edged belt-ax, the Indian boy lost no time in leaving camp. A quarter of an hour later Wabi came out cautiously on the end of the lake where had occurred the unequal duel between the old bull moose and the wolves. A single glance told him what the outcome of that duel had been. Twenty rods out upon the snow he saw parts of a great skeleton, and a huge pair of antlers. As he stood on the arena of the mighty battle, Wabi would have given a great deal if Rod could have been with him. There lay the heroic old moose, now nothing more than a skeleton. But the magnificent head and horns still remained--the largest head that the Indian youth, in all his wilderness life, had ever seen--and it occurred to him that if this head could be preserved and taken back to civilization it would be worth a hundred dollars or more. That the old bull had put up a magnificent fight was easily discernible. Fifty feet away were the bones of a wolf, and almost under the skeleton of the moose were those of another. The heads of both still remained, and Wabi, after taking their scalps, hurried on over the trail. Half-way across the lake, where he had taken his last two shots, were the skeletons of two more wolves, and in the edge of the spruce forest he found another. This animal had evidently been wounded farther back and had later been set upon by some of the pack and killed. Half a mile deeper in the forest he came upon a spot where he had emptied five shells into the pack and here he found the bones of two more wolves. He had seven scalps in his possession when he turned back over the home trail. Beside the remains of the old bull Wabi paused again. He knew that the Indians frequently preserved moose and caribou heads through the winter by keeping them frozen, and the head at his feet was a prize worth some thought. But how could he keep it preserved until their return, months later? He could not suspend it from the limb of a tree, as was the custom when in camp, for it would either be stolen by some passing hunter or spoiled by the first warm days of spring. Suddenly an idea came to him. Why could it not be preserved in what white hunters called an "Indian ice-box"? In an instant he was acting upon this inspiration. It was not a small task to drag the huge head to the shelter of the tamaracks, where, safely hidden from view, he made a closer examination. The head was gnawed considerably by the wolves, but Wabi had seen worse ones skillfully repaired by the Indians at the Post. Under a dense growth of spruce, where the rays of the sun seldom penetrated, the Indian boy set to work with his belt-ax. For an hour and a half he worked steadily, and at the end of that time had dug a hole in the frozen earth three feet deep and four feet square. This hole he now lined with about two inches of snow, packed as tight as he could jam it with the butt of his gun. Then placing in the head he packed snow closely about it and afterward filled in the earth, stamping upon the hard chunks with his feet. When all was done he concealed the signs of his work under a covering of snow, blazed two trees with his ax, and resumed his journey. "There is thirty dollars for each of us if there's a cent," he mused softly, as he hurried toward the Ombabika. "That ground won't thaw out until June. A moose-head and eight scalps at fifteen dollars each isn't bad for one day's work, Rod, old boy!" He had been absent for three hours. It had been snowing steadily and by the time he reached their old camp the trail left by Rod and Mukoki was already partly obliterated, showing that they had secured an early start up the river. Bowing his head in the white clouds falling silently about him, Wabi started in swift pursuit. He could not see ten rods ahead of him, so dense was the storm, and at times one side or the other of the river was lost to view. Conditions could not have been better for their flight out of the Woonga country, thought the young hunter. By nightfall they would be many miles up the river, and no sign would be left behind to reveal their former presence or to show in which direction they had gone. For two hours he followed tirelessly over the trail, which became more and more distinct as he proceeded, showing that he was rapidly gaining on his comrades. But even now, though the trail was fresher and deeper, so disguised had it become by falling snow that a passing hunter might have thought a moose or caribou had passed that way. At the end of the third hour, by which time he figured that he had made at least ten miles, Wabi sat down to rest, and to refresh himself with the lunch which he had taken from the camp that morning. He was surprised at Rod's endurance. That Mukoki and the white boy were still three or four miles ahead of him he did not doubt, unless they, too, had stopped for dinner. This, on further thought, he believed was highly probable. The wilderness about him was intensely still. Not even the twitter of a snow-bird marred its silence. For a long time Wabi sat as immovable as the log upon which he had seated himself, resting and listening. Such a day as this held a peculiar and unusual fascination for him. It was as if the whole world was shut out, and that even the wild things of the forest dared not go abroad in this supreme moment of Nature's handiwork, when with lavish hand she spread the white mantle that was to stretch from the border to Hudson Bay. As he listened there came to him suddenly a sound that forced from between his lips a half-articulate cry. It was the clear, ringing report of a rifle! And following it there came another, and another, until in quick succession he had counted five! What did it mean? He sprang to his feet, his heart thumping, every nerve in him prepared for action. He would have sworn it was Mukoki's rifle--yet Mukoki would not have fired at game! They had agreed upon that. Had Rod and the old Indian been attacked? In another instant Wabi was bounding over the trail with the speed of a deer. CHAPTER V MYSTERIOUS SHOTS IN THE WILDERNESS As the Indian youth sped over the trail in the direction of the rifle-shots he flung his usual caution to the winds. His blood thrilled with the knowledge that there was not a moment to lose--that even now, in all probability, he would be too late to assist his friends. This fear was emphasized by the absolute silence which followed the five shots. Eagerly, almost prayerfully, he listened as he ran for other sounds of battle--for the report of Mukoki's revolver, or the whoops of the victors. If there had been an ambush it was all over now. Each moment added to his conviction, and as he thrust the muzzle of his gun ahead of him, his finger hovering near the trigger and his snow-blinded eyes staring ahead into the storm, something like a sob escaped his lips. Ahead of him the stream narrowed until it almost buried itself under a mass of towering cedars. The closeness of the forest walls now added to the general gloom, intensified by the first gray pallor of the Northern dusk, which begins to fall in these regions early in the afternoon of November days. For a moment, just before plunging into the gloomy trail between the cedars, Wabi stopped and listened. He heard nothing but the beating of his own heart, which worked like a trip-hammer within his breast. The stillness was oppressive. And the longer he listened the more some invisible power seemed to hold him back. It was not fear, it was not lack of courage, but-- What was there just beyond those cedars, lurking cautiously in the snow gloom? With instinct that was almost animal in its unreasonableness Wabi sank upon his knees. He had seen nothing, he had heard nothing; but he crouched close, until he was no larger than a waiting wolf, and there was a deadly earnestness in the manner in which he turned his rifle into the deeper gloom of those close-knit walls of forest. Something was approaching, cautiously, stealthily, and with extreme slowness. The Indian boy felt that this was so, and yet if his life had depended upon it he could not have told why. He huddled himself lower in the snow. His eyes gleamed with excitement. Minute after minute passed, and still there came no sound. Then, from far up that dusky avenue of cedars, there came the sudden startled chatter of a moose-bird. It was a warning which years of experience had taught Wabi always to respect. Perhaps a roving fox had frightened it, perhaps the bird had taken to noisy flight at the near tread of a moose, a caribou, or a deer. But-- To Wabi the soft, quick notes of the moose-bird spelled man! In an instant he was upon his feet, darting quickly into the sheltering cedars of the shore. Through these he now made his way with extreme caution, keeping close to the bank of the frozen stream. After a little he paused again and concealed himself behind the end of a fallen log. Ahead of him he could look into the snow gloom between the cedars, and whatever was coming through that gloom would have to pass within a dozen yards of him. Each moment added to his excitement. He heard the chatter of a red squirrel, much nearer than the moose-bird. Once he fancied that he heard the striking of two objects, as though a rifle barrel had accidentally come into contact with the dead limb of a tree. Suddenly the Indian youth imagined that he saw something--an indistinct shadow that came in the snow gloom, then disappeared, and came again. He brushed the water and snow from his eyes with one of his mittened hands and stared hard and steadily. Once more the shadow disappeared, then came again, larger and more distinct than before. There was no doubt now. Whatever had startled the moose-bird was coming slowly, noiselessly. Wabi brought his rifle to his shoulder. Life and death hovered with his anxious, naked finger over the gun trigger. But he was too well trained in the ways of the wilderness to fire just yet. Yard by yard the shadow approached, and divided itself into two shadows. Wabi could now see that they were men. They were advancing in a cautious, crouching attitude, as though they expected to meet enemies somewhere ahead of them. Wabi's heart thumped with joy. There could be no surer sign that Mukoki and Rod were still among the living, for why should the Woongas employ this caution if they had already successfully ambushed the hunters? With the chill of a cold hand at his throat the answer flashed into Wabigoon's brain. His friends had been ambushed, and these two Woongas were stealing back over the trail to slay him! Very slowly, very gently, the young Indian's finger pressed against the trigger of his rifle. A dozen feet more, and then-- The shadows had stopped, and now drew together as if in consultation. They were not more than twenty yards away, and for a moment Wabi lowered his rifle and listened hard. He could hear the low unintelligible mutterings of their conversation. Then there came to him a single incautious reply from one of the shadows. "All right!" Surely that was not the English of a Woonga! It sounded like-- In a flash Wabi had called softly. "Ho, Muky--Muky--Rod!" In another moment the three wolf hunters were together, silently wringing one another's hands, the death-like pallor of Rod's face and the tense lines in the bronzed countenances of Mukoki and Wabigoon plainly showing the tremendous strain they had been under. "You shoot?" whispered Mukoki. "No!" replied Wabi, his eyes widening in surprise. "Didn't _you_ shoot?" "No!" Only the one word fell from the old Indian, but it was filled with a new warning. Who had fired the five shots? The hunters gazed blankly at one another, mute questioning in their eyes. Without speaking, Mukoki pointed suggestively to the clearer channel of the river beyond the cedars. Evidently he thought the shots had come from there. Wabi shook his head. "There was no trail," he whispered. "Nobody has crossed the river." "I thought they were there!" breathed Rod. He pointed into the forest. "But Mukoki said no." For a long time the three stood and listened. Half a mile back in the forest they heard the howl of a single wolf, and Wabi flashed a curious glance into the eyes of the old Indian. "That's a man's cry," he whispered. "The wolf has struck a human trail. It isn't mine!" "Nor ours," replied Rod. This one long howl of the wolf was the only sound that broke the stillness of approaching night. Mukoki turned, and the others followed in his trail. A quarter of a mile farther on the stream became still narrower and plunged between great masses of rock which rose into wild and precipitous hills that were almost mountains a little way back. No longer could the hunters now follow the channel of the rushing torrent. Through a break in a gigantic wall of rock and huge boulders led the trail of Rod and Mukoki. Ten minutes more and the three had clambered to the top of the ridge where, in the lee of a great rock, the remains of a fire were still burning. Here the old Indian and his companion had struck camp and were waiting for Wabigoon when they heard the shots which they, too, believed were those of an ambush. A comfortable shelter of balsam had already been erected against the rock, and close beside the fire, where Mukoki had dropped it at the sound of the shots, was a large piece of spitted venison. The situation was ideal for a camp and after the hard day's tramp through the snow the young wolf hunters regarded it with expressions of pleasure, in spite of the enemies whom they knew might be lurking near them. Both Wabi and Rod had accepted the place as their night's home, and were stirring up the fire, when their attention was drawn to the singular attitude of Mukoki. The old warrior stood leaning on his rifle, speechless and motionless, his eyes regarding the process of rekindling the fire with mute disapprobation. Wabi, poised on one knee, looked at him questioningly. "No make more fire," said the old Indian, shaking his head. "No dare stay here. Go on--beyond mountain!" Mukoki straightened himself and stretched a long arm toward the north. "River go like much devil 'long edge of mountain," he continued. "Make heap noise through rock, then make swamp thick for cow moose--then run through mountain and make wide, smooth river once more. We go over mountain. Snow all night. Morning come--no trail for Woonga. We stay here--make big trail in morning. Woonga follow like devil, ver' plain to see!" Wabi rose to his feet, his face showing the keenness of his disappointment. Since early morning he had been traveling, even running at times, and he was tired enough to risk willingly a few dangers for the sake of sleep and supper. Rod was in even worse condition, though his trail had been much shorter. For a few moments the two boys looked at each other in silence, neither attempting to conceal the lack of favor with which Mukoki's suggestion was received. But Wabi was too wise openly to oppose the old pathfinder. If Mukoki said that it was dangerous for them to remain where they were during the night--well, it was dangerous, and it would be foolish of him to dispute it. He knew Mukoki to be the greatest hunter of his tribe, a human bloodhound on the trail, and what he said was law. So with a cheerful grin at Rod, who needed all the encouragement that could be given to him, Wabi began the readjustment of the pack which he had flung from his shoulders a few minutes before. "Mountain not ver' far. Two--t'ree mile, then camp," encouraged Mukoki. "Walk slow--have big supper." Only a few articles had been taken from the toboggan-sled on which the hunters were dragging the greater part of their equipment into the wilderness, and Mukoki soon had these packed again. The three adventurers now took up the new trail along the top of one of those wild and picturesque ridges which both the Indians and white hunters of this great Northland call mountains. Wabigoon led, weighted under his pack, selecting the clearest road for the toboggan and clipping down obstructing saplings with his keen-edged belt-ax. A dozen feet behind him followed Mukoki, dragging the sled; and behind the sled, securely tied with a thong of babeesh, or moose-skin rope, slunk the wolf. Rod, less experienced in making a trail and burdened with a lighter pack, formed the rear of the little cavalcade. Darkness was now falling rapidly. Though Wabigoon was not more than a dozen yards ahead, Rod could only now and then catch a fleeting vision of him through the gloom. Mukoki, doubled over in his harness, was hardly more than a blotch in the early night. Only the wolf was near enough to offer companionship to the tired and down-spirited youth. Rod's enthusiasm was not easily cooled, but just now he mentally wished that, for this one night at least, he was back at the Post, with the lovely little Minnetaki relating to him some legend of bird or beast they had encountered that day. How much pleasanter that would be! The vision of the bewitching little maiden was suddenly knocked out of his head in a most unexpected and startling way. Mukoki had paused for a moment and Rod, unconscious of the fact, continued on his journey until he tumbled in a sprawling heap over the sled, knocking Mukoki's legs completely from under him in his fall. When Wabi ran back he found Rod flattened out, face downward, and Mukoki entangled in his site harness on top of him. In a way this accident was fortunate. Wabi, who possessed a Caucasian sense of humor, shook with merriment as he gave his assistance, and Rod, after he had dug the snow from his eyes and ears and had emptied a handful of it from his neck, joined with him. The ridge now became narrower as the trio advanced. On one side, far down, could be heard the thunderous rush of the river, and from the direction of the sound Rod knew they were near a precipice. Great beds of boulders and broken rock, thrown there by some tumultuous upheaval of past ages, now impeded their progress, and every step was taken with extreme caution. The noise of the torrent became louder and louder as they advanced and on one side of him Rod now thought that he could distinguish a dim massive shadow towering above them, like the precipitous side of a mountain. A few steps farther and Mukoki exchanged places with Wabigoon. "Muky has been here before," cried Wabi close up to Rod's ear. His voice was almost drowned by the tumult below. "That's where the river rushes through the mountain!" Rod forgot his fatigue in the new excitement. Never in his wildest dreams of adventure had he foreseen an hour like this. Each step seemed to bring them nearer the edge of the vast chasm through which the river plunged, and yet not a sign of it could he see. He strained his eyes and ears, each moment expecting to hear the warning voice of the old warrior. With a suddenness that chilled him he saw the great shadow close in upon them from the opposite side, and for the first time he realized their position. On their left was the precipice--on their right the sheer wall of the mountain! How wide was the ledge along which they were traveling? His foot struck a stick under the snow. Catching it up he flung it out into space. For a single instant he paused to listen, but there came no sound of the falling object. The precipice was very near--a little chill ran up his spine. It was a sensation he had never experienced in walking the streets of a city! Though he could not see, he knew that the ledge was now leading them up. He could hear Wabigoon straining ahead of the toboggan and he began to assist by pushing on the rear of the loaded sled. For half an hour this upward climb continued, until the sound of the river had entirely died away. No longer was the mountain on the right. Five minutes later Mukoki called a halt. "On top mountain," he said briefly. "Camp here!" Rod could not repress an exclamation of joy, and Wabigoon, as he threw off his harness, gave a suppressed whoop. Mukoki, who seemed tireless, began an immediate search for a site for their camp and after a short breathing-spell Rod and Wabi joined him. The spot chosen was in the shelter of a huge rock, and while Mukoki cleaned away the snow the young hunters set to work with their axes in a near growth of balsam, cutting armful after armful of the soft odorous boughs. Inside of an hour a comfortable camp was completed, with an exhilarating fire throwing its crackling flames high up into the night before it. For the first time since leaving the abandoned camp at the other end of the ridge the hunters fully realized how famished they were, and Mukoki was at once delegated to prepare supper while Wabi and Rod searched in the darkness for their night's supply of wood. Fortunately quite near at hand they discovered several dead poplars, the best fuel in the world for a camp-fire, and by the time the venison and coffee were ready they had collected a huge pile of this, together with several good-sized backlogs. Mukoki had spread the feast in the opening of the shelter where the heat of the fire, reflected from the face of the rock, fell upon them in genial warmth, suffusing their faces with a most comfortable glow. The heat, together with the feast, were almost overpowering in their effects, and hardly was his supper completed when Rod felt creeping over him a drowsiness which he attempted in vain to fight off a little longer. Dragging himself back in the shelter he wrapped himself in his blanket, burrowed into the mass of balsam boughs, and passed quickly into oblivion. His last intelligible vision was Mukoki piling logs upon the fire, while the flames shot up a dozen feet into the air, illumining to his drowsy eyes for an instant a wild chaos of rock, beyond which lay the mysterious and impenetrable blackness of the wilderness. CHAPTER VI MUKOKI DISTURBS THE ANCIENT SKELETONS Completely exhausted, every muscle in his aching body still seeming to strain with exertion, the night was one of restless and uncomfortable dreams for Roderick Drew. While Wabi and the old Indian, veterans in wilderness hardship, slept in peace and tranquillity, the city boy found himself in the most unusual and thrilling situations from which he would extricate himself with a grunt or sharp cry, several times sitting bolt upright in his bed of balsam until he realized where he was, and that his adventures were only those of dreamland. From one of these dreams Rod had aroused himself into drowsy wakefulness. He fancied that he had heard steps. For the tenth time he raised himself upon an elbow, stretched, rubbed his eyes, glanced at the dark, inanimate forms of his sleeping companions, and snuggled down into his balsam boughs again. A few moments later he sat bolt upright. He could have sworn that he heard real steps this time--a soft cautious crunching in the snow very near his head. Breathlessly he listened. Not a sound broke the silence except the snapping of a dying ember in the fire. Another dream! Once more he settled back, drawing his blanket closely about him. Then, for a full breath, the very beating of his heart seemed to cease. What was that! He was awake now, wide awake, with every faculty in him striving to arrange itself. He had heard--a step! Slowly, very cautiously this time, he raised himself. There came distinctly to his ears a light crunching in the snow. It seemed back of the shelter--then was moving away, then stopped. The flickering light of the dying fire still played on the face of the great rock. Suddenly, at the very end of that rock, something moved. Some object was creeping cautiously upon the sleeping camp! For a moment his thrilling discovery froze the young hunter into inaction. But in a moment the whole situation flashed upon him. The Woongas had followed them! They were about to fall upon the helpless camp! Unexpectedly one of his hands came in contact with the barrel of Wabi's rifle. The touch of the cold steel aroused him. There was no time to awaken his companions. Even as he drew the gun to him he saw the object grow larger and larger at the end of the rock, until it stood crouching, as if about to spring. One bated breath--a thunderous report--a snarling scream of pain, and the camp was awake! "We're attacked!" cried Rod. "Quick--Wabi--Mukoki!" The white boy was on his knees now, the smoking rifle still leveled toward the rocks. Out there, in the thick shadows beyond the fire, a body was groveling and kicking in death agonies. In another instant the gaunt form of the old warrior was beside Rod, his rifle at his shoulder, and over their heads reached Wabigoon's arm, the barrel of his heavy revolver glinting in the firelight. For a full minute they crouched there, breathless, waiting. "They've gone!" broke Wabi in a tense whisper. "I got one of them!" replied Rod, his voice trembling with excitement. Mukoki slipped back and burrowed a hole through the side of the shelter. He could see nothing. Slowly he slipped out, his rifle ready. The others could hear him as he went. Foot by foot the old warrior slunk along in the deep gloom toward the end of the rock. Now he was almost there, now-- The young hunters saw him suddenly straighten. There came to them a low chuckling grunt. He bent over, seized an object, and flung it in the light of the fire. "Heap big Woonga! Kill nice fat lynx!" With a wail, half feigned, half real, Rod flung himself back upon the balsam while Wabi set up a roar that made the night echo. Mukoki's face was creased in a broad grin. "Heap big Woonga--heem!" he repeated, chuckling. "Nice fat lynx shot well in face. No look like bad man Woonga to Mukoki!" When Rod finally emerged from his den to join the others his face was flushed and wore what Wabi described as a "sheepish grin." "It's all right for you fellows to make fun of me," he declared. "But what if they had been Woongas? By George, if we're ever attacked again I won't do a thing. I'll let you fellows fight 'em off!" In spite of the general merriment at his expense, Rod was immensely proud of his first lynx. It was an enormous creature of its kind, drawn by hunger to the scraps of the camp-fire feast; and it was this animal, as it cautiously inspected the camp, that the young hunter had heard crunching in the snow. Wolf, whose instinct had told him what a mix-up would mean, had slunk into his shelter without betraying his whereabouts to this arch-enemy of his tribe. With the craft of his race, Mukoki was skinning the animal while it was still warm. "You go back bed," he said to his companions. "I build big fire again--then sleep." The excitement of his adventure at least freed Rod from the unpleasantness of further dreams, and it was late the following morning before he awoke again. He was astonished to find that a beautiful sun was shining. Wabi and the old Indian were already outside preparing breakfast, and the cheerful whistling of the former assured Rod that there was now little to be feared from the Woongas. Without lingering to take a beauty nap he joined them. Everywhere about them lay white winter. The rocks, the trees, and the mountain behind them were covered with two feet of snow and upon it the sun shone with dazzling brilliancy. But it was not until Rod looked into the north that he saw the wilderness in all of its grandeur. The camp had been made at the extreme point of the ridge, and stretching away under his eyes, mile after mile, was the vast white desolation that reached to Hudson Bay. In speechless wonder he gazed down upon the unblazed forests, saw plains and hills unfold themselves as his vision gained distance, followed a river until it was lost in the bewildering picture, and let his eyes rest here and there upon the glistening, snow-smothered bosoms of lakes, rimmed in by walls of black forest. This was not the wilderness as he had expected it to be, nor as he had often read of it in books. It was beautiful! It was magnificent! His heart throbbed with pleasure as he gazed down on it, the blood rose to his face in an excited flush, and he seemed hardly to breathe in his tense interest. Mukoki had come up beside him softly, and spoke in his low guttural voice. "Twent' t'ousand moose down there--twent' t'ousand caribou-oo! No man--no house--more twent' t'ousand miles!" Roderick, even trembling in his new emotion, looked into the old warrior's face. In Mukoki's eyes there was a curious, thrilling gleam. He stared straight out into the unending distance as though his keen vision would penetrate far beyond the last of that visible desolation--on and on, even to the grim and uttermost fastnesses of Hudson Bay. Wabi came up and placed his hand on Rod's shoulder. "Muky was born off there," he said. "Away beyond where we can see. Those were his hunting-grounds when a boy. See that mountain yonder? You might take it for a cloud. It's thirty miles from here! And that lake down there--you might think a rifle-shot would reach it--is five miles away! If a moose or a caribou or a wolf should cross it how you could see him." For a few moments longer the three stood silent, then Wabi and the old Indian returned to the fire to finish the preparation of breakfast, leaving Rod alone in his enchantment. What unsolved mysteries, what unwritten tragedies, what romance, what treasure of gold that vast North must hold! For a thousand, perhaps a million centuries, it had lain thus undisturbed in the embrace of nature; few white men had broken its solitudes, and the wild things still lived there as they had lived in the winters of ages and ages ago. The call to breakfast came almost as an unpleasant interruption to Rod. But it did not shock his appetite as it had his romantic fancies, and he performed his part at the morning meal with considerable credit. Wabi and Mukoki had already decided that they would not take up the trail again that day but would remain in their present camp until the following morning. There were several reasons for this delay. "We can't travel without snow-shoes now," explained Wabi to Rod, "and we've got to take a day off to teach you how to use them. Then, all the wild things are lying low. Moose, deer, caribou, and especially wolves and fur animals, won't begin traveling much until this afternoon and to-night, and if we took up the trail now we would have no way of telling what kind of a game country we were in. And that is the important thing just now. If we strike a first-rate game country during the next couple days we'll stop and build our winter camp." "Then you believe we are far enough away from the Woongas?" asked Rod. Mukoki grunted. "No believe Woongas come over mountain. Heap good game country back there. They stay." During the meal the white boy asked a hundred questions about the vast wilderness which lay stretched out before them in a great panorama, and in which they were soon to bury themselves, and every answer added to his enthusiasm. Immediately after they had finished eating Rod expressed a desire to begin his study in snow-shoeing, and for an hour after that Wabi and Mukoki piloted him back and forth along the ridge, instructing him in this and in that, applauding when he made an especially good dash and enjoying themselves immensely when he took one of his frequent tumbles into the snow. By noon Rod secretly believed that he was becoming quite an adept. Although the day in camp was an exceedingly pleasant one for Rod, he could not but observe that at times something seemed to be troubling Wabi. Twice he discovered the Indian youth alone within the shelter sitting in silent and morose dejection, and finally he insisted upon an explanation. "I want you to tell me what the trouble is, Wabi," he demanded. "What has gone wrong?" Wabi jumped to his feet with a little laugh. "Did you ever have a dream that bothered you, Rod?" he asked. "Well, I had one last night, and since then--somehow--I can't keep from worrying about the people back at the Post, and especially about Minnetaki. It's all--what do you call it--bosh? Listen! Wasn't that Mukoki's whistle?" As he paused Mukoki came running around the end of the rock. "See fun!" he cried softly. "Quick--see heem quick!" He turned and darted toward the precipitous edge of the ridge, closely followed by the two boys. "Cari-boo-oo!" he whispered excitedly as they came up beside him. "Cari-boo-oo--making big play!" He pointed down into the snowy wilderness. Three-quarters of a mile away, though to Rod apparently not more than a third of that distance from where they stood, half a dozen animals were disporting themselves in a singular fashion in a meadow-like opening between the mountain and a range of forest. It was Rod's first real glimpse of that wonderful animal of the North of which he had read so much, the caribou--commonly known beyond the Sixtieth Degree as the reindeer; and at this moment those below him were indulging in the queer play known in the Hudson Bay regions as the "caribou dance." "What's the matter with them?" he asked, his voice quivering with excitement. "What--" "Making big fun!" chuckled Mukoki, drawing the boy closer to the rock that concealed them. Wabi had thrust a finger in his mouth and now held it above his head, the Indian's truest guide for discovering the direction of the wind. The lee side of his finger remained cold and damp, while that side upon which the breeze fell was quickly dried. "The wind is toward us, Muky," he announced. "There's a fine chance for a shot. You go! Rod and I will stay here and watch you." Roderick heard--knew that Mukoki was creeping back to the camp for his rifle, but not for an instant did his spellbound eyes leave the spectacle below him. Two other animals had joined those in the open. He could see the sun glistening on their long antlers as they tossed their heads in their amazing antics. Now three or four of them would dash away with the speed of the wind, as though the deadliest of enemies were close behind them. Two or three hundred yards away they would stop with equal suddenness, whirl about in a circle, as though flight were interrupted on all sides of them, then tear back with lightning speed to rejoin the herd. In twos and threes and fours they performed these evolutions again and again. But there was another antic that held Rod's eyes, and if it had not been so new and wonderful to him he would have laughed, as Wabi was doing--silently--behind him. From out of the herd would suddenly dash one of the agile creatures, whirl about, jump and kick, and finally bounce up and down on all four feet, as though performing a comedy sketch in pantomime for the amusement of its companions; and when this was done it would start out in another mad flight, with others of the herd at its heels. "They are the funniest, swiftest, and shrewdest animals in the North," said Wabi. "They can smell you over a mountain if the wind is right, and hear you for half a mile. Look!" He pointed downward over Rod's shoulder. Mukoki had already reached the base of the ridge and was stealing straight out in the direction of the caribou. Rod gave a surprised gasp. "Great Scott! They'll see him, won't they?" he cried. "Not if Mukoki knows himself," smiled the Indian youth. "Remember that we are looking down on things. Everything seems clear and open to us, while in reality it's quite thick down there. I'll bet Muky can't see one hundred yards ahead of him. He has got his bearings and will go as straight as though he was on a blazed trail; but he won't see the caribou until he conies to the edge of the open." Each minute now added to Rod's excitement. Each of those minutes brought the old warrior nearer his game. Seldom, thought Rod, had such a scene been unfolded to the eyes of a white boy. The complete picture--the playful rompings of the dumb children of the wilderness; the stealthy approach of the old Indian; every rock, every tree that was to play its part--all were revealed to their eyes. Not a phase in this drama in wild life escaped them. Five minutes, ten, fifteen passed. They could see Mukoki as he stopped and lifted a hand to test the wind. Then he crouched, advancing foot by foot, yard by yard, so slowly that he seemed to be on his hands and knees. "He can hear them, but he can't see them!" breathed Wabigoon. "See! He places his ear to the ground! Now he has got his bearings again--as straight as a die! Good old Muky!" The old Indian crept on. In his excitement Rod clenched his hands and he seemed to live without breathing. Would Mukoki never shoot? Would he _never_ shoot? He seemed now to be within a stone's throw of the herd. "How far, Wabi?" "Four hundred yards, perhaps five," replied the Indian. "It's a long shot! He can't see them yet." Rod gripped his companion's arm. Mukoki had stopped. Down and down he slunk, until he became only a blot in the snow. "Now!" There came a moment of startled silence. In the midst of their play the animals in the open stood for a single instant paralyzed by a knowledge of impending danger, and in that instant there came to the young hunters the report of Mukoki's rifle. "No good!" cried Wabi. In his excitement he leaped to his feet. The caribou had turned and the whole eight of them were racing across the open. Another shot, and another--three in quick succession, and one of the fleeing animals fell, scrambled to its knees--and plunged on again! A fifth shot--the last in Mukoki's rifle! Again the wounded animal fell, struggled to its knees--to its forefeet--and fell again. "Good work! Five hundred yards if it was a foot!" exclaimed Wabigoon with a relieved laugh. "Fresh steak for supper, Rod!" Mukoki came out into the open, reloading his rifle. Quickly he moved across the wilderness playground, now crimson with blood, unsheathed his knife, and dropped upon his knees close to the throat of the slain animal. "I'll go down and give him a little help, Rod," said Wabi. "Your legs are pretty sore, and it's a hard climb down there; so if you will keep up the fire, Mukoki and I will bring back the meat." During the next hour Rod busied himself with collecting firewood for the night and in practising with his snow-shoes. He was astonished to find how swiftly and easily he could travel in them, and was satisfied that he could make twenty miles a day even as a tenderfoot. Left to his own thoughts he found his mind recurring once more to the Woongas and Minnetaki. Why was Wabi worried? Inwardly he did not believe that it was a dream alone that was troubling him. There was still some cause for fear. Of that he was certain. And why would not the Woongas penetrate beyond this mountain? He had asked himself this question a score of times during the last twenty-four hours, in spite of the fact that both Mukoki and Wabigoon were quite satisfied that they were well out of the Woonga territory. It was growing dusk when Wabi and the old Indian returned with the meat of the caribou. No time was lost in preparing supper, for the hunters had decided that the next day's trail would begin with dawn and probably end with darkness, which meant that they would require all the rest they could get before then. They were all eager to begin the winter's hunt. That day Mukoki's eyes had glistened at each fresh track he encountered. Wabi and Rod were filled with enthusiasm. Even Wolf, now and then stretching his gaunt self, would nose the air with eager suspicion, as if longing for the excitement of the tragedies in which he was to play such an important part. "If you can stand it," said Wabi, nodding at Rod over his caribou steak, "we won't lose a minute from now on. Over that country we ought to make twenty-five or thirty miles to-morrow. We may strike our hunting-ground by noon, or it may take us two or three days; but in either event we haven't any time to waste. Hurrah for the big camp, I say--and our fun begins!" It seemed to Rod as though he had hardly fallen asleep that night when somebody began tumbling him about in his bed of balsam. Opening his eyes he beheld Wabi's laughing face, illuminated in the glow of a roaring fire. "Time's up!" he called cheerily. "Hustle out, Rod. Breakfast is sizzling hot, everything is packed, and here you are still dreaming of--what?" "Minnetaki!" shot back Rod with unblushing honesty. In another minute he was outside, straightening his disheveled garments and smoothing his tousled hair. It was still very dark, but Rod assured himself by his watch that it was nearly four o'clock. Mukoki had already placed their breakfast on a flat rock beside the fire and, according to Wabigoon's previous scheme, no time was lost in disposing of it. Dawn was just breaking when the little cavalcade of adventurers set out from the camp. More keenly than ever Rod now felt the loss of his rifle. They were about to enter upon a hunter's paradise--and he had no gun! His disappointment was acute and he could not repress a confession of his feelings to Wabi. The Indian youth at once suggested a happy remedy. They would take turns in using his gun, Rod to have it one day and he the next; and Wabi's heavy revolver would also change hands, so that the one who did not possess the rifle would be armed with the smaller weapon. This solution of the difficulty lifted a dampening burden from Rod's heart, and when the little party began its descent into the wilderness regions under the mountain the city lad carried the rifle, for Wabi insisted that he have the first "turn." Once free of the rock-strewn ridge the two boys joined forces in pulling the toboggan while Mukoki struck out a trail ahead of them. As it became lighter Rod found his eyes glued with keen interest to Mukoki's snow-shoes, and for the first time in his life he realized what it really meant to "make a trail." The old Indian was the most famous trailmaker as well as the keenest trailer of his tribe, and in the comparatively open bottoms through which they were now traveling he was in his element. His strides were enormous, and with each stride he threw up showers of snow, leaving a broad level path behind him in which the snow was packed by his own weight, so that when Wabi and Rod came to follow him they were not impeded by sinking into a soft surface. Half a mile from the mountain Mukoki stopped and waited for the others to come up to him. "Moose!" he called, pointing at a curious track in the snow. Rod leaned eagerly over the track. "The snow is still crumbling and falling where he stepped," said Wabi. "Watch that little chunk, Rod. See--it's slipping--down--down--there! It was an old bull--a big fellow--and he passed here less than an hour ago." Signs of the night carnival of the wild things now became more and more frequent as the hunters advanced. They crossed and recrossed the trail of a fox; and farther on they discovered where this little pirate of darkness had slaughtered a big white rabbit. The snow was covered with blood and hair and part of the carcass remained uneaten. Again Wabi forgot his determination to waste no time and paused to investigate. "Now, if we only knew what kind of a fox he was!" he exclaimed to Rod. "But we don't. All we know is that he's a fox. And all fox tracks are alike, no matter what kind of a fox makes them. If there was only some difference our fortunes would be made!" "How?" asked Rod. Mukoki chuckled as if the mere thought of such a possibility filled him with glee. "Well, that fellow may be an ordinary red fox," explained the Indian youth. "If so, he is only worth from ten to twenty dollars; or he may be a black fox, worth fifty or sixty; or what we call a 'cross'--a mixture of silver and black--worth from seventy-five to a hundred. Or--" "Heap big silver!" interrupted Mukoki with another chuckle. "Yes, or a silver," finished Wabi. "A poor silver is worth two hundred dollars, and a good one from five hundred to a thousand! Now do you see why we would like to have a difference in the tracks? If that was a silver, a black or a 'cross,' we'd follow him; but in all probability he is red." Every hour added to Rod's knowledge of the wilderness and its people. For the first time in his life he saw the big dog-like tracks made by wolves, the dainty hoof-prints of the red deer and the spreading imprints of a traveling lynx; he pictured the hugeness of the moose that made a track as big as his head, discovered how to tell the difference between the hoof-print of a small moose and a big caribou, and in almost every mile learned something new. Half a dozen times during the morning the hunters stopped to rest. By noon Wabi figured that they had traveled twenty miles, and, although very tired, Rod declared that he was still "game for another ten." After dinner the aspect of the country changed. The river which they had been following became narrower and was so swift in places that it rushed tumultuously between its frozen edges. Forest-clad hills, huge boulders and masses of rock now began to mingle again with the bottoms, which in this country are known as plains. Every mile added to the roughness and picturesque grandeur of the country. A few miles to the east rose another range of wild and rugged hills; small lakes became more and more numerous, and everywhere the hunters crossed and recrossed frozen creeks. And each step they took now added to the enthusiasm of Wabi and his companions. Evidences of game and fur animals were plenty. A thousand ideal locations for a winter camp were about them, and their progress became slow and studied. A gently sloping hill of considerable height now lay in their path and Mukoki led the ascent. At the top the three paused in joyful astonishment. At their feet lay a "dip," or hollow, a dozen acres in extent, and in the center of this dip was a tiny lake partly surrounded by a mixed forest of cedar, balsam and birch that swept back over the hill, and partly inclosed by a meadow-like opening. One might have traveled through the country a thousand times without discovering this bit of wilderness paradise hidden in a hilltop. Without speaking Mukoki threw off his heavy pack. Wabi unbuckled his harness and relieved his shoulders of their burden. Rod, following their example, dropped his small pack beside that of the old Indian, and Wolf, straining at his babeesh thong, gazed with eager eyes into the hollow as though he, too, knew that it was to be their winter home. Wabi broke the silence. "How is that, Muky?" he asked. Mukoki chuckled with unbounded satisfaction. "Ver' fine. No get bad wind--never see smoke--plenty wood--plenty water." Relieved of their burdens, and leaving Wolf tied to the toboggan, the hunters made their way down to the lake. Hardly had they reached its edge when Wabi halted with a startled exclamation and pointed into the forest on the opposite side. "Look at that!" A hundred yards away, almost concealed among the trees, was a cabin. Even from where they stood they could see that it was deserted. Snow was drifted high about it. No chimney surmounted its roof. Nowhere was there a sign of life. Slowly the hunters approached. It was evident that the cabin was very old. The logs of which it was built were beginning to decay. A mass of saplings had taken root upon its roof, and everything about it gave evidence that it had been erected many years before. The door, made of split timber and opening toward the lake, was closed; the one window, also opening upon the lake, was tightly barred with lengths of sapling. Mukoki tried the door, but it resisted his efforts. Evidently it was strongly barred from within. Curiosity now gave place to astonishment. How could the door be locked within, and the window barred from within, without there being somebody inside? For a few moments the three stood speechless, listening. "Looks queer, doesn't it?" spoke Wabi softly. Mukoki had dropped on his knees beside the door. He could hear no sound. Then he kicked off his snow-shoes, gripped his belt-ax and stepped to the window. A dozen blows and one of the bars fell. The old Indian sniffed suspiciously, his ear close to the opening. Damp, stifling air greeted his nostrils, but still there was no sound. One after another he knocked off the remaining bars and thrust his head and shoulders inside. Gradually his eyes became accustomed to the darkness and he pulled himself in. Half-way--and he stopped. "Go on, Muky," urged Wabi, who was pressing close behind. There came no answer from the old Indian. For a full minute he remained poised there, as motionless as a stone, as silent as death. Then, very slowly--inch by inch, as though afraid of awakening a sleeping person, he lowered himself to the ground. When he turned toward the young hunters it was with an expression that Rod had never seen upon Mukoki's face before. "What is it, Mukoki?" The old Indian gasped, as if for fresh air. "Cabin--she filled with twent' t'ousand dead men!" he replied. [Illustration: "Knife--fight--heem killed!"] CHAPTER VII RODERICK DISCOVERS THE BUCKSKIN BAG For one long breath Rod and Wabi stared at their companion, only half believing, yet startled by the strange look in the old warrior's face. "Twent' t'ousand dead men!" he repeated. As he raised his hand, partly to give emphasis and partly to brush the cobwebs from his face, the boys saw it trembling in a way that even Wabi had never witnessed before. "Ugh!" In another instant Wabi was at the window, head and shoulders in, as Mukoki had been before him. After a little he pulled himself back and as he glanced at Rod he laughed in an odd thrilling way, as though he had been startled, but not so much so as Mukoki, who had prepared him for the sight which had struck his own vision with the unexpectedness of a shot in the back. "Take a look, Rod!" With his breath coming in little uneasy jerks Rod approached the black aperture. A queer sensation seized upon him--a palpitation, not of fear, but of something; a very unpleasant feeling that seemed to choke his breath, and made him wish that he had not been asked to peer into that mysterious darkness. Slowly he thrust his head through the hole. It was as black as night inside. But gradually the darkness seemed to be dispelled. He saw, in a little while, the opposite wall of the cabin. A table outlined itself in deep shadows, and near the table there was a pile of something that he could not name; and tumbled over that was a chair, with an object that might have been an old rag half covering it. His eyes traveled nearer. Outside Wabi and Mukoki heard a startled, partly suppressed cry. The boy's hands gripped the sides of the window. Fascinated, he stared down upon an object almost within arm's reach of him. There, leaning against the cabin wall, was what half a century or more ago had been a living man! Now it was a mere skeleton, a grotesque, terrible-looking object, its empty eye-sockets gleaming dully with the light from the window, its grinning mouth, distorted into ghostly life by the pallid mixture of light and gloom, turned full up at him! Rod fell back, trembling and white. "I only saw one," he gasped, remembering Mukoki's excited estimate. Wabi, who had regained his composure, laughed as he struck him two or three playful blows on the back. Mukoki only grunted. "You didn't look long enough, Rod!" he cried banteringly. "He got on your nerves too quick. I don't blame you, though. By George, I'll bet the shivers went up Muky's back when he first saw 'em! I'm going in to open the door." Without trepidation the young Indian crawled through the window. Rod, whose nervousness was quickly dispelled, made haste to follow him, while Mukoki again threw his weight against the door. A few blows of Wabi's belt-ax and the door shot inward so suddenly that the old Indian went sprawling after it upon all fours. A flood of light filled the interior of the cabin. Instinctively Rod's eyes sought the skeleton against the wall. It was leaning as if, many years before, a man had died there in a posture of sleep. Quite near this ghastly tenant of the cabin, stretched at full length upon the log floor, was a second skeleton, and near the overturned chair was a small cluttered heap of bones which were evidently those of some animal. Rod and Wabi drew nearer the skeleton against the wall and were bent upon making a closer examination when an exclamation from Mukoki attracted their attention to the old pathfinder. He was upon his knees beside the second skeleton, and as the boys approached he lifted eyes to them that were filled with unbounded amazement, at the same time pointing a long forefinger to come object among the bones. "Knife--fight--heem killed!" Plunged to the hilt in what had once been the breast of a living being, the boys saw a long, heavy-bladed knife, its handle rotting with age, its edges eaten by rust--but still erect, held there by the murderous road its owner had cleft for it through the flesh and bone of his victim. Rod, who had fallen upon his knees, gazed up blankly; his jaw dropped, and he asked the first question that popped into his head. "Who--did it?" Mukoki chuckled, almost gleefully, and nodded toward the gruesome thing reclining against the wall. "Heem!" Moved by a common instinct the three drew near the other skeleton. One of its long arms was resting across what had once been a pail, but which, long since, had sunk into total collapse between its hoops. The finger-bones of this arm were still tightly shut, clutching between them a roll of something that looked like birch-bark. The remaining arm had fallen close to the skeleton's side, and it was on this side that Mukoki's critical eyes searched most carefully, his curiosity being almost immediately satisfied by the discovery of a short, slant-wise cut in one of the ribs. "This un die here!" he explained. "Git um stuck knife in ribs. Bad way die! Much hurt--no die quick, sometime. Ver' bad way git stuck!" "Ugh!" shuddered Rod. "This cabin hasn't had any fresh air in it for a century, I'll bet. Let's get out!" Mukoki, in passing, picked up a skull from the heap of bones near the chair. "Dog!" he grunted. "Door lock'--window shut--men fight--both kill. Dog starve!" As the three retraced their steps to the spot where Wolf was guarding the toboggan, Rod's imaginative mind quickly painted a picture of the terrible tragedy that had occurred long ago in the old cabin. To Mukoki and Wabigoon the discovery of the skeletons was simply an incident in a long life of wilderness adventure--something of passing interest, but of small importance. To Rod it was the most tragic event that had ever come into his city-bound existence, with the exception of the thrilling conflict at Wabinosh House. He reconstructed that deadly hour in the cabin; saw the men in fierce altercation, saw them struggling, and almost heard the fatal blows as they were struck--the blows that slew one with the suddenness of a lightning bolt and sent the other, triumphant but dying, to breathe his last moments with his back propped against the wall. And the dog! What part had he taken? And after that--long days of maddening loneliness, days of starvation and of thirst, until he, too, doubled himself up on the floor and died. It was a terrible, a thrilling picture that burned in Roderick's brain. But why had they quarreled? What cause had there been for that sanguinary night duel? Instinctively Rod accepted it as having occurred at night, for the door had been locked, the window barred. Just then he would have given a good deal to have had the mystery solved. At the top of the hill Rod awoke to present realities. Wabi, who had harnessed himself to the toboggan, was in high spirits. "That cabin is a dandy!" he exclaimed as Rod joined him. "It would have taken us at least two weeks to build as good a one. Isn't it luck?" "We're going to live in it?" inquired his companion. "Live in it! I should say we were. It is three times as big as the shack we had planned to build. I can't understand why two men like those fellows should have put up such a large cabin. What do you think, Mukoki?" Mukoki shook his head. Evidently the mystery of the whole thing, beyond the fact that the tenants of the cabin had killed themselves in battle, was beyond his comprehension. The winter outfit was soon in a heap beside the cabin door. "Now for cleaning up," announced Wabi cheerfully. "Muky, you lend me a hand with the bones, will you? Rod can nose around and fetch out anything he likes." This assignment just suited Rod's curiosity. He was now worked up to a feverish pitch of expectancy. Might he not discover some clue that would lead to a solution of the mystery? One question alone seemed to ring incessantly in his head. Why had they fought? _Why had they fought?_ He even found himself repeating this under his breath as he began rummaging about. He kicked over the old chair, which was made of saplings nailed together, scrutinized a heap of rubbish that crumbled to dust under his touch, and gave a little cry of exultation when he found two guns leaning in a corner of the cabin. Their stocks were decaying; their locks were encased with rust, their barrels, too, were thick with the accumulated rust of years. Carefully, almost tenderly, he took one of these relics of a past age in his hands. It was of ancient pattern, almost as long as he was tall. "Hudson Bay gun--the kind they had before my father was born!" said Wabi. With bated breath and eagerly beating heart Rod pursued his search. On one of the walls he found the remains of what had once been garments--part of a hat, that fell in a thousand pieces when he touched it; the dust-rags of a coat and other things that he could not name. On the table there were rusty pans, a tin pail, an iron kettle, and the remains of old knives, forks and spoons. On one end of this table there was an unusual-looking object, and he touched it. Unlike the other rags it did not crumble, and when he lifted it he found that it was a small bag, made of buckskin, tied at the end--and heavy! With trembling fingers he tore away the rotted string and out upon the table there rattled a handful of greenish-black, pebbly looking objects. Rod gave a sharp quick cry for the others. Wabi and Mukoki had just come through the door after bearing out one of their gruesome loads, and the young Indian hurried to his side. He weighed one of the pieces in the palm of his hand. "It's lead, or--" "Gold!" breathed Rod. He could hear his own heart thumping as Wabi jumped back to the light of the door, his sheath-knife in his hand. For an instant the keen blade sank into the age-discolored object, and before Rod could see into the crease that it made Wabi's voice rose in an excited cry. "It's a gold nugget!" "And _that's_ why they fought!" exclaimed Rod exultantly. He had hoped--and he had discovered the reason. For a few moments this was of more importance to him than the fact that he had found gold. Wabi and Mukoki were now in a panic of excitement. The buckskin bag was turned inside out; the table was cleared of every other object; every nook and cranny was searched with new enthusiasm. The searchers hardly spoke. Each was intent upon finding--finding--finding. Thus does gold--virgin gold--stir up the sparks of that latent, feverish fire which is in every man's soul. Again Rod joined in the search. Every rag, every pile of dust, every bit of unrecognizable debris was torn, sifted and scattered. At the end of an hour the three paused, hopelessly baffled, even keenly disappointed for the time. "I guess that's all there is," said Wabi. It was the longest sentence that he had spoken for half an hour. "There is only one thing to do, boys. We'll clean out everything there is in the cabin, and to-morrow we'll tear up the floor. You can't tell what there might be under it, and we've got to have a new floor anyway. It is getting dusk, and if we have this place fit to sleep in to-night we have got to hustle." No time was lost in getting the debris of the cabin outside, and by the time darkness had fallen a mass of balsam boughs had been spread upon the log floor just inside the door, blankets were out, packs and supplies stowed away in one corner, and everything "comfortable and shipshape," as Rod expressed it. A huge fire was built a few feet away from the open door and the light and heat from this made the interior of the cabin quite light and warm, and, with the assistance of a couple of candles, more home-like than any camp they had slept in thus far. Mukoki's supper was a veritable feast--broiled caribou, cold beans that the old Indian had cooked at their last camp, meal cakes and hot coffee. The three happy hunters ate of it as though they had not tasted food for a week. The day, though a hard one, had been fraught with too much excitement for them to retire to their blankets immediately after this meal, as they had usually done in other camps. They realized, too, that they had reached the end of their journey and that their hardest work was over. There was no long jaunt ahead of them to-morrow. Their new life--the happiest life in the world to them--had already begun. Their camp was established, they were ready for their winter's sport, and from this moment on they felt that their evenings were their own to do with as they pleased. So for many hours that night Rod, Mukoki and Wabigoon sat up and talked and kept the fire roaring before the door. Twenty times they went over the tragedy of the old cabin; twenty times they weighed the half-pound of precious little lumps in the palms of their hands, and bit by bit they built up that life romance of the days of long ago, when all this wilderness was still an unopened book to the white man. And that story seemed very clear to them now. These men had been prospectors. They had discovered gold. Afterward they had quarreled, probably over some division of it--perhaps over the ownership of the very nuggets they had found; and then, in the heat of their anger, had followed the knife battle. But where had they discovered the gold? That was the question of supreme interest to the hunters, and they debated it until midnight. There were no mining tools in the camp; no pick, shovel or pan. Then it occurred to them that the builders of the cabin had been hunters, had discovered gold by accident and had collected that in the buckskin bag without the use of a pan. There was little sleep in the camp that night, and with the first light of day the three were at work again. Immediately after breakfast the task of tearing up the old and decayed floor began. One by one the split saplings were pried up and carried out for firewood, until the earth floor lay bare. Every foot of it was now eagerly turned over with a shovel which had been brought in the equipment; the base-logs were undermined, and filled in again; the moss that had been packed in the chinks between the cabin timbers was dug out, and by noon there was not a square inch of the interior of the camp that had not been searched. There was no more gold. In a way this fact brought relief with it. Both Wabi and Rod gradually recovered from their nervous excitement. The thought of gold gradually faded from their minds; the joy and exhilaration of the "hunt life" filled them more and more. Mukoki set to work cutting fresh cedars for the floor; the two boys scoured every log with water from the lake and afterward gathered several bushels of moss for refilling the chinks. That evening supper was cooked on the sheet-iron "section stove" which they had brought on the toboggan, and which was set up where the ancient stove of flat stones had tumbled into ruin. By candle-light the work of "rechinking" with moss progressed rapidly. Wabi was constantly bursting into snatches of wild Indian song, Rod whistled until his throat was sore and Mukoki chuckled and grunted and talked with constantly increasing volubility. A score of times they congratulated one another upon their good luck. Eight wolf-scalps, a fine lynx and nearly two hundred dollars in gold--all within their first week! It was enough to fill them with enthusiasm and they made little effort to repress their joy. During this evening Mukoki boiled up a large pot of caribou fat and bones, and when Rod asked what kind of soup he was making he responded by picking up a handful of steel traps and dropping them into the mixture. "Make traps smell good for fox--wolf--fisher, an' marten, too; heem come--all come--like smell," he explained. "If you don't dip the traps," added Wabi, "nine fur animals out of ten, and wolves most of all, will fight shy of the bait. They can smell the human odor you leave on the steel when you handle it. But the grease 'draws' them." When the hunters wrapped themselves in their blankets that night their wilderness home was complete. All that remained to be done was the building of three bunks against the ends of the cabin, and this work it was agreed could be accomplished at odd hours by any one who happened to be in camp. In the morning, laden with traps, they would strike out their first hunting-trails, keeping their eyes especially open for signs of wolves; for Mukoki was the greatest wolf hunter in all the Hudson Bay region. CHAPTER VIII HOW WOLF BECAME THE COMPANION OF MEN Twice that night Rod was awakened by Mukoki opening the cabin door. The second time he raised himself upon his elbows and quietly watched the old warrior. It was a brilliantly clear night and a flood of moonlight was pouring into the camp. He could hear Mukoki chuckling and grunting, as though communicating with himself, and at last, his curiosity getting the better of him, he wrapped his blanket about him and joined the Indian at the door. Mukoki was peering up into space. Rod followed his gaze. The moon was directly above the cabin. The sky was clear of clouds and so bright was the light that objects on the farther side of the lake were plainly visible. Besides, it was bitter cold--so cold that his face began to tingle as he stood there. These things he noticed, but he could see nothing to hold Mukoki's vision in the sky above unless it was the glorious beauty of the night. "What is it, Mukoki?" he asked. The old Indian looked silently at him for a moment, some mysterious, all-absorbing joy revealed in every lineament of his face. "Wolf night!" he whispered. He looked back to where Wabi was sleeping. "Wolf night!" he repeated, and slipped like a shadow to the side of the unconscious young hunter. Rod regarded his actions with growing wonder. He saw him bend over Wabi, shake him by the shoulders, and heard him repeat again, "Wolf night! Wolf night!" Wabi awoke and sat up in his blankets, and Mukoki came back to the door. He had dressed himself before this, and now, with his rifle, slipped out into the night. The young Indian had joined Rod at the open door and together they watched Mukoki's gaunt figure as it sped swiftly across the lake, up the hill and over into the wilderness desolation beyond. When Rod looked at Wabi he saw that the Indian boy's eyes were wide and staring, with an expression in them that was something between fright and horror. Without speaking he went to the table and lighted the candles and then dressed. When he was done his face still bore traces of suppressed excitement. He ran back to the door and whistled loudly. From his shelter beside the cabin the captive wolf responded with a snarling whine. Again he whistled, a dozen times, twenty, but there came no reply. More swiftly than Mukoki the Indian youth sped across the lake and to the summit of the hill. Mukoki had completely disappeared in the white, brilliant vastness of the wilderness that stretched away at his feet. When Wabi returned to the cabin Rod had a fire roaring in the stove. He seated himself beside it, holding out a pair of hands blue with cold. "Ugh! It's an awful night!" he shivered. He laughed across at Rod, a little uneasily, but with the old light back in his eyes. Suddenly he asked: "Did Minnetaki ever tell you--anything--queer--about Mukoki, Rod?" "Nothing more than you have told me yourself." "Well, once in a great while Mukoki has--not exactly a fit, but a little mad spell! I have never determined to my own satisfaction whether he is really out of his head or not. Sometimes I think he is and sometimes I think he is not. But the Indians at the Post believe that at certain times he goes crazy over wolves." "Wolves!" exclaimed Rod. "Yes, wolves. And he has good reason. A good many years ago, just about when you and I were born, Mukoki had a wife and child. My mother and others at the Post say that he was especially gone over the kid. He wouldn't hunt like other Indians, but would spend whole days at his shack playing with it and teaching it to do things; and when he did go hunting he would often tote it on his back, even when it wasn't much more than a squalling papoose. He was the happiest Indian at the Post, and one of the poorest. One day Mukoki came to the Post with a little bundle of fur, and most of the things he got in exchange for it, mother says, were for the kid. He reached the store at night and expected to leave for home the next noon, which would bring him to his camp before dark. But something delayed him and he didn't get started until the morning after. Meanwhile, late in the afternoon of the day when he was to have been home, his wife bundled up the kid and they set out to meet him. Well--" A weird howl from the captive wolf interrupted Wabi for a moment. "Well, they went on and on, and of course did not meet him. And then, the people at the Post say, the mother must have slipped and hurt herself. Anyway, when Mukoki came over the trail the next day he found them half eaten by wolves. From that day on Mukoki was a different Indian. He became the greatest wolf hunter in all these regions. Soon after the tragedy he came to the Post to live and since then he has not left Minnetaki and me. Once in a great while when the night is just right, when the moon is shining and it is bitter cold, Mukoki seems to go a little mad. He calls this a 'wolf night.' No one can stop him from going out; no one can get him to talk; he will allow no one to accompany him when in such a mood. He will walk miles and miles to-night. But he will come back. And when he returns he will be as sane as you and I, and if you ask him where he has been he will say that he went out to see if he could get a shot at something." Rod had listened in rapt attention. To him, as Wabi proceeded with his story of the tragedy in Mukoki's life, the old Indian was transformed into another being. No longer was he a mere savage reclaimed a little from the wilderness. There had sprung up in Rod's breast a great, human, throbbing sympathy for him, and in the dim candle-glow his eyes glistened with a dampness which he made no attempt to conceal. "What does Mukoki mean by 'wolf night'?" he asked. "Muky is a wizard when it comes to hunting wolves," Wabi went on. "He has studied them and thought of them every day of his life for nearly twenty years. He knows more about wolves than all the rest of the hunters in this country together. He can catch them in every trap he sets, which no other trapper in the world can do; he can tell you a hundred different things about a certain wolf simply by its track, and because of his wonderful knowledge he can tell, by some instinct that is almost supernatural, when a 'wolf night' comes. Something in the air to-night, something in the sky--in the moon--in the very way the wilderness looks, tells him that stray wolves in the plains and hills are 'packing' or banding together to-night, and that in the morning the sun will be shining, and they will be on the sunny sides of the mountains. See if I am not right. To-morrow night, if Mukoki comes back by then, we shall have some exciting sport with the wolves, and then you will see how Wolf out there does his work!" There followed several minutes of silence. The fire roared up the chimney, the stove glowed red hot and the boys sat and looked and listened. Rod took out his watch. It lacked only ten minutes of midnight. Yet neither seemed possessed with a desire to return to their interrupted sleep. "Wolf is a curious beast," mused Wabi softly. "You might think he was a sneaking, traitorous cur of a wolf to turn against his own breed and lure them to death. But he isn't. Wolf, as well as Mukoki, has good cause for what he does. You might call it animal vengeance. Did you ever notice that a half of one of his ears is gone? And if you thrust back his head you will find a terrible sear in his throat, and from his left side just back of the fore leg a chunk of flesh half as big as my hand has been torn away. We caught Wolf in a lynx trap, Mukoki and I. He wasn't much more than a whelp then--about six months old, Mukoki said. And while he was in the trap, helpless and unable to defend himself, three or four of his lovely tribe jumped upon him and tried to kill him for breakfast. We hove in sight just in time to drive the cannibals off. We kept Wolf, sewed up his side and throat, tamed him--and to-morrow night you will see how Mukoki has taught him to get even with his people." It was two hours later when Rod and Wabigoon extinguished the candles and returned to their blankets. And for another hour after that the former found it impossible to sleep. He wondered where Mukoki was--wondered what he was doing, and how in his strange madness he found his way in the trackless wilderness. When he finally fell asleep it was to dream of the Indian mother and her child; only after a little there was no child, and the woman changed into Minnetaki, and the ravenous wolves into men. From this unpleasant picture he was aroused by a series of prods in his side, and opening his eyes he beheld Wabi in his blankets a yard away, pointing over and beyond him and nodding his head. Rod looked, and caught his breath. There was Mukoki--peeling potatoes! "Hello, Muky!" he shouted. The old Indian looked up with a grin. His face bore no signs of his mad night on the trail. He nodded cheerfully and proceeded with the preparation of breakfast as though he had just risen from his blankets after a long night's rest. "Better get up," he advised. "Big day's hunt. Much fine sunshine to-day. Find wolves on mountain--plenty wolves!" The boys tumbled from their blankets and began dressing. "What time did you get in?" asked Wabi. "Now," replied Mukoki, pointing to the hot stove and the peeled potatoes. "Just make fire good." Wabi gave Rod a suggestive look as the old Indian bent over the stove. "What were you doing last night?" he questioned. "Big moon--might get shot," grunted Mukoki. "See lynx on hill. See wolf-tracks on red deer trail. No shot." This was as much of the history of Mukoki's night on the trail as the boys could secure, but during their breakfast Wabi shot another glance at Rod, and as Mukoki left the table for a moment to close the damper in the stove he found an opportunity to whisper: "See if I'm not right. He will choose the mountain trail." When their companion returned, he said: "We had better split up this morning, hadn't we, Muky? It looks to me as though there are two mighty good lines for traps--one over the hill, where that creek leads off through the range of ridges to the east, and the other along the creek which runs through the hilly plains to the north. What do you think of it?" "Good" agreed the old hunter. "You two go north--I take ridges." "No, you and I will take the ridges and Wabi will go north alone," amended Rod quickly. "I'm going with you, Mukoki!" Mukoki, who was somewhat flattered by this preference of the white youth, grinned and chuckled and began to talk more volubly about the plans which were in his head. It was agreed that they all would return to the cabin at an early hour in the afternoon, for the old Indian seemed positive that they would have their first wolf hunt that night. Rod noticed that the captive wolf received no breakfast that morning, and he easily guessed the reason. The traps were now divided. Three different sizes had been brought from the Post--fifty small ones for mink, marten and other small fur animals; fifteen fox traps, and as many larger ones for lynx and wolves. Wabi equipped himself with twenty of the small traps and four each of fox and lynx traps, while Rod and Mukoki took about forty in all. The remainder of the caribou meat was then cut into chunks and divided equally among them for bait. The sun was just beginning to show itself above the wilderness when the hunters left camp. As Mukoki had predicted, it was a glorious day, one of those bitterly cold, cloudless days when, as the Indians believe, the great Creator robs the rest of the world of the sun that it may shine in all its glory upon their own savage land. From the top of the hill that sheltered their home Rod looked out over the glistening forests and lakes in rapt and speechless admiration; but only for a few moments did the three pause, then took up their different trails. At the foot of this hill Mukoki and his companion struck the creek. They had not progressed more than fifty rods when the old Indian stopped and pointed at a fallen log which spanned the stream. The snow on this log was beaten by tiny footprints. Mukoki gazed a moment, cast an observant eye along the trail, and at once threw off his pack. "Mink!" he explained. He crossed the frozen creek, taking care not to touch the log. On the opposite side the tracks spread out over a windfall of trees. "Whole family mink live here," continued Mukoki. "T'ree--mebby four--mebby five. Build trap-house right here!" Never before had Rod seen a trap set as the old Indian now set his. Very near the end of the log over which the mink made their trail he quickly built a shelter of sticks which when completed was in the form of a tiny wigwam. At the back of this was placed a chunk of the caribou meat, and in front of this bait, so that an animal would have to spring it in passing, was set a trap, carefully covered with snow and a few leaves. Within twenty minutes Mukoki had built two of these shelters and had set two traps. "Why do you build those little houses?" asked Rod, as they again took up their trail. "Much snow come in winter," elucidated the Indian. "Build house to keep snow off traps. No do that, be digging out traps all winter. When mink--heem smell meat--go in house he got to go over trap. Make house for all small animal like heem. No good for lynx. He see house--walk roun' 'n' roun' 'n' roun'--and then go 'way. Smart fellow--lynx. Wolf and fox, too." "Is a mink worth much?" "Fi' dollar--no less that. Seven--eight dollar for good one." During the next mile six other mink traps were set. The creek now ran along the edge of a high rocky ridge and Mukoki's eyes began to shine with a new interest. No longer did he seem entirely absorbed in the discovery of signs of fur animals. His eyes were constantly scanning the sun-bathed side of the ridge ahead and his progress was slow and cautious. He spoke in whispers, and Rod followed his example. Frequently the two would stop and scan the openings for signs of life. Twice they set fox traps where there were evident signs of runways; in a wild ravine, strewn with tumbled trees and masses of rock, they struck a lynx track and set a trap for him at each end of the ravine; but even during these operations Mukoki's interest was divided. The hunters now walked abreast, about fifty yards apart, Rod never forging a foot ahead of the cautious Mukoki. Suddenly the youth heard a low call and he saw his companion beckoning to him with frantic enthusiasm. "Wolf!" whispered Mukoki as Rod joined him. In the snow were a number of tracks that reminded Rod of those made by a dog. "T'ree wolf!" continued the Indian jubilantly. "Travel early this morning. Somewhere in warm sun on mountain!" They followed now in the wolf trail. A little way on Rod found part of the carcass of a rabbit with fox tracks about it. Here Mukoki set another trap. A little farther still they came across a fisher trail and another trap was laid. Caribou and deer tracks crossed and recrossed the creek, but the Indian paid little attention to them. A fourth wolf joined the pack, and a fifth, and half an hour later the trail of three other wolves cut at right angles across the one they were following and disappeared in the direction of the thickly timbered plains. Mukoki's face was crinkled with joy. "Many wolf near," he exclaimed. "Many wolf off there 'n' off there 'n' off there. Good place for night hunt." Soon the creek swung out from the ridge and cut a circuitous channel through a small swamp. Here there were signs of wild life which set Rod's heart thumping and his blood tingling with excitement. In places the snow was literally packed with deer tracks. Trails ran in every direction, the bark had been rubbed from scores of saplings, and every step gave fresh evidence of the near presence of game. The stealth with which Mukoki now advanced was almost painful. Every twig was pressed behind him noiselessly, and once when Rod struck his snow-shoe against the butt of a small tree the old Indian held up his hands in mock horror. Ten minutes, fifteen--twenty of them passed in this cautious, breathless trailing of the swamp. Suddenly Mukoki stopped, and a hand was held out behind him warningly. He turned his face back, and Rod knew that he saw game. Inch by inch he crouched upon his snow-shoes, and beckoned for Rod to approach, slowly, quietly. When the boy had come near enough he passed back his rifle, and his lips formed the almost noiseless word, "Shoot!" Tremblingly Rod seized the gun and looked into the swamp ahead, Mukoki doubling down in front of him. What he saw sent him for a moment into the first nervous tremor of buck fever. Not more than a hundred yards away stood a magnificent buck browsing the tips of a clump of hazel, and just beyond him were two does. With a powerful effort Rod steadied himself. The buck was standing broadside, his head and neck stretched up, offering a beautiful shot at the vital spot behind his fore leg. At this the young hunter aimed and fired. With one spasmodic bound the animal dropped dead. Hardly had Rod seen the effect of his shot before Mukoki was traveling swiftly toward the fallen game, unstrapping his pack as he ran. By the time the youth reached his quarry the old Indian had produced a large whisky flask holding about a quart. Without explanation he now proceeded to thrust his knife into the quivering animal's throat and fill this flask with blood. When he had finished his task he held it up with an air of unbounded satisfaction. "Blood for wolf. Heem like blood. Smell um--come make big shoot to-night. No blood, no bait--no wolf shoot!" Mukoki no longer maintained his usual quiet, and it was evident to Rod that the Indian considered his mission for that day practically accomplished. After taking the heart, liver and one of the hind quarters of the buck Mukoki drew a long rope of babeesh from his pack, tied one end of it around the animal's neck, flung the other end over a near limb, and with his companion's assistance hoisted the carcass until it was clear of the ground. "If somethin' happen we no come back to-night heem safe from wolf," he explained. The two now continued through the swamp. At its farther edge the ground rose gently from the creek toward the hills, and this sloping plain was covered with huge boulders and a thin growth of large spruce and birch. Just beyond the creek was a gigantic rock which immediately caught Mukoki's attention. All sides except one were too precipitous for ascent, and even this one could not be climbed without the assistance of a sapling or two. They could see, however, that the top of the, rock was flat, and Mukoki called attention to this fact with an exultant chuckle. "Fine place for wolf hunt!" he exclaimed. "Many wolf off there in swamp an' in hill. We call heem here. Shoot from there!" He pointed to a clump of spruce a dozen rods away. By Rod's watch it was now nearly noon and the two sat down to eat the sandwiches they had brought with them. Only a few minutes were lost in taking up the home trail. Beyond the swamp Mukoki cut at right angles to their trap-line until he had ascended to the top of the ridge that had been on their right and which would take them very near their camp. From this ridge Rod could look about him upon a wild and rugged scene. On one side it sloped down to the plains, but on the other it fell in almost sheer walls, forming at its base five hundred feet below a narrow and gloomy chasm, through which a small stream found its way. Several times Mukoki stopped and leaned perilously close to the dizzy edge of the mountain, peering down with critical eyes, and once when he pulled himself back cautiously by means of a small sapling he explained his interest by saying: "Plenty bear there in spring!" But Rod was not thinking of bears. Once more his head was filled with the thought of gold. Perhaps that very chasm held the priceless secret that had died with its owners half a century ago. The dark and gloomy silence that hung between those two walls of rock, the death-like desolation, the stealthy windings of the creek--everything in that dim and mysterious world between the two mountains, unshattered by sound and impenetrable to the winter sun, seemed in his mind to link itself with the tragedy of long ago. Did that chasm hold the secret of the dead men? Again and again Rod found himself asking this question as he followed Mukoki, and the oftener he asked it the nearer he seemed to an answer, until at last, with a curious, thrilling certainty that set his blood tingling he caught Mukoki by the arm and pointing back, said: "Mukoki--the gold was found between those mountains!" CHAPTER IX WOLF TAKES VENGEANCE UPON HIS PEOPLE From that hour was born in Roderick Drew's breast a strange, imperishable desire. Willingly at this moment would he have given up the winter trapping to have pursued that golden _ignis fatuus_ of all ages--the lure of gold. To him the story of the old cabin, the skeletons and the treasure of the buckskin bag was complete. Those skeletons had once been men. They had found a mine--a place where they had picked up nuggets with their fingers. And that treasure ground was somewhere near. No longer was he puzzled by the fact that they had discovered no more gold in the old log cabin. In a flash he had solved that mystery. The men had just begun to gather their treasure when they had fought. What was more logical than that? One day, two, three--and they had quarreled over division, over rights. That was the time when they were most likely to quarrel. Perhaps one had discovered the gold and had therefore claimed a larger share. Anyway, the contents of the buckskin bag represented but a few days' labor. Rod was sure of that. Mukoki had grinned and shrugged his shoulders with an air of stupendous doubt when Rod had told him that the gold lay between the mountains, so now the youth kept his thoughts to himself. It was a silent trail home. Rod's mind was too active in its new channel, and he was too deeply absorbed in impressing upon his memory certain landmarks which they passed to ask questions; and Mukoki, with the natural taciturnity of his race, seldom found occasion to break into conversation unless spoken to first. Although his eyes were constantly on the alert, Rod could see no way in which a descent could be made into the chasm from the ridge they were on. This was a little disappointing, for he had made up his mind to explore the gloomy, sunless gulch at his first opportunity. He had no doubt that Wabi would join in the adventure. Or he might take his own time, and explore it alone. He was reasonably sure that from somewhere on the opposite ridge a descent could be made into it. Wabi was in camp when they arrived. He had set eighteen traps and had shot two spruce partridges. The birds were already cleaned for their early supper, and a thick slice of venison steak was added to the menu. During the preparation of the meal Rod described their discovery of the chasm and revealed some of his thoughts concerning it, but Wabi betrayed only passing flashes of interest. At times he seemed strangely preoccupied and would stand in an idle, contemplative mood, his hands buried deep in his pockets, while Rod or Mukoki proceeded with the little duties about the table or the stove. Finally, after arousing himself from one of these momentary spells, he pulled a brass shell from his pocket and held it out to the old Indian. "See here," he said. "I don't want to stir up any false fears, or anything of that sort--but I found that on the trail to-day!" Mukoki clutched at the shell as though it had been another newly found nugget of gold. The shell was empty. The lettering on the rim was still very distinct. He read ".35 Rem." "Why, that's--" "A shell from Rod's gun!" For a few moments Rod and Mukoki stared at the young Indian in blank amazement. "It's a .35 caliber Remington," continued Wabi, "and it's an auto-loading shell. There are only three guns like that in this country. I've got one, Mukoki has another--and you lost the third in your fight with the Woongas!" The venison had begun to burn, and Mukoki quickly transferred it to the table. Without a word the three sat down to their meal. "That means the Woongas are on our trail," declared Rod presently. "That is what I have been trying to reason out all the afternoon," replied Wabi. "It certainly is proof that they are, or have been quite recently, on this side of the mountain. But I don't believe they know we are here. The trail I struck was about five miles from camp. It was at least two days old. Three Indians on snow-shoes were traveling north. I followed back on their trail and found after a time that the Indians had come from the north, which leads me to believe that they were simply on a hunting expedition, cut a circle southward, and then returned to their camp. I don't believe they will come farther south. But we must keep our eyes open." Wabi's description of the manner in which the strange trail turned gave great satisfaction to Mukoki, who nodded affirmatively when the young hunter expressed it as his belief that the Woongas would not come so far as their camp. But the discovery of their presence chilled the buoyant spirits of the hunters. There was, however, a new spice of adventure lurking in this possible peril that was not altogether displeasing, and by the time the meal was at an end something like a plan of campaign had been formed. The hunters would not wait to be attacked and then act in self-defense, possibly at a disadvantage. They would be constantly on the lookout for the Woongas, and if a fresh trail or a camp was found they would begin the man-hunt themselves. The sun was just beginning to sink behind the distant hills in the southwest when the hunters again left camp. Wolf had received nothing to eat since the previous night, and with increasing hunger the fiery impatience lurking in his eyes and the restlessness of his movements became more noticeable. Mukoki called attention to these symptoms with a gloating satisfaction. The gloom of early evening was enveloping the wilderness by the time the three wolf hunters reached the swamp in which Rod had slain the buck. While he carried the guns and packs, Mukoki and Wabigoon dragged the buck between them to the huge flat-top rock. Now for the first time the city youth began to understand the old pathfinder's scheme. Several saplings were cut, and by means of a long rope of babeesh the deer was dragged up the side of the rock until it rested securely upon the flat space. From the dead buck's neck the babeesh rope was now stretched across the intervening space between the rock and the clump of cedars in which the hunters were to conceal themselves. In two of these cedars, at a distance of a dozen feet from the ground, were quickly made three platforms of saplings, upon which the ambushed watchers could comfortably seat themselves. By the time complete darkness had fallen the "trap" was finished, with the exception of a detail which Rod followed with great interest. From inside his clothes, where it had been kept warm by his body, Mukoki produced the flask of blood. A third of this blood he scattered upon the face of the rock and upon the snow at its base. The remainder he distributed, drop by drop, in trails running toward the swamp and plains. There still remained three hours before the moon would be up, and the hunters now joined Wolf, who had been fastened half-way up the ridge. In the shelter of a big rock a small fire was built, and during their long wait the hunters passed the time away by broiling and eating chunks of venison and in going over again the events of the day. It was nine o'clock before the moon rose above the edge of the wilderness. This great orb of the Northern night seemed to hold a never-ending fascination for Rod. It crept above the forests, a glowing, throbbing ball of red, quivering and palpitating in an effulgence that neither cloud nor mist dimmed in this desolation beyond the sphere of man; and as it rose, almost with visible movement to the eyes, the blood in it faded, until at last it seemed a great blaze of soft light between silver and gold. It was then that the whole world was lighted up under it. It was then that Mukoki, speaking softly, beckoned the others to follow him, and with Wolf at his side went down the ridge. Making a circuit around the back of the rock, Mukoki paused near a small sapling twenty yards from the dead buck and secured Wolf by his babeesh thong. Hardly had he done so when the animal began to exhibit signs of excitement. He trotted about nervously, sniffing the air, gathering the wind from every direction, and his jaws dropped with a snarling whine. Then he struck one of the clots of blood in the snow. "Come," whispered Wabi, pulling at Rod's sleeve, "come--quietly." They slipped back among the shadows of the spruce and watched Wolf in unbroken silence. The animal now stood rigidly over the blood clot. His head was level with his quivering back, his ears half aslant, his nostrils pointing to a strange thrilling scent that came to him from somewhere out there in the moonlight. Once more the instinct of his breed was flooding the soul of the captive wolf. There was the odor of blood in his widening nostrils. It was not the blood of the camp, of the slaughtered game dragged in by human hands before his eyes. It was the blood of the chase! A flashing memory of his captors turned the animal's head for an instant in backward inspection. They were gone. He could neither hear nor see them. He sniffed the sign of human presence, but that sign was always with him, and was not disturbing. The blood held him--and the strange scent, the game scent--that was coming to him more clearly every instant. He crunched about cautiously in the snow. He found other spots of blood, and to the watchers there came a low long whine that seemed about to end in the wolf song. The blood trails were leading him away toward the game scent, and he tugged viciously at the babeesh that held him captive, gnawing at it vainly, like an angry dog, forgetting what experience had taught him many times before. Each moment added to his excitement He ran about the sapling, gulped mouthfuls of the bloody snow, and each time he paused for a moment with his open dripping jaws held toward the dead buck on the rock. The game was very near. Brute sense told him that. Oh, the longing that was in him, the twitching, quivering longing to kill--kill--kill! He made another effort, tore up the snow in his frantic endeavors to free himself, to break loose, to follow in the wild glad cry of freed savagery in the calling of his people. He failed again, panting, whining in piteous helplessness. Then he settled upon his haunches at the end of his babeesh thong. For a moment his head turned to the moonlit sky, his long nose poised at right angles to the bristling hollows between his shoulders. There came then a low, whining wail, like the beginning of the "death-song" of a husky dog--a wail that grew in length and in strength and in volume until it rose weirdly among the mountains and swept far out over the plains--the hunt call of the wolf on the trail, which calls to him the famished, gray-gaunt outlaws of the wilderness, as the bugler's notes call his fellows on the field of battle. Three times that blood-thrilling cry went up from the captive wolf's throat, and before those cries had died away the three hunters were perched upon their platforms among the spruce. There followed now the ominous, waiting silence of an awakened wilderness. Rod could hear his heart throbbing within him. He forgot the intense cold. His nerves tingled. He looked out over the endless plains, white and mysteriously beautiful as they lay bathed in the glow of the moon. And Wabi knew more than he what was happening. All over that wild desolation the call of the wolf had carried its meaning. Down there, where a lake lay silent in its winter sleep, a doe started in trembling and fear; beyond the mountain a huge bull moose lifted his antlered head with battle-glaring eyes; half a mile away a fox paused for an instant in its sleuth-like stalking of a rabbit; and here and there in that world of wild things the gaunt hungry people of Wolf's blood stopped in their trails and turned their heads toward the signal that was coming in wailing echoes to their ears. And then the silence was broken. From afar--it might have been a mile away--there came an answering cry; and at that cry the wolf at the end of his babeesh thong settled upon his haunches again and sent back the call that comes only when there is blood upon the trail or when near the killing time. There was not the rustle of a bough, not a word spoken, by the silent watchers in the spruce. Mukoki had slipped back and half lay across his support in shooting attitude. Wabi had braced a foot, and his rifle was half to his shoulder, leveled over a knee. It was Rod's turn with the big revolver, and he had practised aiming through a crotch that gave a rest to his arm. In a few moments there came again the howl of the distant wolf on the plains, and this time it was joined by another away to the westward. And after that there came two from the plains instead of one, and then a far cry to the north and east. For the first time Rod and Wabi heard the gloating chuckle of Mukoki in his spruce a dozen feet away. At the increasing responses of his brethren Wolf became more frantic in his efforts. The scent of fresh blood and of wounded game was becoming maddening to the captive. But his frenzy no longer betrayed itself in futile efforts to escape from the babeesh thong. Wolf knew that his cries were assembling the hunt-pack. Nearer and nearer came the responses of the leaders, and there were now only momentary rests between the deep-throated exhortations which he sent in all directions into the night. Suddenly, almost from the swamp itself, there came a quick, excited, yelping reply, and Wabi gripped Rod by the arm. "He has struck the place where you killed the buck," he whispered. "There'll be quick work now!" Hardly had he spoken when a series of excited howls broke forth from the swamp, coming nearer and nearer as the hunger-crazed outlaw of the plains followed over the rich-scented trail made by the two Indians as they carried the slaughtered deer. Soon he nosed one of the trails of blood, and a moment later the watchers saw a gaunt shadow form running swiftly over the snow toward Wolf. For an instant, as the two beasts of prey met, there fell a silence; then both animals joined in the wailing hunt-pack cry, and the wolf that was free came to the edge of the great rock and stood with his fore feet on its side, and his cry changed from that of the chase to the still more thrilling signal that told the gathering pack of game at bay. Swiftly the wolves closed in. From over the edge of the mountain one came and joined the wolf at the rock without the hunters seeing his approach. From out of the swamp there came a pack of three, and now about the rock there grew a maddened, yelping horde, clambering and scrambling and fighting in their efforts to climb up to the game that was so near and yet beyond their reach. And sixty feet away Wolf crouched, watching the gathering of his clan, helpless, panting from his choking efforts to free himself, and quieting, gradually quieting, until in sullen silence he looked upon the scene, as though he knew the moment was very near when that thrilling spectacle would be changed into a scene of direst tragedy. And it was Mukoki who had first said that this was the vengeance of Wolf upon his people. From Mukoki there now came a faint hissing warning, and Wabi threw his rifle to his shoulder. There were at least a score of wolves at the base of the rock. Gradually the old Indian pulled upon the babeesh rope that led to the dead buck--pulled until he was putting a half of his strength into the effort, and could feel the animal slowly slipping from the flat ledge. A moment more and the buck tumbled down in the midst of the waiting pack. As flies gather upon a lump of sugar the famished animals now crowded and crushed and fought over the deer's body, and as they came thus together there sounded the quick sharp signal to fire from Mukoki. For five seconds the edge of the spruce was a blaze of death-dealing flashes, and the deafening reports of the two rifles and the big Colt drowned the cries and struggles of the animals. When those five seconds were over fifteen shots had been fired, and five seconds later the vast, beautiful silence of the wilderness night had fallen again. About the rock was the silence of death, broken only faintly by the last gasping throes of the animals that lay dying in the snow. In the trees there sounded the metallic clink of loading shells. Wabi spoke first. "I believe we did a good job, Mukoki!" Mukoki's reply was to slip down his tree. The others followed, and hastened across to the rock. Five bodies lay motionless in the snow. A sixth was dragging himself around the side of the rock, and Mukoki attacked it with his belt-ax. Still a seventh had run for a dozen rods, leaving a crimson trail behind, and when Wabi and Rod came up to it the animal was convulsed in its last dying struggles. "Seven!" exclaimed the Indian youth. "That is one of the best shoots we ever had. A hundred and five dollars in a night isn't bad, is it?" The two came back to the rock, dragging the wolf with them. Mukoki was standing as rigid as a statue in the moonlight, his face turned into the north. He pointed one arm far out over the plains, and said, without turning his head, "See!" Far out in that silent desolation the hunters saw a lurid flash of flame. It climbed up and up, until it filled the night above it with a dull glow--a single unbroken stream of fire that rose far above the swamps and forests of the plains. "That's a burning jackpine!" said Wabigoon. "Burning jackpine!" agreed the old warrior. Then he added, "Woonga signal fire!" CHAPTER X RODERICK EXPLORES THE CHASM To Rod the blazing pine seemed to be but a short distance away--a mile, perhaps a little more. In the silence of the two Indians as they contemplated the strange fire he read an ominous meaning. In Mukoki's eyes was a dull sullen glare, not unlike that which fills the orbs of a wild beast in a moment of deadly anger. Wabi's face was filled with an eager flush, and three times, Rod observed, he turned eyes strangely burning with some unnatural passion upon Mukoki. Slowly, even as the instincts of his race had aroused the latent, brutish love of slaughter and the chase in the tamed wolf, the long smothered instincts of these human children of the forest began to betray themselves in their bronzed countenances. Rod watched, and he was thrilled to the soul. Back at the old cabin they had declared war upon the Woongas. Both Mukoki and Wabigoon had slipped the leashes that had long restrained them from meting first vengeance upon their enemies. Now the opportunity had come. For five minutes the great pine blazed, and then died away until it was only a smoldering tower of light. Still Mukoki gazed, speechless and grim, out into the distance of the night. At last Wabi broke the silence. "How far away is it, Muky?" "T'ree mile," answered the old warrior without hesitation. "We could make it in forty minutes." "Yes." Wabi turned to Rod. "You can find your way back to camp alone, can't you?" he asked. "Not if you're going over there!" declared the white boy. "I'm going with you." Mukoki broke in upon them with a harsh disappointed laugh. "No go. No go over there." He spoke with emphasis, and shook his head. "We lose pine in five minutes. No find Woonga camp--make big trail for Woongas to see in morning. Better wait. Follow um trail in day, then shoot!" Rod found immense relief in the old Indian's decision. He did not fear a fight; in fact, he was a little too anxious to meet the outlaws who had stolen his gun, now that they had determined upon opening fire on sight. But in this instance he was possessed of the cooler judgment of his race. He believed that as yet the Woongas were not aware of their presence in this region, and that there was still a large possibility of the renegades traveling northward beyond their trapping sphere. He hoped that this would be the case, in spite of his desire to recapture his gun. A scrimmage with the Woongas just now would spoil the plans he had made for discovering gold. The "Skeleton Mine," as he had come to call it, now absorbed his thoughts beyond everything else. He felt confident that he would discover the lost treasure ground if given time, and he was just as confident that if war was once begun between themselves and the Woongas it would mean disaster or quick flight from the country. Even Wabi, worked up more in battle enthusiasm than by gold fever, conceded that if half of the Woongas were in this country they were much too powerful for them to cope with successfully, especially as one of them was without a rifle. It was therefore with inward exultation that Rod saw the project of attack dropped and Mukoki and Wabigoon proceed with their short task of scalping the seven wolves. During this operation Wolf was allowed to feast upon the carcass of the buck. That night there was but little sleep in the old cabin. It was two o'clock when the hunters arrived in camp and from that hour until nearly four they sat about the hot stove making plans for the day that was nearly at hand. Rod could but contrast the excitement that had now taken possession of them with the tranquil joy with which they had first taken up their abode in this dip in the hilltop. And how different were their plans from those of two or three days ago! Not one of them now but realized their peril. They were in an ideal hunting range, but it was evidently very near, if not actually in, the Woonga country. At any moment they might be forced to fight for their lives or abandon their camp, and perhaps they would be compelled to do both. So the gathering about the stove was in reality a small council of war. It was decided that the old cabin should immediately be put into a condition of defense, with a loophole on each side, strong new bars at the door, and with a thick barricade near at hand that could be quickly fitted against the window in case of attack. Until the war-clouds cleared away, if they cleared at all, the camp would be continually guarded by one of the hunters, and with this garrison would be left both of the heavy revolvers. At dawn or a little later Mukoki would set out upon Wabi's trap-line, both to become acquainted with it and to extend the line of traps, while later in the day the Indian youth would follow Mukoki's line, visiting the houses already built and setting other traps. This scheme left to Rod the first day's watch in camp. Mukoki aroused himself from his short sleep with the first approach of dawn but did not awaken his tired companions until breakfast was ready. When the meal was finished he seized his gun and signified his intention of visiting the mink traps just beyond the hill before leaving on his long day's trail. Rod at once joined him, leaving Wabi to wash the dishes. They were shortly within view of the trap-houses near the creek. Instinctively the eyes of both rested upon these houses and neither gave very close attention to the country ahead or about them. As a result both were exceedingly startled when they heard a huge snort and a great crunching in the deep snow close beside them. From out of a small growth of alders had dashed a big bull moose, who was now tearing with the speed of a horse up the hillside toward the hidden camp, evidently seeking the quick shelter of the dip. "Wait heem git top of hill!" shouted Mukoki, swinging his rifle to his shoulder. "Wait!" It was a beautiful shot and Rod was tempted to ignore the old Indian's advice. But he knew that there was some good reason for it, so he held his trembling finger. Hardly had the animal's huge antlered head risen to the sky-line when Mukoki shouted again, and the young hunter pressed the trigger of his automatic gun three times in rapid succession. It was a short shot, not more than two hundred yards, and Mukoki fired but once just as the bull mounted the hilltop. The next instant the moose was gone and Rod was just about to dash in pursuit when his companion caught him by the arm. "We got um!" he grinned. "He run downhill, then fall--ver' close to camp. Ver' good scheme--wait heem git on top hill. No have to carry meat far!" As coolly as though nothing had occurred the Indian turned again in the direction of the traps. Rod stood as though he had been nailed to the spot, his mouth half open in astonishment. "We go see traps," urged Mukoki. "Find moose dead when we go back." But Roderick Drew, who had hunted nothing larger than house rats in his own city, was not the young man to see the logic of this reasoning, and before Mukoki could open his mouth again he was hurrying up the hill. On its summit he saw a huge torn-up blotch in the snow, spattered with blood, where the moose had fallen first after the shots; and at the foot of the hill, as the Indian had predicted, the great animal lay dead. Wabi was hastening across the lake, attracted by the shots, and both reached the slain bull at about the same time. Rod quickly perceived that three shots had taken effect; one, which was undoubtedly Mukoki's carefully directed ball, in a vital spot behind the fore leg, and two through the body. The fact that two of his own shots had taken good effect filled the white youth with enthusiasm, and he was still gesticulating excitedly in describing the bull's flight to Wabi when the old Indian came over the hill, grinning broadly, and holding up for their inspection a magnificent mink. The day could not have begun more auspiciously for the hunters, and by the time Mukoki was ready to leave upon his long trail the adventurers were in buoyant spirits, the distressing fears of the preceding night being somewhat dispelled by their present good fortune and the glorious day which now broke in full splendor upon the wilderness. Until their early dinner Wabi remained in camp, securing certain parts of the moose and assisting Rod in putting the cabin into a state of defense according to their previous plans. It was not yet noon when he started over Mukoki's trap-line. Left to his own uninterrupted thoughts, Rod's mind was once more absorbed in his scheme of exploring the mysterious chasm. He had noticed during his inspection from the top of the ridge that the winter snows had as yet fallen but little in the gloomy gulch between the mountains, and he was eager to attempt his adventure before other snows came or the fierce blizzards of December filled the chasm with drifts. Later in the afternoon he brought forth the buckskin bag from a niche in the log wall where it had been concealed, and one after another carefully examined the golden nuggets. He found, as he had expected, that they were worn to exceeding smoothness, and that every edge had been dulled and rounded. Rod's favorite study in school had been a minor branch of geology and mineralogy, and he knew that only running water could work this smoothness. He was therefore confident that the nuggets had been discovered in or on the edge of a running stream. And that stream, he was sure, was the one in the chasm. But Rod's plans for an early investigation were doomed to disappointment. Late that day both Mukoki and Wabi returned, the latter with a red fox and another mink, the former with a fisher, which reminded Rod of a dog just growing out of puppyhood, and another story of strange trails that renewed their former apprehensions. The old Indian had discovered the remnants of the burned jackpine, and about it were the snow-shoe tracks of three Indians. One of these trails came from the north and two from the west, which led him to believe that the pine had been fired as a signal to call the two. At the very end of their trap-line, which extended about four miles from camp, a single snow-shoe trail had cut across at right angles, also swinging into the north. These discoveries necessitated a new arrangement of the plans that had been made the preceding night. Hereafter, it was agreed, only one trap-line would be visited each day, and by two of the hunters in company, both armed with rifles. Rod saw that this meant the abandonment of his scheme for exploring the chasm, at least for the present. Day after day now passed without evidences of new trails, and each day added to the hopes of the adventurers that they were at last to be left alone in the country. Never had Mukoki or Wabigoon been in a better trapping ground, and every visit to their lines added to their hoard of furs. If left unmolested it was plainly evident that they would take a small fortune back to Wabinosh House with them early in the spring. Besides many mink, several fisher, two red foxes and a lynx, they added two fine "cross" foxes and three wolf scalps to their treasure during the next three weeks. Rod began to think occasionally of the joy their success would bring to the little home hundreds of miles away, where he knew that the mother was waiting and praying for him every day of her life; and there were times, too, when he found himself counting the days that must still elapse before he returned to Minnetaki and the Post. But at no time did he give up his determination to explore the chasm. From the first Mukoki and Wabigoon had regarded this project with little favor, declaring the impossibility of discovering gold under snow, even though gold was there; so Rod waited and watched for an opportunity to make the search alone, saying nothing about his plans. On a beautiful day late in December, when the sun rose with dazzling brightness, his opportunity came. Wabi was to remain in camp, and Mukoki, who was again of the belief that they were safe from the Woongas, was to follow one of the trap-lines alone. Supplying himself well with food, taking Wabi's rifle, a double allowance of cartridges, a knife, belt-ax, and a heavy blanket in his pack, Rod set out for the chasm. Wabi laughed as he stood in the doorway to see him off. "Good luck to you, Rod; hope you find gold," he cried gaily, waving a final good-by with his hand. "If I don't return to-night don't you fellows worry about me," called back the youth. "If things look promising I may camp in the chasm and take up the hunt again in the morning." He now passed quickly to the second ridge, knowing from previous experience that it would be impossible to make a descent into the gulch from the first mountain. This range, a mile south of the camp, had not been explored by the hunters, but Rod was sure that there was no danger of losing himself as long as he followed along the edge of the chasm which was in itself a constant and infallible guide. Much to his disappointment he found that the southern walls of this mysterious break between the mountains were as precipitous as those on the opposite side, and for two hours he looked in vain for a place where he might climb down. The country was now becoming densely wooded and he was constantly encountering signs of big game. But he paid little attention to these. Finally he came to a point where the forest swept over and down the steep side of the mountain, and to his great joy he saw that by strapping his snow-shoes to his back and making good use of his hands it was possible for him to make a descent. Fifteen minutes later, breathless but triumphant, he stood at the bottom of the chasm. On his right rose the strip of cedar forest; on his left he was shut in by towering walls of black and shattered rock. At his feet was the little stream which had played such an important part in his golden dreams, frozen in places, and in others kept clear of ice by the swiftness of its current. A little ahead of him was that gloomy, sunless part of the chasm into which he had peered so often from the top of the ridge on the north. As he advanced step by step into its mysterious silence, his eyes alert, his nerves stretched to a tension of the keenest expectancy, there crept over him a feeling that he was invading that enchanted territory which, even at this moment, might be guarded by the spirits of the two mortals who had died because of the treasure it held. Narrower and narrower became the walls high over his head. Not a ray of sunlight penetrated into the soundless gloom. Not a leaf shivered in the still air. The creek gurgled and spattered among its rocks, without the note of a bird or the chirp of a squirrel to interrupt its monotony. Everything was dead. Now and then Rod could hear the wind whispering over the top of the chasm. But not a breath of it came down to him. Under his feet was only sufficient snow to deaden his own footsteps, and he still carried his snow-shoes upon his back. Suddenly, from the thick gloom that hung under one of the cragged walls, there came a thundering, unearthly sound that made him stop, his rifle swung half to shoulder. He saw that he had disturbed a great owl, and passed on. Now and then he paused beside the creek and took up handful after handful of its pebbles, his heart beating high with hope at every new gleam he caught among them, and never sinking to disappointment though he found no gold. The gold was here--somewhere. He was as certain of that as he was of the fact that he was living, and searching for it. Everything assured him of that; the towering masses of cleft rock, whole walls seeming about to crumble into ruin, the broad margins of pebbles along the creek--everything, to the very stillness and mystery in the air, spoke this as the abode of the skeletons' secret. It was this inexplicable _something_--this unseen, mysterious element hovering in the air that caused the white youth to advance step by step, silently, cautiously, as though the slightest sound under his feet might awaken the deadliest of enemies. And it was because of this stealth in his progress that he came very close upon something that was living, and without startling it. Less than fifty yards ahead of him he saw an object moving slowly among the rocks. It was a fox. Even before the animal had detected his presence he had aimed and fired. Thunderous echoes rose up about him. They rolled down the chasm, volume upon volume, until in the ghostly gloom between the mountain walls he stood and listened, a nervous shiver catching him once or twice. Not until the last echo had died away did he approach where the fox lay upon the snow. It was not red. It was not black. It was not-- His heart gave a big excited thump. The bleeding creature at his feet was the most beautiful animal he had ever seen--and the tip of its thick black fur was silver gray. Then, in that lonely chasm, there went up a great human whoop of joy. "A silver fox!" Rod spoke the words aloud. For five minutes he stood and looked upon his prize. He held it up and stroked it, and from what Wabi and Mukoki had told him he knew that the silken pelt of this creature was worth more to them than all the furs at the camp together. He made no effort to skin it, but put the animal in his pack and resumed his slow, noiseless exploration of the gulch. He had now passed beyond those points in the range from which he had looked down into this narrow, shut-in world. Ever more wild and gloomy became the chasm. At times the two walls of rock seemed almost to meet far above his head; under gigantic, overhanging crags there lurked the shadows of night. Fascinated by the grandeur and loneliness of the scenes through which he was passing Rod forgot the travel of time. Mile after mile he continued his tireless trail. He had no inclination to eat. He stopped only once at the creek to drink. And when he looked at his watch he was astonished to find that it was three o'clock in the afternoon. It was now too late to think of returning to camp. Within an hour the day gloom of the chasm would be thickening into that of night. So Rod stopped at the first good camp site, threw off his pack, and proceeded with the building of a cedar shelter. Not until this was completed and a sufficient supply of wood for the night's fire was at hand did he begin getting supper. He had brought a pail with him and soon the appetizing odors of boiling coffee and broiling moose sirloin filled the air. Night had fallen between the mountain walls by the time Rod sat down to his meal. CHAPTER XI RODERICK'S DREAM A chilling loneliness now crept over the young adventurer. Even as he ate he tried to peer out into the mysterious darkness. A sound from up the chasm, made by some wild prowler of the night, sent a nervous tremor through him. He was not afraid; he would not have confessed to that. But still, the absolute, almost gruesome silence between the two mountains, the mere knowledge that he was alone in a place where the foot of man had not trod for more than half a century, was not altogether quieting to his nerves. What mysteries might not these grim walls hold? What might not happen here, where everything was so strange, so weird, and so different from the wilderness world just over the range? Rod tried to laugh away his nervousness, but the very sound of his own voice was distressing. It rose in unnatural shivering echoes--a low, hollow mockery of a laugh beating itself against the walls; a ghost of a laugh, Rod thought, and that very thought made him hunch closer to the fire. The young hunter was not superstitious, or at least he was not unnaturally so; but what man or boy is there in this whole wide world of ours who does not, at some time, inwardly cringe from something in the air--something that does not exist and never did exist, but which holds a peculiar and nameless fear for the soul of a human being? And Rod, as he piled his fire high with wood and shrank in the warmth of his cedar shelter, felt that nameless dread; and there came to him no thought of sleep, no feeling of fatigue, but only that he was alone, absolutely alone, in the mystery and almost unending silence of the chasm. Try as he would he could not keep from his mind the vision of the skeletons as he had first seen them in the old cabin. Many, many years ago, even before his own mother was born, those skeletons had trod this very chasm. They had drunk from the same creek as he, they had clambered over the same rocks, they had camped perhaps where he was camping now! They, too, in flesh and life, had strained their ears in the grim silence, they had watched the flickering light of their camp-fire on the walls of rock--and they had found gold! Just now, if Rod could have moved himself by magic, he would have been safely back in camp. He listened. From far back over the trail he had followed there came a lonely, plaintive, almost pleading cry. "'Ello--'ello--'ello!" It sounded like a distant human greeting, but Rod knew that it was the awakening night cry of what Wabi called the "man owl." It was weirdly human-like; and the echoes came softly, and more softly, until ghostly voices seemed to be whispering in the blackness about him. "'Ello--'ello--'ello!" The boy shivered and laid his rifle across his knees. There was tremendous comfort in the rifle. Rod fondled it with his fingers, and two or three times he felt as though he would almost like to talk to it. Only those who have gone far into the silence and desolation of the unblazed wilderness know just how human a good rifle becomes to its owner. It is a friend every hour of the night and day, faithful to its master's desires, keeping starvation at bay and holding death for his enemies; a guaranty of safety at his bedside by night, a sharp-fanged watch-dog by day, never treacherous and never found wanting by the one who bestows upon it the care of a comrade and friend. Thus had Rod come to look upon his rifle. He rubbed the barrel now with his mittens; he polished the stock as he sat in his loneliness, and long afterward, though he had determined to remain awake during the night, he fell asleep with it clasped tightly in his hands. It was an uneasy, troubled slumber in which the young adventurer's visions and fears took a more realistic form. He half sat, half lay, upon his cedar boughs; his head fell forward upon his breast, his feet were stretched out to the fire. Now and then unintelligible sounds fell from his lips, and he would start suddenly as if about to awaken, but each time would sink back into his restless sleep, still clutching the gun. The visions in his head began to take a more definite form. Once more he was on the trail, and had come to the old cabin. But this time he was alone. The window of the cabin was wide open, but the door was tightly closed, just as the hunters had found it when they first came down into the dip. He approached cautiously. When very near the window he heard sounds--strange sounds--like the clicking of bones! Step by step in his dream he approached the window and looked in. And there he beheld a sight that froze him to the marrow. Two huge skeletons were struggling in deadly embrace. He could hear no sound but the click-click-click of their bones. He saw the gleam of knives held between fleshless fingers, and he saw now that both were struggling for the possession of something that was upon the table. Now one almost reached it, now the other, but neither gained possession. The clicking of the bones became louder, the struggle fiercer, the knives of the skeleton combatants rose and fell. Then one staggered back and sank in a heap on the floor. For a moment the victor swayed, tottered to the table, and gripped the mysterious object in its bony fingers. As it stumbled weakly against the cabin wall the gruesome creature held the object up, and Rod saw that it was a roll of birch-bark! An ember in the dying fire snapped with a sound like the report of a small pistol and Rod sat bolt upright, awake, staring, trembling. What a horrible dream! He drew in his cramped legs and approached the fire on his knees, holding his rifle in one hand while he piled on wood with the other. What a horrible dream! He shuddered and ran his eyes around the impenetrable wall of blackness that shut him in, the thought constantly flashing through his mind, what a horrible dream--what a horrible dream! He sat down again and watched the flames of his fire as they climbed higher and higher. The light and the heat cheered him, and after a little he allowed his mind to dwell upon the adventure of his slumber. It had made him sweat. He took off his cap and found that the hair about his forehead was damp. All the different phases of a dream return to one singly when awake, and it was with the suddenness of a shot that there came to Rod a remembrance of the skeleton hand held aloft, clutching between its gleaming fleshless fingers the roll of birch-bark. And with that memory of his dream there came another--the skeleton in the cabin was clutching a piece of birch-bark when they had buried it! Could that crumpled bit of bark hold the secret of the lost mine? Was it for the possession of that bark instead of the buckskin bag that the men had fought and died? As the minutes passed Rod forgot his loneliness, forgot his nervousness and only thought of the possibilities of the new clue that had come to him in a dream. Wabi and Mukoki had seen the bark clutched in the skeleton fingers, but they as well as he had given it no special significance, believing that it had been caught up in some terrible part of the struggle when both combatants were upon the floor, or perhaps in the dying agonies of the wounded man against the wall. Rod remembered now that they had found no more birch-bark upon the floor, which they would have done if a supply had been kept there for kindling fires. Step by step he went over the search they had made in the old cabin, and more and more satisfied did he become that the skeleton hand held something of importance for them. He replenished his fire and waited impatiently for dawn. At four o'clock, before day had begun to dispel the gloom of night, he cooked his breakfast and prepared his pack for the homeward journey. Soon afterward a narrow rim of light broke through the rift in the chasm. Slowly it crept downward, until the young hunter could make out objects near him and the walls of the mountains. Thick shadows still defied his vision when he began retracing his steps over the trail he had made the day before. He returned with the same caution that he had used in his advance. Even more carefully, if possible, did he scrutinize the rocks and the creek ahead. He had already found life in the chasm, and he might find more. The full light of day came quickly now, and with it the youth's progress became more rapid. He figured that if he lost no time in further investigation of the creek he would arrive at camp by noon, and they would dig up the skeleton without delay. There was little snow in the chasm, in spite of the lateness of the season, and if the roll of bark held the secret of the lost gold it would be possible for them to locate the treasure before other snows came to baffle them. At the spot where he had killed the silver fox Rod paused for a moment. He wondered if foxes ever traveled in pairs, and regretted that he had not asked Wabi or Mukoki that question. He could see where the fox had come straight from the black wall of the mountain. Curiosity led him over the trail. He had not followed it more than two hundred yards when he stopped in sudden astonishment. Plainly marked in the snow before him was the trail of a pair of snow-shoes! Whoever had been there had passed since he shot the fox, for the imprints of the animal's feet were buried under those of the snow-shoes. Who was the other person in the chasm? Was it Wabi? Had Mukoki or he come to join him? Or-- He looked again at the snow-shoe trail. It was a peculiar trail, unlike the one made by his own shoes. The imprints were a foot longer than his own, and narrower. Neither Wabi nor Mukoki wore shoes that would make that trail! At this point the strange trail had turned and disappeared among the rocks along the wall of the mountain, and it occurred to Rod that perhaps the stranger had not discovered his presence in the chasm. There was some consolation in this thought, but it was doomed to quick disappointment. Very cautiously the youth advanced, his rifle held in readiness and his eyes searching every place of concealment ahead of him. A hundred yards farther on the stranger had stopped, and from the way in which the snow was packed Rod knew that he had stood in a listening and watchful attitude for some time. From this point the trail took another turn and came down until, from behind a huge rock, the stranger had cautiously peered out upon the path made by the white youth. It was evident that he was extremely anxious to prevent the discovery of his own trail, for now the mysterious spy threaded his way behind rocks until he had again come to the shelter of the mountain wall. Rod was perplexed. He realized the peril of his dilemma, and yet he knew not what course to take to evade it. He had little doubt that the trail was made by one of the treacherous Woongas, and that the Indian not only knew of his presence, but was somewhere in the rocks ahead of him, perhaps even now waiting behind some ambuscade to shoot him. Should he follow the trail, or would it be safer to steal along among the rocks of the opposite wall of the chasm? He had decided upon the latter course when his eyes caught a narrow horizontal slit cleaving the face of the mountain on his left, toward which the snow-shoe tracks seemed to lead. With his rifle ready for instant use the youth slowly approached the fissure, and was surprised to find that it was a complete break in the wall of rock, not more than four feet wide, and continuing on a steady incline to the summit of the ridge. At the mouth of this fissure his mysterious watcher had taken off his snow-shoes and Rod could see where he had climbed up the narrow exit from the chasm. With a profound sense of relief the young hunter hurried along the base of the mountain, keeping well within its shelter so that eyes that might be spying from above could not see his movements. He now felt no fear of danger. The stranger's flight up the cleft in the chasm wall and his careful attempts to conceal his trail among the rocks assured Rod that he had no designs upon his life. His chief purpose had seemed to be to keep secret his own presence in the gorge, and this fact in itself added to the mystification of the white youth. For a long time he had been secretly puzzled, and had evolved certain ideas of his own because of the movements of the Woongas. Contrary to the opinions of Mukoki and Wabigoon, he believed that the red outlaws were perfectly conscious of their presence in the dip. From the first their actions had been unaccountable, but not once had one of their snow-shoe trails crossed their trap-lines. Was this fact in itself not significant? Rod was of a contemplative theoretical turn of mind, one of those wide-awake, interesting young fellows who find food for conjecture in almost every incident that occurs, and his suspicions were now aroused to an unusual pitch. A chief fault, however, was that he kept most of his suspicions to himself, for he believed that Mukoki and Wabigoon, born and taught in the life of the wilderness, were infallible in their knowledge of the ways and the laws and the perils of the world they were in. CHAPTER XII THE SECRET OF THE SKELETON'S HAND A little before noon Rod arrived at the top of the hill from which he could look down on their camp. He was filled with pleasurable anticipation, and with an unbounded swelling satisfaction that caused him to smile as he proceeded into the dip. He had found a fortune in the mysterious chasm. The burden of the silver fox upon his shoulders was a most pleasing reminder of that, and he pictured the moment when the good-natured raillery of Mukoki and Wabigoon would be suddenly turned into astonishment and joy. As he approached the cabin the young hunter tried to appear disgusted and half sick, and his effort was not bad in spite of his decided inclination to laugh. Wabi met him in the doorway, grinning broadly, and Mukoki greeted him with a throatful of his inimitable chuckles. "Aha, here's Rod with a packful of gold!" cried the young Indian, striking an expectant attitude. "Will you let us see the treasure?" In spite of his banter there was gladness in his face at Rod's arrival. The youth threw off his pack with a spiritless effort and flopped into a chair as though in the last stage of exhaustion. "You'll have to undo the pack," he replied. "I'm too tired and hungry." Wabi's manner changed at once to one of real sympathy. "I'll bet you're tired, Rod, and half starved. We'll have dinner in a hurry. Ho, Muky, put on the steak, will you?" There followed a rattle of kettles and tin pans and the Indian youth gave Rod a glad slap on the back as he hurried to the table. He was evidently in high spirits, and burst into a snatch of song as he cut up a loaf of bread. "I'm tickled to see you back," he admitted, "for I was getting a little bit nervous. We had splendid luck on our lines yesterday. Brought in another 'cross' and three mink. Did you see anything?" "Aren't you going to look in the pack?" Wabi turned and gazed at his companion with a half-curious hesitating smile. "Anything in it?" he asked suspiciously. "See here, boys," cried Rod, forgetting himself in his suppressed enthusiasm. "I said there was a treasure in that chasm, and there was. I found it. You are welcome to look into that pack if you wish!" Wabi dropped the knife with which he was cutting the bread and went to the pack. He touched it with the toe of his boot, lifted it in his hands, and glanced at Rod again. "It isn't a joke?" he asked. "No." Rod turned his back upon the scene and began to take off his coat as coolly as though it were the commonest thing in the world for him to bring silver foxes into camp. Only when Wabi gave a suppressed yell did he turn about, and then he found the Indian standing erect and holding out the silver to the astonished gaze of Mukoki. "Is it a good one?" he asked. "A beauty!" gasped Wabi. Mukoki had taken the animal and was examining it with the critical eyes of a connoisseur. "Ver' fine!" he said. "At Post heem worth fi' hundred dollars--at Montreal t'ree hundred more!" Wabi strode across the cabin and thrust out his hand. "Shake, Rod!" As the two gripped hands he turned to Mukoki. "Bear witness, Mukoki, that this young gentleman is no longer a tenderfoot. He has shot a silver fox. He has done a whole winter's work in one day. I take off my hat to you, Mr. Drew!" Roderick's face reddened with a flush of pleasure. "And that isn't all, Wabi," he said. His eyes were filled with a sudden intense earnestness, and in the strangeness of the change Wabi forgot to loosen the grip of his fingers about his companion's hand. "You don't mean that you found--" "No, I didn't find gold," anticipated Rod. "But the gold is there! I know it. And I think I have found a clue. You remember that when you and I examined the skeleton against the wall we saw that it clutched something that looked like birch-bark in its hand? Well, I believe that birch-bark holds the key to the lost mine!" Mukoki had come beside them and stood listening to Rod, his face alive with keen interest. In Wabi's eyes there was a look half of doubt, half of belief. "It might," he said slowly. "It wouldn't do any harm to see." He stepped to the stove and took off the partly cooked steak. Rod slipped on his coat and hat and Mukoki seized his belt-ax and the shovel. No words were spoken, but there was a mutual understanding that the investigation was to precede dinner. Wabi was silent and thoughtful and Rod could see that his suggestion had at least made a deep impression upon him. Mukoki's eyes began to gleam again with the old fire with which he had searched the cabin for gold. The skeletons were buried only a few inches deep in the frozen earth in the edge of the cedar forest, and Mukoki soon exposed them to view. Almost the first object that met their eyes was the skeleton hand clutching its roll of birch-bark. It was Rod who dropped upon his knees to the gruesome task. With a shudder at the touch of the cold bones he broke the fingers back. One of them snapped with a sharp sound, and as he rose with the bark in his hand his face was bloodlessly white. The bones were covered again and the three returned to the cabin. Still silent, they gathered about the table. With age the bark of the birch hardens and rolls itself tightly, and the piece Rod held was almost like thin steel. Inch by inch it was spread out, cracking and snapping in brittle protest. The hunters could see that the bark was in a single unbroken strip about ten inches long by six in width. Two inches, three, four were unrolled--and still the smooth surface was blank. Another half-inch, and the bark refused to unroll farther. "Careful!" whispered Wabi. With the point of his knife he loosened the cohesion. "I guess--there's--nothing--" began Rod. Even as he spoke he caught his breath. A mark had appeared on the bark, a black, meaningless mark with a line running down from it into the scroll. Another fraction of an inch and the line was joined by a second, and then with an unexpectedness that was startling the remainder of the roll released itself like a spring--and to the eyes of the three wolf hunters was revealed the secret of the skeleton hand. Spread out before them was a map, or at least what they at once accepted as a map, though in reality it was more of a crude diagram of straight and crooked lines, with here and there a partly obliterated word to give it meaning. In several places there were mere evidences of words, now entirely illegible. But what first held the attention of Rod and his companions were several lines in writing under the rough sketch on the bark, still quite plain, which formed the names of three men. Roderick read them aloud. "John Ball, Henri Langlois, Peter Plante." Through the name of John Ball had been drawn a broad black line which had almost destroyed the letters, and at the end of this line, in brackets, was printed a word in French which Wabi quickly translated. "Dead!" he breathed. "The Frenchmen killed him!" The words shot from him in hot excitement. Rod did not reply. Slowly he drew a trembling finger over the map. The first word he encountered was unintelligible. Of the next he could only make out one letter, which gave him no clue. Evidently the map had been made with a different and less durable substance than that with which the names had been written. He followed down the first straight black line, and where this formed a junction with a wider crooked line were two words quite distinct: "Second waterfall." Half an inch below this Rod could make out the letters T, D and L, widely scattered. "That's the third waterfall," he exclaimed eagerly. At this point the crude lines of the diagram stopped, and immediately below, between the map and the three names, it was evident that there had been considerable writing. But not a word of it could the young hunters make out. That writing, without doubt, had given the key to the lost gold. Rod looked up, his face betraying the keenness of his disappointment. He knew that under his hand he held all that was left of the secret of a great treasure. But he was more baffled than ever. Somewhere in this vast desolation there were three waterfalls, and somewhere near the third waterfall the Englishman and the two Frenchmen had found their gold. That was all he knew. He had not found a waterfall in the chasm; they had not discovered one in all their trapping and hunting excursions. Wabi was looking down into his face in silent thought. Suddenly he reached out and seized the sheet of bark and examined it closely. As he looked there came a deeper flush in his face, his eyes brightened and he gave a cry of excitement. "By George, I believe we can peel this!" he cried. "See here, Muky!" He thrust the birch under the old Indian's eyes. Even Mukoki's hands were trembling. "Birch-bark is made up of a good many layers, each as thin as the thinnest paper," he explained to Rod as Mukoki continued his examination. "If we can peel off that first layer, and then hold it up to the light, we shall be able to see the impression of every word that was ever made on it--even though they were written a hundred years ago!" Mukoki had gone to the door, and now he turned, grinning exultantly. "She peel!" He showed them where he had stripped back a corner of the film-like layer. Then he sat down in the light, his head bent over, and for many minutes he worked at his tedious task while Wabi and Rod hung back in soundless suspense. Half an hour later Mukoki straightened himself, rose to his feet and held out the precious film to Rod. As tenderly as though his own life depended upon its care, Rod held the piece of birch, now a silken, almost transparent sheet, between himself and the light. A cry welled up into his throat. It was repeated by Wabi. And then there was silence--a silence broken only by their bated breaths and the excited thumpings of their hearts. As though they had been written but yesterday, the mysterious words on the map were disclosed to their eyes. Where Rod had made out only three letters there were now plainly discernible the two words "third waterfall," and very near to these was the word "cabin." Below them were several lines, clearly impressed in the birch film. Slowly, his voice trembling, Rod read them to his companions. "We, John Ball, Henri Langlois, and Peter Plante, having discovered gold at this fall, do hereby agree to joint partnership in the same, and do pledge ourselves to forget our past differences and work in mutual good will and honesty, so help us God. Signed, "JOHN BALL, HENRI LANGLOIS, PETER PLANTE." At the very top of the map the impression of several other words caught Rod's eyes. They were more indistinct than any of the others, but one by one he made them out. A hot blurring film seemed to fall over his eyes and he felt as though his heart had suddenly come up into his throat. Wabi's breath was burning against his cheek, and it was Wabi who spoke the words aloud. "Cabin and head of chasm." Rod went back to the table and sat down, the precious bit of birch-bark under his hand. Mukoki, standing mute, had listened and heard, and was as if stunned by their discovery. But now his mind returned to the moose steak, and he placed it on the stove. Wabi stood with his hands in his pockets, and after a little he laughed a trembling, happy laugh. "Well, Rod, you've found your mine. You are as good as rich!" "You mean that we have found our mine," corrected the white youth. "We are three, and we just naturally fill the places of John Ball, Henri Langlois and Peter Plante. They are all dead. The gold is ours!" Wabi had taken up the map. "I can't see the slightest possibility of our not finding it," he said. "The directions are as plain as day. We follow the chasm, and somewhere in that chasm we come to a waterfall. A little beyond this the creek that runs through the gorge empties into a larger stream, and we follow this second creek or river until we come to the third fall. The cabin is there, and the gold can not be far away." He had carried the map to the door again, and Rod joined him. "There is nothing that gives us an idea of distance on the map," he continued. "How far did you travel down the chasm?" "Ten miles, at least," replied Rod. "And you discovered no fall?" "No." With a splinter picked up from the floor Wabi measured the distances between the different points on the diagram. "There is no doubt but what this map was drawn by John Ball," he said after a few moments of silent contemplation. "Everything points to that fact. Notice that all of the writing is in one hand, except the signatures of Langlois and Plante, and you could hardly decipher the letters in those signatures if you did not already know their names from this writing below. Ball wrote a good hand, and from the construction of the agreement over the signatures he was a man of pretty fair education. Don't you think so? Well, he must have drawn this map with some idea of distance in his mind. The second fall is only half as far from the first fall as the third fall is from the second, which seems to me conclusive evidence of this. If he had not had distance in mind he would not have separated the falls in this way on the map." "Then if we can find the first fall we can figure pretty nearly how far the last fall is from the head of the chasm," said Rod. "Yes. I believe the distance from here to the first fall will give us a key to the whole thing." Rod had produced a pencil from one of his pockets and was figuring on the smooth side of a chip. "The gold is a long way from here at the best, Wabi. I explored the chasm for ten miles. Say that we find the first fall within fifteen miles. Then, according to the map, the second fall would be about twenty miles from the first, and the third forty miles from the second. If the first fall is within fifteen miles of this cabin the third fall is at least seventy-five miles away." Wabi nodded. "But we may not find the first fall within that distance," he said. "By George--" He stopped and looked at Rod with an odd look of doubt in his face. "If the gold is seventy-five or a hundred miles away, why were those men here, and with only a handful of nuggets in their possession? Is it possible that the gold played out--that they found only what was in the buckskin bag?" "If that were so, why should they have fought to the death for the possession of the map?" argued Rod. Mukoki was turning the steak. He had not spoken, but now he said: "Mebby going to Post for supplies." "That's exactly what they were doing!" shouted the Indian youth. "Muky, you have solved the whole problem. They were going for supplies. And they didn't fight for the map--not for the map alone!" His face flushed with new excitement. "Perhaps I am wrong, but it all seems clear to me now," he continued. "Ball and the two Frenchmen worked their find until they ran out of supplies. Wabinosh House is over a hundred years old, and fifty years ago that was the nearest point where they could get more. In some way it fell to the Frenchmen to go. They had probably accumulated a hoard of gold, and before they left they murdered Ball. They brought with them only enough gold to pay for their supplies, for it was their purpose not to arouse the suspicion of any adventurers who happened to be at the Post. They could easily have explained their possession of those few nuggets. In this cabin either Langlois or Plante tried to kill his companion, and thus become the sole possessor of the treasure, and the fight, fatal to both, ensued. I may be wrong, but--by George, I believe that is what happened!" "And that they buried the bulk of their gold somewhere back near the third fall?" "Yes; or else they brought the gold here and buried it somewhere near this very cabin!" They were interrupted by Mukoki. "Dinner ready!" he called. CHAPTER XIII SNOWED IN Until the present moment Rod had forgotten to speak of the mysterious man-trail he had encountered in the chasm. The excitement of the past hour had made him oblivious to all other things, but now as they ate their dinner he described the strange maneuvers of the spying Woonga. He did not, however, voice those fears which had come to him in the gorge, preferring to allow Mukoki and Wabigoon to draw their own conclusions. By this time the two Indians were satisfied that the Woongas were not contemplating attack, but that for some unaccountable reason they were as anxious to evade the hunters as the hunters were to evade them. Everything that had passed seemed to give evidence of this. The outlaw in the chasm, for instance, could easily have waylaid Rod; a dozen times the almost defenseless camp could have been attacked, and there were innumerable places where ambushes might have been laid for them along the trap-lines. So Rod's experience with the Woonga trail between the mountains occasioned little uneasiness, and instead of forming a scheme for the further investigation of this trail on the south, plans were made for locating the first fall. Mukoki was the swiftest and most tireless traveler on snow-shoes, and it was he who volunteered to make the first search. He would leave the following morning, taking with him a supply of food, and during his absence Rod and Wabigoon would attend to the traps. "We must have the location of the first fall before we return to the Post," declared Wabi. "If from that we find that the third fall is not within a hundred miles of our present camp it will be impossible for us to go in search of our gold during this trip. In that event we shall have to go back to Wabinosh House and form a new expedition, with fresh supplies and the proper kind of tools. We can not do anything until the spring freshets are over, anyway." "I have been thinking of that," replied Rod, his eyes softening. "You know mother is alone, and--her--" "I understand," interrupted the Indian boy, laying a hand fondly across his companion's arm. "--her funds are small, you know," Rod finished. "If she has been sick--or--anything like that--" "Yes, we've got to get back with our furs," helped Wabi, a tremor of tenderness in his own voice. "And if you don't mind, Rod, I might take a little run down to Detroit with you. Do you suppose she would care?" "Care!" shouted Rod, bringing his free hand down upon Wabi's arm with a force that hurt. "Care! Why, she thinks as much of you as she does of me, Wabi! She'd be tickled to death! Do you mean it?" Wabi's bronzed face flushed a deeper red at his friend's enthusiasm. "I won't promise--for sure," he said. "But I'd like to see her--almost as much as you, I guess. If I can, I'll go." Rod's face was suffused with a joyful glow. "And I'll come back with you early in the summer and we'll start out for the gold," he cried. He jumped to his feet and slapped Mukoki on the back in the happy turn his mind had taken. "Will you come, too, Mukoki? I'll give you the biggest 'city time' you ever had in your life!" The old Indian grinned and chuckled and grunted, but did not reply in words. Wabi laughed, and answered for him. "He is too anxious to become Minnetaki's slave again, Rod. No, Muky won't go, I'll wager that. He will stay at the Post to see that she doesn't get lost, or hurt, or stolen by the Woongas. Eh, Mukoki?" Mukoki nodded, grinning good-humoredly. He went to the door, opened it and looked out. "Devil--she snow!" he cried. "She snow like twent' t'ousand--like devil!" This was the strongest English in the old warrior's vocabulary, and it meant something more than usual. Wabi and Rod quickly joined him. Never in his life had the city youth seen a snow-storm like that which he now gazed out into. The great north storm had arrived--a storm which comes just once each year in the endless Arctic desolation. For days and weeks the Indians had expected it and wondered at its lateness. It fell softly, silently, without a breath of air to stir it; a smothering, voiceless sea of white, impenetrable to human vision, so thick that it seemed as though it might stifle one's breath. Rod held out the palm of his hand and in an instant it was covered with a film of white. He walked out into it, and a dozen yards away he became a ghostly, almost invisible shadow. When he came back a minute later he brought a load of snow into the cabin with him. All that afternoon the snow fell like this, and all that night the storm continued. When he awoke in the morning Rod heard the wind whistling and howling through the trees and around the ends of the cabin. He rose and built the fire while the others were still sleeping. He attempted to open the door, but it was blocked. He lowered the barricade at the window, and a barrel of snow tumbled in about his feet. He could see no sign of day, and when he turned he saw Wabi sitting up in his blankets, laughing silently at his wonder and consternation. "What in the world--" he gasped. "We're snowed in," grinned Wabi. "Does the stove smoke?" "No," replied Rod, throwing a bewildered glance at the roaring fire. "You don't mean to say--" "Then we are not completely, buried," interrupted the other. "At least the top of the chimney is sticking out!" Mukoki sat up and stretched himself. "She blow," he said, as a tremendous howl of wind swept over the cabin. "Bime-by she blow some more!" Rod shoveled the snow into a corner and replaced the barricade while his companions dressed. "This means a week's work digging out traps," declared Wabi. "And only Mukoki's Great Spirit, who sends all blessings to this country, knows when the blizzard is going to stop. It may last a week. There is no chance of finding our waterfall in this." "We can play dominoes," suggested Rod cheerfully. "You remember we haven't finished that series we began at the Post. But you don't expect me to believe that it snowed enough yesterday afternoon and last night to cover this cabin, do you?" "It didn't exactly _snow_ enough to cover it," explained his comrade. "But we're covered for all of that. The cabin is on the edge of an open, and of course the snow just naturally drifts around us, blown there by the wind. If this blizzard keeps up we shall be under a small mountain by night." "Won't it--smother us?" faltered Rod. Wabi gave a joyous whoop of merriment at the city-bred youth's half-expressed fear and a volley of Mukoki's chuckles came from where he was slicing moose-steak on the table. "Snow mighty nice thing live under," he asserted with emphasis. "If you were under a mountain of snow you could live, if you weren't crushed to death," said Wabi. "Snow is filled with air. Mukoki was caught under a snow-slide once and was buried under thirty feet for ten hours. He had made a nest about as big as a barrel and was nice and comfortable when we dug him out. We won't have to burn much wood to keep warm now." After breakfast the boys again lowered the barricade at the window and Wabi began to bring small avalanches of snow down into the cabin with his shovel. At the third or fourth upward thrust a huge mass plunged through the window, burying them to the waist, and when they looked out they could see the light of day and the whirling blizzard above their heads. "It's up to the roof," gasped Rod. "Great Scott, what a snow-storm!" "Now for some fun!" cried the Indian youth. "Come on, Rod, if you want to be in it." He crawled through the window into the cavity he had made in the drift, and Rod followed. Wabi waited, a mischievous smile on his face, and no sooner had his companion joined him than he plunged his shovel deep into the base of the drift. Half a dozen quick thrusts and there tumbled down upon their heads a mass of light snow that for a few moments completely buried them. The suddenness of it knocked Rod to his knees, where he floundered, gasped and made a vain effort to yell. Struggling like a fish he first kicked his feet free, and Wabi, who had thrust out his head and shoulders, shrieked with laughter as he saw only Rod's boots sticking out of the snow. "You're going the wrong way, Rod!" he shouted. "Wow--wow!" He seized his companion's legs and helped to drag him out, and then stood shaking, the tears streaming down his face, and continued to laugh until he leaned back in the drift, half exhausted. Rod was a curious and ludicrous-looking object. His eyes were wide and blinking; the snow was in his ears, his mouth, and in his floundering he had packed his coat collar full of it. Slowly he recovered from his astonishment, saw Wabi and Mukoki quivering with laughter, grinned--and then joined them in their merriment. It was not difficult now for the boys to force their way through the drift and they were soon standing waist-deep in the snow twenty yards from the cabin. "The snow is only about four feet deep in the open," said Wabi. "But look at that!" He turned and gazed at the cabin, or rather at the small part of it which still rose triumphant above the huge drift which had almost completely buried it. Only a little of the roof, with the smoking chimney rising out of it, was to be seen. Rod now turned in all directions to survey the wild scene about him. There had come a brief lull in the blizzard, and his vision extended beyond the lake and to the hilltop. There was not a spot of black to meet his eyes; every rock was hidden; the trees hung silent and lifeless under their heavy mantles and even their trunks were beaten white with the clinging volleys of the storm. There came to him then a thought of the wild things in this seemingly uninhabitable desolation. How could they live in this endless desert of snow? What could they find to eat? Where could they find water to drink? He asked Wabi these questions after they had returned to the cabin. "Just now, if you traveled from here to the end of this storm zone you wouldn't find a living four-legged creature," said Wabigoon. "Every moose in this country, every deer and caribou, every fox and wolf, is buried in the snow. And as the snow falls deeper about them the warmer and more comfortable do they become, so that even as the blizzard increases in fury the kind Creator makes it easier for them to bear. When the storm ceases the wilderness will awaken into life again. The moose and deer and caribou will rise from their snow-beds and begin to eat the boughs of trees and saplings; a crust will have formed on the snow, and all the smaller animals, like foxes, lynx and wolves, will begin to travel again, and to prey upon others for food. Until they find running water again snow and ice take the place of liquid drink; warm caverns dug in the snow give refuge in place of thick swamp moss and brush and leaves. All the big animals, like moose, deer and caribou, will soon make 'yards' for themselves by trampling down large areas of snow, and in these yards they will gather in big herds, eating their way through the forests, fighting the wolves and waiting for spring. Oh, life isn't altogether bad for the animals in a deep winter like this!" Until noon the hunters were busy cleaning away the snow from the cabin door. As the day advanced the blizzard increased in its fury, until, with the approach of night, it became impossible for the hunters to expose themselves to it. For three days the storm continued with only intermittent lulls, but with the dawn of the fourth day the sky was again cloudless, and the sun rose with a blinding effulgence. Rod now found himself suffering from that sure affliction of every tenderfoot in the far North--snow-blindness. For only a few minutes at a time could he stand the dazzling reflections of the snow-waste where nothing but white, flashing, scintillating white, seemingly a vast sea of burning electric points in the sunlight, met his aching eyes. On the second day after the storm, while Wabi was still inuring Rod to the changed world and teaching him how to accustom his eyes to it gradually, Mukoki left the cabin to follow the chasm in his search for the first waterfall. That same day Wabi began his work of digging out and resetting the traps, but it was not until the day following that Rod's eyes would allow him to assist. The task was a most difficult one; rocks and other landmarks were completely hidden, and the lost traps averaged one out of four. It was not until the end of the second day after Mukoki's departure that the young hunters finished the mountain trap-line, and when they turned their faces toward camp just at the beginning of dusk it was with the expectant hope that they would find the old Indian awaiting them. But Mukoki had not returned. The next day came and passed, and a fourth dawned without his arrival. Hope now gave way to fear. In three days Mukoki could travel nearly a hundred miles. Was it possible that something had happened to him? Many times there recurred to Rod a thought of the Woonga in the chasm. Had the mysterious spy, or some of his people, waylaid and killed him? Neither of the hunters had a desire to leave camp during the fourth day. Trapping was exceptionally good now on account of the scarcity of animal food and since the big storm they had captured a wolf, two lynx, a red fox and eight mink. But as Mukoki's absence lengthened their enthusiasm grew less. In the afternoon, as they were watching, they saw a figure climb wearily to the summit of the hill. It was Mukoki. With shouts of greeting both youths hurried through the snow toward him, not taking time to strap on their snow-shoes. The old Indian was at their side a couple of minutes later. He smiled in a tired good-natured way, and answered the eagerness in their eyes with a nod of his head. "Found fall. Fift' mile down mountain." Once in the cabin he dropped into a chair, exhausted, and both Rod and Wabigoon joined in relieving him of his boots and outer garments. It was evident that Mukoki had been traveling hard, for only once or twice before in his life had Wabi seen him so completely fatigued. Quickly the young Indian had a huge steak broiling over the fire, and Rod put an extra handful of coffee in the pot. "Fifty miles!" ejaculated Wabi for the twentieth time. "It was an awful jaunt, wasn't it, Muky?" "Rough--rough like devil th'ough mountains," replied Mukoki. "Not like that!" He swung an arm in the direction of the chasm. Rod stood silent, open-eyed with wonder. Was it possible that the old warrior had discovered a wilder country than that through which he had passed in the chasm? "She little fall," went on Mukoki, brightening as the odor of coffee and meat filled his nostrils. "No bigger than--that!" He pointed to the roof of the cabin. Rod was figuring on the table. Soon he looked up. "According to Mukoki and the map we are at least two hundred and fifty miles from the third fall," he said. Mukoki shrugged his shoulders and his face was crinkled in a suggestive grimace. "Hudson Bay," he grunted. Wabi turned from his steak in sudden astonishment. "Doesn't the chasm continue east?" he almost shouted. "No. She turn--straight north." Rod could not understand the change that came over Wabi's face. "Boys," he said finally, "if that is the case I can tell you where the gold is. If the stream in the chasm turns northward it is bound for just one place--the Albany River, and the Albany River empties into James Bay! The third waterfall, where our treasure in gold is waiting for us, is in the very heart of the wildest and most savage wilderness in North America. It is safe. No other man has ever found it. But to get it means one of the longest and most adventurous expeditions we ever planned in all our lives!" "Hurrah!" shouted Rod. "Hurrah--" He had leaped to his feet, forgetful of everything but that their gold was safe, and that their search for it would lead them even to the last fastnesses of the snow-bound and romantic North. "Next spring, Wabi!" He held out his hand and the two boys joined their pledge in a hearty grip. "Next spring!" reiterated Wabi. "And we go in canoe," joined Mukoki. "Creek grow bigger. We make birch-bark canoe at first fall." "That is better still," added Wabi. "It will be a glorious trip! We'll take a little vacation at the third fall and run up to James Bay." "James Bay is practically the same as Hudson Bay, isn't it?" asked Rod. "Yes. I could never see a good reason for calling it James Bay. It is in reality the lower end, or tail, of Hudson Bay." There was no thought of visiting any of the traps that day, and the next morning Mukoki insisted upon going with Rod, in spite of his four days of hard travel. If he remained in camp his joints would get stiff, he said, and Wabigoon thought he was right. This left the young Indian to care for the trap-line leading into the north. Two weeks of ideal trapping weather now followed. It had been more than two months since the hunters had left Wabinosh House, and Rod now began to count the days before they would turn back over the homeward trail. Wabi had estimated that they had sixteen hundred dollars' worth of furs and scalps and two hundred dollars in gold, and the white youth was satisfied to return to his mother with his share of six hundred dollars, which was as much as he would have earned in a year at his old position in the city. Neither did he attempt to conceal from Wabi his desire to see Minnetaki; and his Indian friend, thoroughly pleased at Rod's liking for his sister, took much pleasure in frequent good-natured banter on the subject. In fact, Rod possessed a secret hope that he might induce the princess mother to allow her daughter to accompany himself and Wabi to Detroit, where he knew that his own mother would immediately fall in love with the beautiful little maiden from the North. In the third week after the great storm Rod and Mukoki had gone over the mountain trap-line, leaving Wabi in camp. They had decided that the following week would see them headed for Wabinosh House, where they would arrive about the first of February, and Roderick was in high spirits. On this day they had started toward camp early in the afternoon, and soon after they had passed through the swamp Rod expressed his intention of ascending the ridge, hoping to get a shot at game somewhere along the mountain trail home. Mukoki, however, decided not to accompany him, but to take the nearer and easier route. On the top of the mountain Rod paused to take a survey of the country about him. He could see Mukoki, now hardly more than a moving speck on the edge of the plain; northward the same fascinating, never-ending wilderness rolled away under his eyes; eastward, two miles away, he saw a moving object which he knew was a moose or a caribou; and westward-- Instinctively his eyes sought the location of their camp. Instantly the expectant light went out of his face. He gave an involuntary cry of horror, and there followed it a single, unheard shriek for Mukoki. Over the spot where he knew their camp to be now rose a huge volume of smoke. The sky was black with it, and in the terrible moment that followed his piercing cry for Mukoki he fancied that he heard the sound of rifle-shots. "Mukoki! Mukoki!" he shouted. The old Indian was beyond hearing. Quickly it occurred to Rod that early in their trip they had arranged rifle signals for calling help--two quick shots, and then, after a moment's interval, three others in rapid succession. He threw his rifle to his shoulder and fired into the air; once, twice--and then three times as fast as he could press the trigger. As he watched Mukoki he reloaded. He saw the Indian pause, turn about and look back toward the mountain. Again the thrilling signals for help went echoing over the plains. In a few seconds the sounds had reached Mukoki's ears and the old warrior came swinging back at running speed. Rod darted along the ridge to meet him, firing a single shot now and then to let him know where he was, and in fifteen minutes Mukoki came panting up the mountain. "The Woongas!" shouted Rod. "They've attacked the camp! See!" He pointed to the cloud of smoke. "I heard shots--I heard shots--" For an instant the grim pathfinder gazed in the direction of the burning camp, and then without a word he started at terrific speed down the mountain. The half-hour race that followed was one of the most exciting experiences of Rod's life. How he kept up with Mukoki was more than he ever could explain afterward. But from the time they struck the old trail he was close at the Indian's heels. When they reached the hill that sheltered the dip his face was scratched and bleeding from contact with swinging bushes; his heart seemed ready to burst from its tremendous exertion; his breath came in an audible hissing, rattling sound, and he could not speak. But up the hill he plunged behind Mukoki, his rifle cocked and ready. At the top they paused. The camp was a smoldering mass of ruins. Not a sign of life was about it. But-- With a gasping, wordless cry Rod caught Mukoki's arm and pointed to an object lying in the snow a dozen yards from where the cabin had been. The warrior had seen it. He turned one look upon the white youth, and it was a look that Rod had never thought could come into the face of a human being. If that was Wabi down there--if Wabi had been killed--what would Mukoki's vengeance be! His companion was no longer Mukoki--as he had known him; he was the savage. There was no mercy, no human instinct, no suggestion of the human soul in that one terrible look. If it was Wabi-- They plunged down the hill, into the dip, across the lake, and Mukoki was on his knees beside the figure in the snow. He turned it over--and rose without a sound, his battle-glaring eyes peering into the smoking ruins. Rod looked, and shuddered. The figure in the snow was not Wabi. It was a strange, terrible-looking object--a giant Indian, distorted in death--and a half of his head was shot away! When he again looked at Mukoki the old Indian was in the midst of the hot ruins, kicking about with his booted feet and poking with the butt of his rifle. CHAPTER XIV THE RESCUE OF WABIGOON Rod had sunk into the snow close to the dead man. His endurance was gone and he was as weak as a child. He watched every movement Mukoki made; saw every start, every glance, and became almost sick with fear whenever the warrior bent down to examine some object. Was Wabi dead--and burned in those ruins? Foot by foot Mukoki searched. His feet became hot; the smell of burning leather filled his nostrils; glowing coals burned through to his feet. But the old Indian was beyond pain. Only two things filled his soul. One of these was love for Minnetaki; the other was love for Wabigoon. And there was only one other thing that could take the place of these, and that was merciless, undying, savage passion--passion at any wrong or injury that might be done to them. The Woongas had sneaked upon Wabi. He knew that. They had caught him unaware, like cowards; and perhaps he was dead--and in those ruins! He searched until his feet were scorched and burned in a score of places, and then he came out, smoke-blackened, but with some of the terrible look gone out of his face. "He no there!" he said, speaking for the first time. Again he crouched beside the dead man, and grimaced at Rod with a triumphant, gloating chuckle. "Much dead!" he grinned. In a moment the grimace had gone from his face, and while Rod still rested he continued his examination of the camp. Close around it the snow was beaten down with human tracks. Mukoki saw where the outlaws had stolen up behind the cabin from the forest and he saw where they had gone away after the attack. Five had come down from the cedars, only four had gone away! Where was Wabi? If he had been captured, and taken with the Indians, there would have been five trails. Rod understood this as well as Mukoki, and he also understood why his companion went back to make another investigation of the smoldering ruins. This second search, however, convinced the Indian that Wabi's body had not been thrown into the fire. There was only one conclusion to draw. The youth had made a desperate fight, had killed one of the outlaws, and after being wounded in the conflict had been carried off bodily. Wabi and his captors could not be more than two or three miles away. A quick pursuit would probably overtake them within an hour. Mukoki came to Rod's side. "Me follow--kill!" he said. "Me kill so many quick!" He pointed toward the four trails. "You stay--" Rod clambered to his feet. "You mean we'll kill 'em, Muky," he broke in. "I can follow you again. Set the pace!" There came the click of the safety on Mukoki's rifle, and Rod, following suit, cocked his own. "Much quiet," whispered the Indian when they had come to the farther side of the dip. "No noise--come up still--shoot!" The snow-shoe trail of the outlaws turned from the dip into the timbered bottoms to the north, and Mukoki, partly crouched, his rifle always to the front, followed swiftly. They had not progressed a hundred yards into the plain when the old hunter stopped, a puzzled look in his face. He pointed to one of the snow-shoe trails which was much deeper than the others. "Heem carry Wabi," he spoke softly. "But--" His eyes gleamed in sudden excitement. "They go slow! They no hurry! Walk very slow! Take much time!" Rod now observed for the first time that the individual tracks made by the outlaws were much shorter than their own, showing that instead of being in haste they were traveling quite slowly. This was a mystery which was not easy to explain. Did the Woongas not fear pursuit? Was it possible that they believed the hunters would not hasten to give them battle? Or were they relying upon the strength of their numbers, or, perhaps, planning some kind of ambush? Mukoki's advance now became slower and more cautious. His keen eyes took in every tree and clump of bushes ahead. Only when he could see the trail leading straight away for a considerable distance did he hasten the pursuit. Never for an instant did he turn his head to Rod. But suddenly he caught sight of something that brought from him a guttural sound of astonishment. A fifth track had joined the trail! Without questioning Rod knew what it meant. Wabi had been lowered from the back of his captor and was now walking. He was on snow-shoes and his strides were quite even and of equal length with the others. Evidently he was not badly wounded. Half a mile ahead of them was a high hill and between them and this hill was a dense growth of cedar, filled with tangled windfalls. It was an ideal place for an ambush, but the old warrior did not hesitate. The Woongas had followed a moose trail, with which they were apparently well acquainted, and in this traveling was easy. But Rod gave an involuntary shudder as he gazed ahead into the chaotic tangle through which it led. At any moment he expected to hear the sharp crack of a rifle and to see Mukoki tumble forward upon his face. Or there might be a fusillade of shots and he himself might feel the burning sting that comes with rifle death. At the distance from which they would shoot the outlaws could not miss. Did not Mukoki realize this? Maddened by the thought that his beloved Wabi was in the hands of merciless enemies, was the old pathfinder becoming reckless? But when he looked into his companion's face and saw the cool deadly resolution glittering in his eyes, the youth's confidence was restored. For some reason Mukoki knew that there would not be an ambush. Over the moose-run the two traveled more swiftly and soon they came to the foot of the high hill. Up this the Woongas had gone, their trail clearly defined and unswerving in its direction. Mukoki now paused with a warning gesture to Rod, and pointed down at one of the snow-shoe tracks. The snow was still crumbling and falling about the edges of this imprint. "Ver' close!" whispered the Indian. It was not the light of the game hunt in Mukoki's eyes now; there was a trembling, terrible tenseness in his whispered words. He crept up the hill with Rod so near that he could have touched him. At the summit of that hill he dragged himself up like an animal, and then, crouching, ran swiftly to the opposite side, his rifle within six inches of his shoulder. In the plain below them was unfolded to their eyes a scene which, despite his companion's warning, wrung an exclamation of dismay from Roderick's lips. [Illustration: The leader stopped in his snow-shoes] Plainly visible to them in the edge of the plain were the outlaw Woongas and their captive. They were in single file, with Wabi following the leader, and the hunters perceived that their comrade's arms were tied behind him. But it was another sight that caused Rod's dismay. From an opening beside a small lake half a mile beyond the Indians below there rose the smoke of two camp-fires, and Mukoki and he could make out at least a score of figures about these fires. Within rifle-shot of them, almost within shouting distance, there was not only the small war party that had attacked the camp, but a third of the fighting men of the Woonga tribe! Rod understood their terrible predicament. To attack the outlaws in an effort to rescue Wabi meant that an overwhelming force would be upon them within a few minutes; to allow Wabi to remain a captive meant--he shuddered at the thought of what it might mean, for he knew of the merciless vengeance of the Woongas upon the House of Wabinosh. And while he was thinking of these things the faithful old warrior beside him had already formed his plan of attack. He would die with Wabi, gladly--a fighting, terrible slave to devotion to the last; but he would not see Wabi die alone. A whispered word, a last look at his rifle, and Mukoki hurried down into the plains. At the foot of the hill he abandoned the outlaw trail and Rod realized that his plan was to sweep swiftly in a semicircle, surprising the Woongas from the front or side instead of approaching from the rear. Again he was taxed to his utmost to keep pace with the avenging Mukoki. Less than ten minutes later the Indian peered cautiously from behind a clump of hazel, and then looked back at Rod, a smile of satisfaction on his face. "They come," he breathed, just loud enough to hear. "They come!" Rod peered over his shoulder, and his heart smote mightily within him. Unconscious of their peril the Woongas were approaching two hundred yards away. Mukoki gazed into his companion's face and his eyes were almost pleading as he laid a bronzed crinkled hand upon the white boy's arm. "You take front man--ahead of Wabi," he whispered. "I take other t'ree. See that tree--heem birch, with bark off? Shoot heem there. You no tremble? You no miss?" "No," replied Rod. He gripped the red hand in his own. "I'll kill, Mukoki. I'll kill him dead--in one shot!" They could hear the voices of the outlaws now, and soon they saw that Wabi's face was disfigured with blood. Step by step, slowly and carelessly, the Woongas approached. They were fifty yards from the marked birch now--forty--thirty--now only ten. Roderick's rifle was at his shoulder. Already it held a deadly bead on the breast of the leader. Five yards more-- The outlaw passed behind the tree; he came out, and the young hunter pressed the trigger. The leader stopped in his snow-shoes. Even before he had crumpled down into a lifeless heap in the snow a furious volley of shots spat forth from Mukoki's gun, and when Rod swung his own rifle to join again in the fray he found that only one of the four was standing, and he with his hands to his breast as he tottered about to fall. But from some one of those who had fallen there had gone out a wild, terrible cry, and even as Rod and Makoki rushed out to free Wabigoon there came an answering yell from the direction of the Woonga camp. Mukoki's knife was in his hand by the time he reached Wabi, and with one or two slashes he had released his hands. "You hurt--bad?" he asked. "No--no!" replied Wabi. "I knew you'd come, boys--dear old friends!" As he spoke he turned to the fallen leader and Rod saw him take possession of the rifle and revolver which he had lost in their fight with the Woongas weeks before. Mukoki had already spied their precious pack of furs on one of the outlaw's backs, and he flung it over his own. "You saw the camp?" queried Wabi excitedly. "Yes." "They will be upon us in a minute! Which way, Mukoki?" "The chasm!" half shouted Rod. "The chasm! If we can reach the chasm--" "The chasm!" reiterated Wabigoon. Mukoki had fallen behind and motioned for Wabi and Rod to take the lead. Even now he was determined to take the brunt of danger by bringing up the rear. There was no time for argument and Wabigoon set off at a rapid pace. From behind there came the click of shells as the Indian loaded his rifle on the run. While the other two had been busy at the scene of the ambush Rod had replaced his empty shell, and now, as he led, Wabi examined the armament that had been stolen from them by the outlaws. "How many shells have you got, Rod?" he asked over his shoulder. "Forty-nine." "There's only four left in this belt besides five in the gun," called back the Indian youth. "Give me--some." Without halting Rod plucked a dozen cartridges from his belt and passed them on. Now they had reached the hill. At its summit they paused to recover their breath and take a look at the camp. The fires were deserted. A quarter of a mile out on the plain they saw half a dozen of their pursuers speeding toward the hill. The rest were already concealed in the nearer thickets of the bottom. "We must beat them to the chasm!" said the young Indian. As he spoke Wabi turned and led the way again. Rod's heart fell like a lump within him. We must beat them to the chasm! Those words of Wabi's brought him to the terrible realization that his own powers of endurance were rapidly ebbing. His race behind Mukoki to the burning cabin had seemed to rob the life from the muscles of his limbs, and each step now added to his weakness. And the chasm was a mile beyond the dip, and the entrance into that chasm still two miles farther. Three miles! Could he hold out? He heard Mukoki thumping along behind him; ahead of him Wabi was unconsciously widening the distance between them. He made a powerful effort to close the breach, but it was futile. Then from close in his rear there came a warning halloo from the old Indian, and Wabi turned. "He run t'ree mile to burning cabin," said Mukoki. "He no make chasm!" Rod was deathly white and breathing so hard that he could not speak. The quick-witted Wabi at once realized their situation. "There is just one thing for us to do, Muky. We must stop the Woongas at the dip. We'll fire down upon them from the top of the hill beyond the lake. We can drop three or four of them and they won't dare to come straight after us then. They will think we are going to fight them from there and will take time to sneak around us. Meanwhile we'll get a good lead in the direction of the chasm." He led off again, this time a little slower. Three minutes later they entered into the dip, crossed it safely, and were already at the foot of the hill, when from the opposite side of the hollow there came a triumphant blood-curdling yell. "Hurry!" shouted Wabi. "They see us!" Even as he spoke there came the crack of a rifle. Bzzzzzzz-inggggg! For the first time in his life Rod heard that terrible death-song of a bullet close to his head and saw the snow fly up a dozen feet beyond the young Indian. For an interval of twenty seconds there was silence; then there came another shot, and after that three others in quick succession. Wabi stumbled. "Not hit!" he called, scrambling to his feet. "Confound--that rock!" He rose to the hilltop with Rod close behind him, and from the opposite side of the lake there came a fusillade of half a dozen shots. Instinctively Rod dropped upon his face. And in that instant, as he lay in the snow, he heard the sickening thud of a bullet and a sharp sudden cry of pain from Mukoki. But the old warrior came up beside him and they passed into the shelter of the hilltop together. "Is it bad? Is it bad, Mukoki? Is it bad--" Wabi was almost sobbing as he turned and threw an arm around the old Indian. "Are you hit--bad?" Mukoki staggered, but caught himself. "In here," he said, putting a hand to his left shoulder. "She--no--bad." He smiled, courage gleaming with pain in his eyes, and swung off the light pack of furs. "We give 'em--devil--here!" Crouching, they peered over the edge of the hill. Half a dozen Woongas had already left the cedars and were following swiftly across the open. Others broke from the cover, and Wabi saw that a number of them were without snow-shoes. He exultantly drew Mukoki's attention to this fact, but the latter did not lift his eyes. In a few moments he spoke. "Now we give 'em--devil!" Eight pursuers on snow-shoes were in the open of the dip. Six of them had reached the lake. Rod held his fire. He knew that it was now more important for him to recover his wind than to fight, and he drew great drafts of air into his lungs while his two comrades leveled their rifles. He could fire after they were done if it was necessary. There was slow deadly deliberation in the way Mukoki and Wabigoon sighted along their rifle-barrels. Mukoki fired first; one shot, two--with a second's interval between--and an outlaw half-way across the lake pitched forward into the snow. As he fell, Wabi fired once, and there came to their ears shriek after shriek of agony as a second pursuer fell with a shattered leg. At the cries and shots of battle the hot blood rushed through Rod's veins, and with an excited shout of defiance he brought his rifle to his shoulder and in unison the three guns sent fire and death into the dip below. Only three of the eight Woongas remained and they had turned and were running toward the shelter of the cedars. "Hurrah!" shouted Rod. In his excitement he got upon his feet and sent his fifth and last shot after the fleeing outlaws. "Hurrah! Wow! Let's go after 'em!" "Get down!" commanded Wabi. "Load in a hurry!" Clink--clink--clink sounded the new shells as Mukoki and Wabigoon thrust them into their magazines. Five seconds more and they were sending a terrific fusillade of shots into the edge of the cedars--ten in all--and by the time he had reloaded his own gun Rod could see nothing to shoot at. "That will hold them for a while," spoke Wabi. "Most of them came in too big a hurry, and without their snow-shoes, Muky. We'll beat them to the chasm--easy!" He put an arm around the shoulders of the old Indian, who was still lying upon his face in the snow. "Let me see, Muky--let me see--" "Chasm first," replied Mukoki. "She no bad. No hit bone. No bleed--much." From behind Rod could see that Mukoki's coat was showing a growing blotch of red. "Are you sure--you can reach the chasm?" "Yes." In proof of his assertion the wounded Indian rose to his feet and approached the pack of furs. Wabi was ahead of him, and placed it upon his own shoulders. "You and Rod lead the way," he said. "You two know where to find the opening into the chasm. I've never been there." Mukoki started down the hill, and Rod, close behind, could hear him breathing heavily; there was no longer fear for himself in his soul, but for that grim faithful warrior ahead, who would die in his tracks without a murmur and with a smile of triumph and fearlessness on his lips. CHAPTER XV RODERICK HOLDS THE WOONGAS AT BAY They traveled more slowly now and Rod found his strength returning. When they reached the second ridge he took Mukoki by the arm and assisted him up, and the old Indian made no demur. This spoke more strongly of his hurt than words. There was still no sign of their enemies behind. From the top of the second ridge they could look back upon a quarter of a mile of the valley below, and it was here that Rod suggested that he remain on watch for a few minutes while Wabigoon went on with Mukoki. The young hunters could see that the Indian was becoming weaker at every step, and Mukoki could no longer conceal this weakness in spite of the tremendous efforts he made to appear natural. "I believe it is bad," whispered Wabi to Rod, his face strangely white. "I believe it is worse than we think. He is bleeding hard. Your idea is a good one. Watch here, and if the Woongas show up in the valley open fire on them. I'll leave you my gun, too, so they'll think we are going to give them another fight. That will keep them back for a time. I'm going to stop Muky up here a little way and dress his wound. He will bleed to death if I don't." "And then go on," added Rod. "Don't stop if you hear me fire, but hurry on to the chasm. I know the way and will join you. I'm as strong as I ever was now, and can catch up with you easily with Mukoki traveling as slowly as he does." During this brief conversation Mukoki had continued his way along the ridge and Wabi hurried to overtake him. Meanwhile Rod concealed himself behind a rock, from which vantage-point he could see the whole of that part of the valley across which they had come. He looked at his watch and in tense anxiety counted every minute after that. He allowed ten minutes for the dressing of Mukoki's wound. Every second gained from then on would be priceless. For a quarter of an hour he kept his eyes with ceaseless vigilance upon their back trail. Surely the Woongas had secured their snow-shoes by this time! Was it possible that they had given up the pursuit--that their terrible experience in the dip had made them afraid of further battle? Rod answered this question in the negative. He was sure that the Woongas knew that Wabi was the son of the factor of Wabinosh House. Therefore they would make every effort to recapture him, even though they had to follow far and a dozen lives were lost before that feat was accomplished. A movement in the snow across the valley caught Rod's eyes. He straightened himself, and his breath came quickly. Two figures had appeared in the open. Another followed close behind, and after that there came others, until the waiting youth had counted sixteen. They were all on snow-shoes, following swiftly over the trail of the fugitives. The young hunter looked at his watch again. Twenty-five minutes had passed. Mukoki and Wabigoon had secured a good start. If he could only hold the outlaws in the valley for a quarter of an hour more--just fifteen short minutes--they would almost have reached the entrance into the chasm. Alone, with his own life and those of his comrades depending upon him, the boy was cool. There was no tremble in his hands to destroy the accuracy of his rifle-fire, no blurring excitement or fear in his brain to trouble his judgment of distance and range. He made up his mind that he would not fire until they had come within four hundred yards. Between that distance and three hundred he was sure he could drop at least one or two of them. He measured his range by a jackpine stub, and when two of the Woongas had reached and passed that stub he fired. He saw the snow thrown up six feet in front of the leader. He fired again, and again, and one of the shots, a little high, struck the second outlaw. The leader had darted back to the shelter of the stub and Rod sent another bullet whizzing past his ears. His fifth he turned into the main body of the pursuers, and then, catching up Wabi's rifle, he poured a hail of five bullets among them in as many seconds. The effect was instantaneous. The outlaws scattered in retreat and Rod saw that a second figure was lying motionless in the snow. He began to reload his rifles and by the time he had finished the Woongas had separated and were running to the right and the left of him. For the last time he looked at his watch. Wabi and Mukoki had been gone thirty-five minutes. The boy crept back from his rock, straightened himself, and followed in their trail. He mentally calculated that it would be ten minutes before the Woongas, coming up from the sides and rear, would discover his flight, and by that time he would have nearly a mile the start of them. He saw, without stopping, where Wabi had dressed Mukoki's wound. There were spots of blood and a red rag upon the snow. Half a mile farther on the two had paused again, and this time he knew that Mukoki had stopped to rest. From now on they had rested every quarter of a mile or so, and soon Roderick saw them toiling slowly through the snow ahead of him. He ran up, panting, anxious. "How--" he began. Wabi looked at him grimly. "How much farther, Rod?" he asked. "Not more than half a mile." Wabi motioned for him to take Mukoki's other arm. "He has bled a good deal," he said. There was a hardness in his voice that made Rod shudder, and he caught his breath as Wabi shot him a meaning glance behind the old warrior's doubled shoulders. They went faster now, almost carrying their wounded comrade between them. Suddenly, Wabi paused, threw his rifle to his shoulder, and fired. A few yards ahead a huge white rabbit kicked in his death struggles in the snow. "If we do reach the chasm Mukoki must have something to eat," he said. "We'll reach it!" gasped Rod. "We'll reach it! There's the woods. We go down there!" They almost ran, with Mukoki's snow-shod feet dragging between them, and five minutes later they were carrying the half-unconscious Indian down the steep side of the mountain. At its foot Wabi turned, and his eyes flashed with vengeful hatred. "Now, you devils!" he shouted up defiantly. "Now!" Mukoki aroused himself for a few moments and Rod helped him back to the shelter of the chasm wall. He found a nook between great masses of rock, almost clear of snow, and left him there while he hurried back to Wabigoon. "You stand on guard here, Rod," said the latter. "We must cook that rabbit and get some life back into Mukoki. I think he has stopped bleeding, but I am going to look again. The wound isn't fatal, but it has weakened him. If we can get something hot into him I believe he will be able to walk again. Did you have anything left over from your dinner on the trail to-day?" Rod unstrapped the small pack in which the hunters carried their food while on the trail, and which had been upon his shoulders since noon. "There is a double handful of coffee, a cupful of tea, plenty of salt and a little bread," he said. "Good! Few enough supplies for three people in this kind of a wilderness--but they'll save Mukoki!" Wabi went back, while Rod, sheltered behind a rock, watched the narrow incline into the chasm. He almost hoped the Woongas would dare to attempt a descent, for he was sure that he and Wabi would have them at a terrible disadvantage and with their revolvers and three rifles could inflict a decisive blow upon them before they reached the bottom. But he saw no sign of their enemies. He heard no sound from above, yet he knew that the outlaws were very near--only waiting for the protecting darkness of night. He heard the crackling of Wabi's fire and the odor of coffee came to him; and Wabi, assured that their presence was known to the Woongas, began whistling cheerily. In a few minutes he rejoined Rod behind the rock. "They will attack us as soon as it gets good and dark," he said coolly. "That is, if they can find us. As soon as they are no longer able to see down into the chasm we will find some kind of a hiding-place. Mukoki will be able to travel then." A memory of the cleft in the chasm wall came to Rod and he quickly described it to his companion. It was an ideal hiding-place at night, and if Mukoki was strong enough they could steal up out of the chasm and secure a long start into the south before the Woongas discovered their flight in the morning. There was just one chance of failure. If the spy whose trail had revealed the break in the mountain to Rod was not among the outlaws' wounded or dead the cleft might be guarded, or the Woongas themselves might employ it in making a descent upon them. "It's worth the risk anyway," said Wabi. "The chances are even that your outlaw ran across the fissure by accident and that his companions are not aware of its existence. And they'll not follow our trail down the chasm to-night, I'll wager. In the cover of darkness they will steal down among the rocks and then wait for daylight. Meanwhile we can be traveling southward and when they catch up with us we will give them another fight if they want it." "We can start pretty soon?" "Within an hour." For some time the two stood in silent watchfulness. Suddenly Rod asked: "Where is Wolf?" Wabi laughed, softly, exultantly. "Gone back to his people, Rod. He will be crying in the wild hunt-pack to-night. Good old Wolf!" The laugh left his lips and there was a tremble of regret in his voice. "The Woongas came from the back of the cabin--took me by surprise--and we had it hot and heavy for a few minutes. We fell back where Wolf was tied and just as I knew they'd got me sure I cut his babeesh with the knife I had in my hand." "Didn't he show fight?" "For a minute. Then one of the Indians shot, at him and he hiked off into the woods." "Queer they didn't wait for Mukoki and me," mused Rod. "Why didn't they ambush us?" "Because they didn't want you, and they were sure they'd reach their camp before you took up the trail. I was their prize. With me in their power they figured on communicating with you and Mukoki and sending you back to the Post with their terms. They would have bled father to his last cent--and then killed me. Oh, they talked pretty plainly to me when they thought they had me!" There came a noise from above them and the young hunters held their rifles in readiness. Nearer and nearer came the crashing sound, until a small boulder shot past them into the chasm. "They're up there," grinned Wabi, lowering his gun. "That was an accident, but you'd better keep your eyes open. I'll bet the whole tribe feel like murdering the fellow who rolled over that stone!" He crept cautiously back to Mukoki, and Rod crouched with his face to the narrow trail leading down from the top of the mountain. Deep shadows were beginning to lurk among the trees and he was determined that any movement there would draw his fire. Fifteen minutes later Wabi returned, eating ravenously at a big hind quarter of broiled rabbit. "I've had my coffee," he greeted. "Go back and eat and drink, and build the fire up high. Don't mind me when I shoot. I am going to fire just to let the Woongas know we are on guard, and after that we'll hustle for that break in the mountain." Rod found Mukoki with a chunk of rabbit in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other. The wounded Indian smiled with something like the old light in his eyes and a mighty load was lifted from Rod's heart. "You're better?" he asked. "Fine!" replied Mukoki. "No much hurt. Good fight some more. Wabi say, 'No, you stay.'" His face became a map of grimaces to show his disapproval of Wabi's command. Rod helped himself to the meat and coffee. He was hungry, but after he was done there remained some of the rabbit and a biscuit and these he placed in his pack for further use. Soon after this there came two shots from the rock and before the echoes had died away down the chasm Wabi approached through the gathering gloom. It was easy for the hunters to steal along the concealment of the mountain wall, and even if there had been prying eyes on the opposite ridge they could not have penetrated the thickening darkness in the bottom of the gulch. For some time the flight was continued with extreme caution, no sound being made to arouse the suspicion of any outlaw who might be patrolling the edge of the precipice. At the end of half an hour Mukoki, who was in the lead that he might set a pace according to his strength, quickened his steps. Rod was close beside him now, his eyes ceaselessly searching the chasm wall for signs that would tell him when they were nearing the rift. Suddenly Wabi halted in his tracks and gave a low hiss that stopped them. "It's snowing!" he whispered. Mukoki lifted his face. Great solitary flakes of snow fell upon it. "She snow hard--soon. Mebby cover snow-shoe trails!" "And if it does--we're safe!" There was a vibrant joy in Wabi's voice. For a full minute Mukoki held his face to the sky. "Hear small wind over chasm," he said. "She come from south. She snow hard--now--up there!" They went on, stirred by new hope. Rod could feel that the flakes were coming thicker. The three now kept close to the chasm wall in their search for the rift. How changed all things were at night! Rod's heart throbbed now with hope, now with doubt, now with actual fear. Was it possible that he could not find it? Had they passed it among some of the black shadows behind? He saw no rock that he recognized, no overhanging crag, no sign to guide him. He stopped, and his voice betrayed his uneasiness as he asked: "How far do you think we have come?" Mukoki had gone a few steps ahead, and before Wabi answered he called softly to them from close up against the chasm wall. They hurried to him and found him standing beside the rift. "Here!" Wabi handed his rifle to Rod. "I'm going up first," he announced. "If the coast is clear I'll whistle down." For a few moments Mukoki and Rod could hear him as he crawled up the fissure. Then all was silent. A quarter of an hour passed, and a low whistle came to their ears. Another ten minutes and the three stood together at the top of the mountain, Rod and the wounded Mukoki breathing hard from their exertions. For a time the three sat down in the snow and waited, watched, listened; and from Rod's heart there went up something that was almost a prayer, for it was snowing--snowing hard, and it seemed to him that the storm was something which God had specially directed should fall in their path that it might shield them and bring them safely home. And when he rose to his feet Wabi was still silent, and the three gripped hands in mute thankfulness at their deliverance. Still speechless, they turned instinctively for a moment back to the dark desolation beyond the chasm--the great, white wilderness in which they had passed so many adventurous yet happy weeks; and as they gazed into the chaos beyond the second mountain there came to them the lonely, wailing howl of a wolf. "I wonder," said Wabi softly. "I wonder--if that--is Wolf?" And then, Indian file, they trailed into the south. CHAPTER XVI THE SURPRISE AT THE POST From the moment that the adventurers turned their backs upon the Woonga country Mukoki was in command. With the storm in their favor everything else now depended upon the craft of the old pathfinder. There was neither moon nor wind to guide them, and even Wabi felt that he was not competent to strike a straight trail in a strange country and a night storm. But Mukoki, still a savage in the ways of the wilderness, seemed possessed of that mysterious sixth sense which is known as the sense of orientation--that almost supernatural instinct which guides the carrier pigeon as straight as a die to its home-cote hundreds of miles away. Again and again during that thrilling night's flight Wabi or Rod would ask the Indian where Wabinosh House lay, and he would point out its direction to them without hesitation. And each time it seemed to the city youth that he pointed a different way, and it proved to him how easy it was to become hopelessly lost in the wilderness. Not until midnight did they pause to rest. They had traveled slowly but steadily and Wabi figured that they had covered fifteen miles. Five miles behind them their trail was completely obliterated by the falling snow. Morning would betray to the Woongas no sign of the direction taken by the fugitives. "They will believe that we have struck directly westward for the Post," said Wabi. "To-morrow night we'll be fifty miles apart." During this stop a small fire was built behind a fallen log and the hunters refreshed themselves with a pot of strong coffee and what little remained of the rabbit and biscuits. The march was then resumed. It seemed to Rod that they had climbed an interminable number of ridges and had picked their way through an interminable number of swampy bottoms between them, and he, even more than Mukoki, was relieved when they struck the easier traveling of open plains. In fact, Mukoki seemed scarcely to give a thought to his wound and Roderick was almost ready to drop in his tracks by the time a halt was called an hour before dawn. The old warrior was confident that they were now well out of danger and a rousing camp-fire was built in the shelter of a thick growth of spruce. "Spruce partridge in mornin'," affirmed Mukoki. "Plenty here for breakfast." "How do you know?" asked Rod, whose hunger was ravenous. "Fine thick spruce, all in shelter of dip," explained the Indian. "Birds winter here." Wabi had unpacked the furs, and the larger of these, including six lynx and three especially fine wolf skins, he divided into three piles. "They'll make mighty comfortable beds if you keep close enough to the fire," he explained. "Get a few spruce boughs, Rod, and cover them over with one of the wolf skins. The two lynx pelts will make the warmest blankets you ever had." Rod quickly availed himself of this idea, and within half an hour he was sleeping soundly. Mukoki and Wabigoon, more inured to the hardships of the wilderness, took only brief snatches of slumber, one or both awakening now and then to replenish the fire. As soon as it was light enough the two Indians went quietly out into the spruce with their guns, and their shots a little later awakened Rod. When they returned they brought three partridges with them. "There are dozens of them among the spruce," said Wabi, "but just now we do not want to shoot any oftener than is absolutely necessary. Have you noticed our last night's trail?" Rod rubbed his eyes, thus confessing that as yet he had not been out from between his furs. "Well, if you go out there in the open for a hundred yards you won't find it," finished his comrade. "The snow has covered it completely." Although they lacked everything but meat, this breakfast in the spruce thicket was one of the happiest of the entire trip, and when the three hunters were done each had eaten of his partridge until only the bones were left. There was now little cause for fear, for it was still snowing and their enemies were twenty-five miles to the north of them. This fact did not deter the adventurers from securing an early start, however, and they traveled southward through the storm until noon, when they built a camp of spruce and made preparations to rest until the following day. "We must be somewhere near the Kenogami trail," Wabi remarked to Mukoki. "We may have passed it." "No pass it," replied Mukoki. "She off there." He pointed to the south. "You see the Kenogami trail is a sled trail leading from the little town of Nipigon, on the railroad, to Kenogami House, which is a Hudson Bay Post at the upper end of Long Lake," explained Wabi to his white companion. "The factor of Kenogami is a great friend of ours and we have visited back and forth often, but I've been over the Kenogami trail only once. Mukoki has traveled it many times." Several rabbits were killed before dinner. No other hunting was done during the afternoon, most of which was passed in sleep by the exhausted adventurers. When Rod awoke he found that it had stopped snowing and was nearly dark. Mukoki's wound was beginning to trouble him again, and it was decided that at least a part of the next day should be passed in camp, and that both Rod and Wabigoon should make an effort to kill some animal that would furnish them with the proper kind of oil to dress it with, the fat of almost any species of animal except mink or rabbit being valuable for this purpose. With dawn the two started out, while Mukoki, much against his will, was induced to remain in camp. A short distance away the hunters separated, Rod striking to the eastward and Wabi into the south. For an hour Roderick continued without seeing game, though there were plenty of signs of deer and caribou about him. At last he determined to strike for a ridge a mile to the south, from the top of which he was more likely to get a shot than in the thick growth of the plains. He had not traversed more than a half of the distance when much to his surprise he came upon a well-beaten trail running slightly diagonally with his own, almost due north. Two dog-teams had passed since yesterday's storm, and on either side of the sleds were the snow-shoe trails of men. Rod saw that there were three of these, and at least a dozen dogs in the two teams. It at once occurred to him that this was the Kenogami trail, and impelled by nothing more than curiosity he began to follow it. Half a mile farther on he found where the party had stopped to cook a meal. The remains of their camp-fire lay beside a huge log, which was partly burned away, and about it were scattered bones and bits of bread. But what most attracted Rod's attention were other tracks which joined those of the three people on snow-shoes. He was sure that these tracks had been made by women, for the footprints made by one of them were unusually small. Close to the log he found a single impression in the snow that caused his heart to give a sudden unexpected thump within him. In this spot the snow had been packed by one of the snow-shoes, and in this comparatively hard surface the footprint was clearly defined. It had been made by a moccasin. Rod knew that. And the moccasin wore a slight heel! He remembered, now, that thrilling day in the forest near Wabinosh House when he had stopped to look at Minnetaki's footprints in the soft earth through which she had been driven by her Woonga abductors, and he remembered, too, that she was the only person at the Post who wore heels on her moccasins. It was a queer coincidence! Could Minnetaki have been here? Had she made that footprint in the snow? Impossible, declared the young hunter's better sense. And yet his blood ran a little faster as he touched the delicate impression with his bare fingers. It reminded him of Minnetaki, anyway; her foot would have made just such a trail, and he wondered if the girl who had stepped there was as pretty as she. He followed now a little faster than before, and ten minutes later he came to where a dozen snow-shoe trails had come in from the north and had joined the three. After meeting, the two parties had evidently joined forces and had departed over the trail made by those who had appeared from the direction of the Post. "Friends from Kenogami House came down to meet them," mused Rod, and as he turned back in the direction of the camp he formed a picture of that meeting in the heart of the wilderness, of the glad embraces of husband and wife, and the joy of the pretty girl with the tiny feet as she kissed her father, and perhaps her big brother; for no girl could possess feet just like Minnetaki's and not be pretty! He found that Wabi had preceded him when he returned. The young Indian had shot a small doe, and that noon witnessed a feast in camp. For his lack of luck Rod had his story to tell of the people on the trail. The passing of this party formed the chief topic of conversation during the rest of the day, for after weeks of isolation in the wilderness even this momentary nearness of living civilized men and women was a great event to them. But there was one fact which Rod dwelt but slightly upon. He did not emphasize the similarity of the pretty footprint and that made by Minnetaki's moccasin, for he knew that a betrayal of his knowledge and admiration of the Indian maiden's feet would furnish Wabi with fun-making ammunition for a week. He did say, however, that the footprint in the snow struck him as being just about the size that Minnetaki would make. All that day and night the hunters remained in camp, sleeping, eating and taking care of Mukoki's wound, but the next morning saw them ready for their homeward journey with the coming of dawn. They struck due westward now, satisfied that they were well beyond the range of the outlaw Woongas. As the boys talked over their adventure on the long journey back toward the Post, Wabi thought with regret of the moose head which he had left buried in the "Indian ice-box," and even wished, for a moment, to go home by the northern trail, despite the danger from the hostile Woongas, in order to recover the valuable antlers. But Mukoki shook his head. "Woonga make good fight. What for go again into wolf trap?" And so they reluctantly gave up the notion of carrying the big head of the bull moose back to the Post. A little before noon of the second day they saw Lake Nipigon from the top of a hill. Columbus when he first stepped upon the shore of his newly discovered land was not a whit happier than Roderick Drew when that joyous youth, running out upon the snow-covered ice, attempted to turn a somersault with his snow-shoes on! Just over there, thought Rod--just over there--a hundred miles or so, is Minnetaki and the Post! Happy visions filled his mind all that afternoon as they traveled across the foot of the lake. Three weeks more and he would see his mother--and home. And Wabi was going with him! He seemed tireless; his spirits were never exhausted; he laughed, whistled, even attempted to sing. He wondered if Minnetaki would be very glad to see him. He knew that she would be glad--but how glad? Two days more were spent in circling the lower end of the lake. Then their trail turned northward, and on the second evening after this, as the cold red sun was sinking in all that heatless glory of the great North's day-end, they came out upon a forest-clad ridge and looked down upon the House of Wabinosh. And as they looked--and as the burning disk of the sun, falling down and down behind forest, mountain and plain, bade its last adieu to the land of the wild, there came to them, strangely clear and beautiful, the notes of a bugle. And Wabi, listening, grew rigid with wonder. As the last notes died away the cheers that had been close to his lips gave way to the question, "What does that mean?" "A bugle!" said Rod. As he spoke there came to their ears the heavy, reverberating boom of a big gun. "If I'm not mistaken," he added, "that is a sunset salute. I didn't know you had--soldiers--at the Post!" "We haven't," replied the Indian youth. "By George, what do you suppose it means?" He hurried down the ridge, the others close behind him. Fifteen minutes later they trailed out into the open near the Post. A strange change had occurred since Rod and his companions had last seen Wabinosh House. In the open half a dozen rude log shelters had been erected, and about these were scores of soldiers in the uniform of his Majesty, the King of England. Shouts of greeting died on the hunters' lips. They hastened to the dwelling of the factor, and while Wabi rushed in to meet his mother and father Rod cut across to the Company's store. He had often found Minnetaki there. But his present hope was shattered, and after looking in he turned back to the house. By the time he had reached the steps a second time the princess mother, with Wabi close behind her, came out to welcome him. Wabi's face was flushed with excitement. His eyes sparkled. "Rod, what do you think!" he exclaimed, after his mother had gone back to see to the preparation of their supper. "The government has declared war on the Woongas and has sent up a company of regulars to wipe 'em out! They have been murdering and robbing as never before during the last two months. The regulars start after them to-morrow!" He was breathing hard and excitedly. "Can't you stay--and join in the campaign?" he pleaded. "I can't," replied Rod. "I can't, Wabi; I've got to go home. You know that. And you're going with me. The regulars can get along without you. Go back to Detroit with me--and get your mother to let Minnetaki go with us." "Not now, Rod," said the Indian youth, taking his friend's hand. "I won't be able to go--now. Nor Minnetaki either. They have been having such desperate times here that father has sent her away. He wanted mother to go, but she wouldn't." "Sent Minnetaki away?" gasped Rod. "Yes. She started for Kenogami House four days ago in company with an Indian woman and three guides. That was undoubtedly their trail you found." "And the footprint--" "Was hers," laughed Wabi, putting an arm affectionately around his chum's shoulders. "Won't you stay, Rod?" "It is impossible." He went to his old room, and until suppertime sat alone in silent dejection. Two great disappointments had fallen upon him. Wabi could not go home with him--and he had missed Minnetaki. The young girl had left a note in her mother's care for him, and he read it again and again. She had written it believing that she would return to Wabinosh House before the hunters, but at the end she had added a paragraph in which she said that if she did not do this Rod must make the Post a second visit very soon, and bring his mother with him. At supper the princess mother several times pressed Minnetaki's invitation upon the young hunter. She read to him parts of certain letters which she had received from Mrs. Drew during the winter, and Rod was overjoyed to find that his mother was not only in good health, but that she had given her promise to visit Wabinosh House the following summer. Wabi broke all table etiquette by giving vent to a warlike whoop of joy at this announcement, and once more Rod's spirits rose high above his temporary disappointments. That night the furs were appraised and purchased by the factor for his Company, and Rod's share, including his third of the gold, was nearly seven hundred dollars. The next morning the bi-monthly sled party, was leaving for civilization, and he prepared to go with it, after writing a long letter to Minnetaki, which was to be carried to her by the faithful Mukoki. Most of that night Wabi and his friend sat up and talked, and made plans. It was believed that the campaign against the Woongas would be a short and decisive one. By spring all trouble would be over. "And you'll come back as soon as you can?" pleaded Wabi for the hundredth time. "You'll come back by the time the ice breaks up?" "If I am alive!" pledged the city youth. "And you'll bring your mother?" "She has promised." "And then--for the gold!" "For the gold!" Wabi held out his hand and the two gripped heartily. "And Minnetaki will be here then--I swear it!" said the Indian youth, laughing. Rod blushed. And that night alone he slipped quietly out into the still, white night; and he looked, longingly, far into the southeast where he had found the footprint in the snow; and he turned to the north, and the east, and the west, and lastly to the south, and his eyes seemed to travel through the distance of a thousand miles to where a home and a mother lay sleeping in a great city. And as he turned back to the House of Wabinosh, where all the lights were out, he spoke softly to himself: "It's home--to-morrow!" And then he added: "But you bet I'll be back by the time the ice breaks up!" THE END 
12405	----	Proofreaders FRANK AND ARCHIE SERIES * * * * * FRANK THE YOUNG NATURALIST BY HARRY CASTLEMON, AUTHOR OF "THE ROCKY MOUNTAIN SERIES," "THE GO-AHEAD SERIES," ETC. 1892 [Illustration] THE GUN-BOAT SERIES. FRANK, THE YOUNG NATURALIST, FRANK ON A GUN-BOAT, FRANK IN THE WOODS, FRANK ON THE PRAIRIE, FRANK BEFORE VICKSBURG, FRANK ON THE LOWER MISSISSIPPI. CONTENTS. CHAPTER I. THE HOME OF THE YOUNG NATURALIST CHAPTER II. AN UGLY CUSTOMER CHAPTER III. THE MUSEUM CHAPTER IV. A RACE ON THE WATER CHAPTER V. A FISHING EXCURSION CHAPTER VI. THE REGULATORS CHAPTER VII. THE REVENGE CHAPTER VIII. HOW TO SPEND THE "FOURTH" CHAPTER IX. THE COAST-GUARDS OUTWITTED CHAPTER X. A QUEER COURSE CHAPTER XI. TROUT-FISHING CHAPTER XII. A DUCK-HUNT ON THE WATER CHAPTER XIII. A 'COON-HUNT CHAPTER XIV. BILL LAWSON'S REVENGE CHAPTER XV. WILD GEESE CHAPTER XVI. A CHAPTER OF INCIDENTS CHAPTER XVII. THE GRAYHOUND OUTGENERALED FRANK, THE YOUNG NATURALIST. * * * * * CHAPTER I. THE HOME OF THE YOUNG NATURALIST. About one hundred miles north of Augusta, the Capital of Maine, the little village of Lawrence is situated. A range of high hills skirts its western side, and stretches away to the north as far as the eye can reach; while before the village, toward the east, flows the Kennebec River. Near the base of the hills a beautiful stream, known as Glen's Creek, has its source; and, after winding through the adjacent meadows, and reaching almost around the village, finally empties into the Kennebec. Its waters are deep and clear, and flow over a rough, gravelly bed, and under high banks, and through many a little nook where the perch and sunfish love to hide. This creek, about half a mile from its mouth, branches off, forming two streams, the smaller of which flows south, parallel with the river for a short distance, and finally empties into it. This stream is known as Ducks' Creek, and it is very appropriately named; for, although it is but a short distance from the village, every autumn, and until late in the spring, its waters are fairly alive with wild ducks, which find secure retreats among the high bushes and reeds which line its banks. The island formed by these two creeks is called Reynard's Island, from the fact that for several years a sly old fox had held possession of it in spite of the efforts of the village boys to capture him. The island contains, perhaps, twenty-five acres, and is thickly covered with hickory-trees; and there is an annual strife between the village boys and the squirrels, to see which can gather the greater quantity of nuts. Directly opposite the village, near the middle of the river, is another island, called Strawberry Island, from the great quantity of that fruit which it produces. The fishing-grounds about the village are excellent. The river affords great numbers of perch, black bass, pike, and muscalonge; and the numberless little streams that intersect the country fairly swarm with trout, and the woods abound in game. This attracts sportsmen from other places; and the _Julia Burton_, the little steamer that plies up and down the river, frequently brings large parties of amateur hunters and fishermen, who sometimes spend months enjoying the rare sport. It was on the banks of Glen's Creek, about half a mile from the village, in a neat little cottage that stood back from the road, and which was almost concealed by the thick shrubbery and trees that surrounded it, that FRANK NELSON, the young naturalist, lived. His father had been a wealthy merchant in the city of Boston; and, after his death, Mrs. Nelson had removed into the country with her children, and bought the place of which we are speaking. Frank was a handsome, high-spirited boy, about sixteen years of age. He was kind, open-hearted, and generous; and no one in the village had more friends than he. But his most prominent characteristic was perseverance. He was a slow thinker, and some, perhaps, at first sight, would have pronounced him "dull;" but the unyielding application with which he devoted himself to his studies, or to any thing else he undertook, overcame all obstacles; and he was further advanced, and his knowledge was more thorough than that of any other boy of the same age in the village. He never gave up any thing he undertook because he found it more difficult than he had expected, or hurried over it in a "slipshod" manner, for his motto was, "Whatever is worth doing at all, is worth doing well." At the time of which we write Frank was just entering upon what he called a "long vacation." He had attended the high-school of which the village boasted for nearly eight years, with no intermission but the vacations, and during this time he had devoted himself with untiring energy to his studies. He loved his books, and they were his constant companions. By intense application he succeeded in working his way into the highest class in school, which was composed of young men much older than himself, and who looked upon him, not as a fellow-student, but as a rival, and used every exertion to prevent him from keeping pace with them. But Frank held his own in spite of their efforts, and not unfrequently paid them back in their own coin by committing his lessons more thoroughly than they. Things went on so for a considerable time. Frank, whose highest ambition was to be called the best scholar in his class, kept steadily gaining ground, and one by one the rival students were overtaken and distanced. But Frank had some smart scholars matched against him, and he knew that the desired reputation was not to be obtained without a fierce struggle; and every moment, both in and out of school, was devoted to study. He had formerly been passionately fond of rural sports, hunting and fishing, but now his fine double-barrel gun, which he had always taken especial care to keep in the best possible "shooting order," hung in its accustomed place, all covered with dust. His fishing-rod and basket were in the same condition; and Bravo, his fine hunting-dog, which was very much averse to a life of inactivity, made use of his most eloquent whines in vain. At last Frank's health began to fail rapidly. His mother was the first to notice it, and at the suggestion of her brother, who lived in Portland, she decided to take Frank out of school for at least one year, and allow him but two hours each day for study. Perhaps some of our young readers would have been very much pleased at the thought of so long a respite from the tiresome duties of school; but it was a severe blow to Frank. A few more months, he was confident, would have carried him ahead of all competitors. But he always submitted to his mother's requirements, no matter how much at variance with his own wishes, without murmuring; and when the spring term was ended he took his books under his arm, and bade a sorrowful farewell to his much-loved school-room. It is June, and as Frank has been out of school almost two months, things begin to wear their old, accustomed look again. The young naturalist's home, as his schoolmates were accustomed to say, is a "regular curiosity shop." Perhaps, reader, if we take a stroll about the premises, we can find something to interest us. Frank's room, which he called his "study," is in the south wing of the cottage. It has two windows, one looking out toward the road, and the other covered with a thick blind of climbing roses, which almost shut out the light. A bookcase stands beside one of the windows, and if you were to judge from the books it contained, you would pronounce Frank quite a literary character. The two upper shelves are occupied by miscellaneous books, such as Cooper's novels, Shakspeare's works, and the like. On the next two shelves stand Frank's choicest books--natural histories; there are sixteen large volumes, and he knows them almost by heart. The drawers in the lower part of the case are filled on one side with writing materials, and on the other with old compositions, essays, and orations, some of which exhibit a power of imagination and a knowledge of language hardly to be expected in a boy of Frank's age. On the top of the case, at either end, stand the busts of Clay and Webster, and between them are two relics of Revolutionary times, a sword and musket crossed, with the words "Bunker Hill" printed on a slip of paper fastened to them. On the opposite side of the room stands a bureau, the drawers of which are filled with clothing, and on the top are placed two beautiful specimens of Frank's handiwork. One is a model of a "fore-and-aft" schooner, with whose rigging or hull the most particular tar could not find fault. The other represents a "scene at sea." It is inclosed in a box about two feet long and a foot and a half in hight. One side of the box is glass, and through it can be seen two miniature vessels. The craft in the foreground would be known among sailors as a "Jack." She is neither a brig nor a bark, but rather a combination of both. She is armed, and the cannon can be seen protruding from her port-holes. Every sail is set, and she seems to be making great exertion to escape from the other vessel, which is following close in her wake. The flag which floats at her peak, bearing the sign of the "skull and cross-bones," explains it all: the "Jack" is a pirate; and you could easily tell by the long, low, black hull, and tall, raking masts that her pursuer is a revenue cutter. The bottom of the box, to which the little vessels are fastened in such a manner that they appear to "heel" under the pressure of their canvas, is cut out in little hollows, and painted blue, with white caps, to resemble the waves of the ocean; while a thick, black thunder-cloud, which is painted on the sides of the box, and appears to be rising rapidly, with the lightning playing around its ragged edges, adds greatly to the effect of the scene. At the north end of the room stands a case similar to the one in which Frank keeps his books, only it is nearly twice as large. It is filled with stuffed "specimens"--birds, nearly two hundred in number. There are bald eagles, owls, sparrows, hawks, cranes, crows, a number of different species of ducks, and other water-fowl; in short, almost every variety of the feathered creation that inhabited the woods around Lawrence is here represented. At the other end of the room stands a bed concealed by curtains. Before it is a finely carved wash-stand, on which are a pitcher and bowl, and a towel nicely folded lies beside them. In the corner, at the foot of the bed, is what Frank called his "sporting cabinet." A frame has been erected by placing two posts against the wall, about four feet apart; and three braces, pieces of board about six inches wide, and long enough to reach from one post to the other, are fastened securely to them. On the upper brace a fine jointed fish-pole, such as is used in "heavy" fishing, protected by a neat, strong bag of drilling, rests on hooks which have been driven securely into the frame; and from another hook close by hangs a large fish-basket which Frank, who is a capital fisherman, has often brought in filled with the captured denizens of the river or some favorite trout-stream. On the next lower brace hang a powder-flask and shot-pouch and a double-barrel shot-gun, the latter protected from the damp and dust by a thick, strong covering. On the lower brace hang the clothes the young naturalist always wears when he goes hunting or fishing--a pair of sheep's-gray pantaloons, which will resist water and dirt to the last extremity, a pair of long boots, a blue flannel-shirt, such as is generally worn by the sailors, and an India-rubber coat and cap for rainy weather. A shelf has been fastened over the frame, and on this stands a tin box, which Frank calls his "fishing-box." It is divided into apartments, which are filled with fish-hooks, sinkers, bobbers, artificial flies, spoon-hooks, reels, and other tackle, all kept in the nicest order. Frank had one sister, but no brothers. Her name was Julia. She was ten years of age; and no boy ever had a lovelier sister. Like her brother, she was unyielding in perseverance, but kind and trusting in disposition, willing to be told her faults that she might correct them. Mrs. Nelson was a woman of good, sound sense; always required implicit obedience of her children; never flattered them, nor allowed others to do so if she could prevent it. The only other inmate of the house was Aunt Hannah, as the children called her. She had formerly been a slave in Virginia, and, after years of toil, had succeeded in laying by sufficient money to purchase her freedom. We have already spoken of Frank's dog; but were we to allow the matter to drop here it would be a mortal offense in the eyes of the young naturalist, for Bravo held a very prominent position in his affections. He was a pure-blooded Newfoundland, black as jet, very active and courageous, and there was nothing in the hunting line that he did not understand; and it was a well-established saying among the young Nimrods of the village, that Frank, with Bravo's assistance, could kill more squirrels in any given time than any three boys in Lawrence. CHAPTER II. An Ugly Customer. Directly behind the cottage stands a long, low, neatly constructed building, which is divided by partitions into three rooms, of which one is used as a wood-shed, another for a carpenter's shop, and the third is what Frank calls his "museum." It contains stuffed birds and animals, souvenirs of many a well-contested fight. Let us go and examine them. About the middle of the building is the door which leads into the museum, and, as you enter, the first object that catches your eye is a large wild-cat, crouched on a stand which is elevated about four feet above the floor, his back arched, every hair in his body sticking toward his head, his mouth open, displaying a frightful array of teeth, his ears laid back close to his head, and his sharp claws spread out, presenting altogether a savage appearance; and you are glad that you see him dead and stuffed, and not alive and running at liberty in the forest in the full possession of strength. But the young naturalist once stood face to face with this ugly customer under very different circumstances. About forty miles north of Lawrence lives an old man named Joseph Lewis. He owns about five hundred acres of land, and in summer he "farms it" very industriously; but as soon as the trapping season approaches he leaves his property to the care of his hired men, and spends most of the time in the woods. About two-thirds of his farm is still in its primeval state, and bears, wild-cats, and panthers abound in great numbers. The village boys are never more delighted than when the winter vacation comes, and they can gain the permission of their parents to spend a fortnight with "Uncle Joe," as they call him. The old man is always glad to see them, and enlivens the long winter evenings with many a thrilling story of his early life. During the winter that had just passed, Frank, in company with his cousin Archie Winters, of whom more hereafter, paid a visit to Uncle Joe. One cold, stormy morning, as they sat before a blazing fire, cracking hickory-nuts, the farmer burst suddenly into the house, which was built of logs, and contained but one room, and commenced taking down his rifle. "What's the matter, Uncle Joe?" inquired Archie. "Matter!" repeated the farmer; "why, some carnal varmint got into my sheep-pen last night, and walked off with some of my mutton. Come," he continued, as he slung on his bullet-pouch, "let's go and shoot him." Frank and Archie were ready in a few minutes; and, after dropping a couple of buck-shot into each barrel of their guns, followed the farmer out to the sheep-pen. It was storming violently, and it was with great difficulty that they could find the "varmint's" track. After half an hour's search, however, with the assistance of the farmer's dogs, they discovered it, and began to follow it up, the dogs leading the way. But the snow had fallen so deep that it almost covered the scent, and they frequently found themselves at fault. After following the track for two hours, the dogs suddenly stopped at a pile of hemlock-boughs, and began to whine and scratch as if they had discovered something. "Wal," said Uncle Joe, dropping his rifle into the hollow of his arm, "the hounds have found some of the mutton, but the varmint has took himself safe off." The boys quickly threw aside the boughs, and in a few moments the mangled remains of one of the sheep were brought to light. The thief had probably had more than enough for one meal, and had hidden the surplus carefully away, intending, no doubt, to return and make a meal of it when food was not quite so plenty. "Wal, boys," said the farmer, "no use to try to foller the varmint any further. Put the sheep back where you found it, and this afternoon you can take one of your traps and set it so that you can ketch him when he comes back for what he has left." So saying, he shouldered his rifle and walked off, followed by his hounds. In a few moments the boys had placed every thing as they had found it as nearly as possible, and hurried on after the farmer. That afternoon, after disposing of an excellent dinner, Frank and Archie started into the woods to set a trap for the thief. They took with them a large wolf-trap, weighing about thirty pounds. It was a "savage thing," as Uncle Joe said, with a powerful spring on each side, which severely taxed their united strength in setting it; and its thick, stout jaws, which came together with a noise like the report of a gun, were armed with long, sharp teeth; and if a wolf or panther once got his foot between them, he might as well give up without a struggle. Instead of their guns, each shouldered an ax. Frank took possession of the trap, and Archie carried a piece of heavy chain with which to fasten the "clog" to the trap. Half an hour's walk brought them to the place where the wild-cat had buried his plunder. After considerable exertion they succeeded in setting the trap, and placed it in such a manner that it would be impossible for any animal to get at the sheep without being caught. The chain was them fastened to the trap, and to this was attached the clog, which was a long, heavy limb. Trappers, when they wish to take such powerful animals as the bear or panther, always make use of the clog. They never fasten the trap to a stationary object. When the animal finds that he is caught, his first impulse is to run. The clog is not heavy enough to hold him still, but as he drags it through the woods, it is continually catching on bushes and frees, and retarding his progress. But if the animal should find himself unable to move at all, his long, sharp teeth would be put to immediate use, and he would hobble off on three feet, leaving the other in the trap. After adjusting the clog to their satisfaction, they threw a few handfuls of snow over the trap and chain, and, after bestowing a few finishing touches, they shouldered their axes and started toward the house. The next morning, at the first peep of day, Frank and Archie started for the woods, with their dogs close at their heels. As they approached the spot where the trap had been placed they held their guns in readiness, expecting to find the wild-cat secure. But they were disappointed; every thing was just as they had left it, and there were no signs of the wild-cat having been about during the night. Every night and morning for a week they were regular in their visits to the trap, but not even a twig had been moved. Two weeks more passed, and during this time they visited the trap but once. At length the time allotted for their stay at Uncle Joe's expired. On the evening previous to the day set for their departure, as they sat before the huge, old-fashioned fireplace, telling stories and eating nuts. Uncle Joe suddenly inquired, "Boys, did you bring in your trap that you set for that wild-cat?" They had not thought of it; they had been hunting nearly every day, enjoying rare sport, and they had entirely forgotten that they had a trap to look after. "We shall be obliged to let it go until to-morrow," said Frank. And the next morning, as soon as it was light, he was up and dressed, and shouldering an ax, set out with Brave as a companion, leaving Archie in a sound sleep. It was very careless in him not to take his gun--a "regular boy's trick," as Uncle Joe afterward remarked; but it did not then occur to him that he was acting foolishly; and he trudged off, whistling merrily. A few moments' rapid walking brought him to the place where the trap had been set. How he started! There lay the remains of the sheep all exposed. The snow near it was saturated with blood, and the trap, clog, and all were gone. What was he to do? He was armed with an ax, and he knew that with it he could make but a poor show of resistance against an enraged wild animal; and he knew, too, that one that could walk off with fifty pounds fast to his leg would be an ugly customer to handle. He had left Brave some distance back, digging at a hole in a stump where a mink had taken refuge, and he had not yet come up. If the Newfoundlander had been by his side he would have felt comparatively safe. Frank stood for some minutes undecided how to act. Should he go back to the house and get assistance? Even if he had concluded to do so he would not have considered himself a coward; for, attacking a wounded wild-cat in the woods, with nothing but an ax to depend on, was an undertaking that would have made a larger and stronger person than Frank hesitate. Their astonishing activity and strength, and wonderful tenacity of life, render them antagonists not to be despised. Besides, Frank was but a boy, and although strong and active for his age, and possessing a good share of determined courage that sometimes amounted almost to rashness, it must be confessed that his feelings were not of the most enviable nature. He had not yet discovered the animal, but he knew that he could not be a great distance off, for the weight of the trap and clog would retard him exceedingly; and he judged, from the appearance of things, that he had not been long in the trap; perhaps, at that very moment, his glaring eyes were fastened upon him from some neighboring thicket. But the young naturalist was not one to hesitate long because there was difficulty or danger before him. He had made up his mind from the first to capture that wild-cat if possible, and now the opportunity was fairly before him. His hand was none of the steadiest as he drew off his glove and placed his fingers to his lips; and the whistle that followed was low and tremulous, very much unlike the loud, clear call with which he was accustomed to let Brave know that he was wanted and he hardly expected that the dog would hear it. A faint, distant bark, however, announced that the call had been heard, and in a few moments Frank heard Brave's long-measured bounds as he dashed through the bushes; and when the faithful animal came in sight, he felt that he had a friend that would stand by him to the last extremity. At this juncture Frank was startled by a loud rattling in the bushes, and the next moment the wild-cat sprang upon a fallen log, not half a dozen rods from the place where he was standing, and, growling fiercely, crouched and lashed his sides with his tail as if about to spring toward him. The trap hung from one of his hind-legs, but by some means he had relieved himself of the clog and chain, and he moved as if the weight of the trap were no inconvenience whatever. The young naturalist was frightened indeed, but bravely stood his ground, and clutched his ax desperately. What would he not have given to have had his trusty double-barrel in his hands! But he was not allowed much time for reflection. Brave instantly discovered the wild-cat, and sprang toward him, uttering an angry growl. Frank raised his ax and rushed forward to his assistance, and cheered on the dog with a voice which, to save his life, he could not raise above a whisper. The wild-cat crouched lower along the log, and his actions seemed to indicate that he intended to show fight. Brave's long, eager bounds brought him nearer and nearer to his enemy. A moment more and he could have seized him; but the wild-cat suddenly turned and sprang lightly into the air, and, catching his claws into a tree that stood full twenty feet distant, ascended it like a streak of light; and, after settling himself between two large limbs, glared down upon his foes as if he were already ashamed of having made a retreat, and had half a mind to return and give them battle. Brave reached the log just a moment too late, and finding his enemy fairly out of his reach, he quietly seated himself at the foot of the tree and waited for Frank to come up. "Good gracious!" exclaimed the young naturalist, wiping his forehead with his coat-sleeve, (for the exciting scene through which he had just passed had brought the cold sweat from every pore in his body); "it is a lucky circumstance for you and me, Brave, that the varmint did not stand and show fight." Then ordering the dog to "sit down and watch him," the young naturalist threw down his ax, and started toward the house for his gun. He was still very much excited, fearful that the wild-cat might take it into his head to come down and give the dog battle, in which case he would be certain to escape; for, although Brave was a very powerful and courageous dog, he could make but a poor show against the sharp teeth and claws of the wild-cat. The more Frank thought of it, the more excited he became, and the faster he ran. In a very few moments he reached the house, and burst into the room where Uncle Joe and Archie and two or three hired men sat at breakfast. Frank seemed not to notice them, but made straight across the room toward the place where his shot-gun hung against the wall, upsetting chairs in his progress, and creating a great confusion. "What in tarnation is the matter?" exclaimed the farmer, rising to his feet. "I've found the wild-cat," answered Frank, in a scarcely audible voice. "What's that?" shouted Archie, springing to his feet, and upsetting his chair and coffee-cup. But Frank could not wait to answer. One bound carried him across the floor and out of the door, and he started across the field at the top of his speed, dropping a handful of buck-shot into each barrel of his gun as he went. It was not until Frank had left the house that Archie, so to speak, came to himself. He had been so astonished at his cousin's actions and the announcement that he had "found the wild-cat," that he seemed to be deprived of action. But Frank had not made a dozen steps from the house before Archie made a dash for his gun, and occasioned a greater uproar than Frank had done; and, not stopping to hear the farmer's injunction to "be careful," he darted out the door, which Frank in his hurry had left open, and started toward the woods at a rate of speed that would have done credit to a larger boy than himself. But Frank gained rapidly on him; and when he reached the tree where the wild-cat had taken refuge, Archie was full twenty rods behind. He found that the animals had not changed their positions. The wild-cat was glaring fiercely down upon the dog as if endeavoring to look him out of countenance; and Brave, seated on his haunches, with his head turned on one side, and his tongue hanging out of the side of his mouth, was steadily returning the gaze. Frank took a favorable position at a little distance from the foot of the tree, and cocking both barrels, so as to be ready for any emergency, in case the first should not prove fatal, raised his gun to his shoulder, and glancing along the clean, brown tube, covered one of the wild-cat's eyes with the fatal sight, and pressed the trigger. There was a sharp report, and the animal fell from his perch stone-dead. At this moment Archie came up. After examining their prize to their satisfaction, the boys commenced looking around through the bushes to find the clog which had been detached from the trap. After some moments' search they discovered it; and Archie unfastened the chain, and shouldering the ax and guns, he started toward the house. Frank followed after, with the wild-cat on his shoulder, the trap still hanging to his leg. The skin was carefully taken off; and when Archie and Frank got home, they stuffed it, and placed it as we now see it. CHAPTER III. The Museum. Let us now proceed to examine the other objects in the museum. A wide shelf, elevated about four feet above the floor, extends entirely around the room, and on this the specimens are mounted. On one side of the door stands a tall, majestic elk, with his head thrown forward, and his wide-spreading antlers lowered, as if he meant to dispute our entrance. On the opposite side is a large black fox, which stands with one foot raised and his ears thrown forward, as if listening to some strange sound. This is the same fox which so long held possession of Reynard's Island; and the young naturalist and his cousin were the ones who succeeded in capturing him. The next two scenes are what Frank calls his "masterpieces." The first is a large buck, running for dear life, closely followed by a pack of gaunt, hungry wolves, five in number, with their sharp-pointed ears laid back close to their heads, their tongues hanging out of their mouths, and their lips spotted with foam The flanks of the buck are dripping with blood from wounds made by their long teeth. In the next scene the buck is at bay. Almost tired out, or, perhaps, too closely pressed by his pursuers, he has at length turned furiously upon them, to sell his life as dearly as possible. Two of the wolves are lying a little distance off, where they have been tossed by the powerful buck, one dead, the other disabled; and the buck's sharp antlers are buried deep in the side of another, which had attempted to seize him. Well may Frank be proud of these specimens, for they are admirably executed. The animals are neatly stuffed, and look so lifelike and the positions are so natural, that you could almost fancy that you hear the noise of the scuffle. The next scene represents an owl, which, while engaged in one of his nocturnal plundering expeditions, has been overtaken by daylight, and not being able to reach his usual hiding-place, he has taken refuge in a clump of bushes, where he has been discovered by a flock of his inveterate enemies, the crows. The owl sits upon his perch, glaring around with his great eyes, while his tormentors surround him on all sides, their mouths wide open, as if reviling their enemy with all their might. The next scene represents a flock of ducks sporting in the water, and a sly old fox, concealed behind the trunk of a tree close by, is watching their motions, evidently with the intention of "bagging" one of them for his supper. In the next scene he is running off, at full speed, with one of the ducks thrown over his shoulder; and the others, with their mouths open as if quacking loudly, are just rising from the water. In the next scene is a large black wolf, which has just killed a lamb, and crouches over it with open mouth, as if growling fiercely at something which is about to interrupt his feast. The next scene represents a fish-hawk, which has just risen from the lake, with a large trout struggling in his talons; and just above him is a bald-eagle, with his wings drawn close to his body, in the act of swooping down upon the fish-hawk, to rob him of his hard-earned booty. In the next scene a raccoon is attempting to seize a robin, which he has frightened off her nest. The thief had crawled out on the limb on which the nest was placed, intending, no doubt, to make a meal of the bird; but mother Robin, ever on the watch, had discovered her enemy, and flown off just in time to escape. The next scene is a large "dead-fall" trap, nicely set, with the bait placed temptingly within; and before it crouches a sleek marten, peeping into it as if undecided whether to enter or not. All these specimens have been cured and stuffed by Frank and Archie; and, with the exception of the deer and wolves, they had killed them all. The latter had been furnished by Archie's father. The boys had never killed a deer, and he had promised to take them, during the coming winter with him up into the northern part of the state, where they would have an opportunity of trying their skill on the noble game. But the museum is not the only thing that has given Frank the name of the "young naturalist." He is passionately fond of pets, and he has a pole shanty behind the museum, which he keeps well stocked with animals and birds. In one cage he has a young hawk, which he has just captured; in another, a couple of squirrels, which have become so tame that he can allow them to run about the shanty without the least fear of their attempting to escape. Then he has two raccoons, several pigeons, kingbirds, quails, two young eagles, and a fox, all undergoing a thorough system of training. But his favorite pets are a pair of kingbirds and a crow, which are allowed to run at large all the time. They do not live on very good terms with each other. In their wild state they are enemies, and each seems to think the other has no business about the cottage; and Frank has been the unwilling witness to many a desperate fight between them, in which the poor crow always comes off second best. Then, to console himself, he will fly upon Frank's shoulder, cawing with all his might, as if scolding him for not lending some assistance. To make amends for his defeat, Frank gives him a few kernels of corn, and then shows him a hawk sailing through the air; and Sam, as he calls the crow, is off in an instant, and, after tormenting the hawk until he reaches the woods, he will always return. Not a strange bird is allowed to come about the cottage. The kingbirds, which have a nest in a tree close by the house, keep a sharp look-out; and hawks, eagles, crows, and even those of their own species, all suffer alike. But now and then a spry little wren pays a visit to the orchard, and then there is sport indeed. The wren is a great fighting character, continually getting into broils with the other birds, and he has no notion of being driven off; and, although the kingbirds, with Sam's assistance, generally succeed in expelling the intruder, it is only after a hard fight. Directly opposite the door that opens into the museum is another entrance, which leads into a room which Frank calls his shop. A work-bench has been neatly fitted up in one corner, at the end of which stands a large chest filled with carpenter's tools. On the bench are several half-finished specimens of Frank's skill--a jointed fish-pole, two or three finely-shaped hulls, and a miniature frigate, which he is making for one of his friends. The shop and tools are kept in the nicest order, and Frank spends every rainy day at his bench. The young naturalist is also a good sailor, and has the reputation of understanding the management of a sail-boat as well as any other boy in the village. He has two boats, which are in the creek, tied to the wharf in front of the house. One of them is a light skiff, which he frequently uses in going to and from the village and on his fishing excursions, and the other is a scow, about twenty feet long and six feet wide, which he built himself. He calls her the Speedwell. He has no sail-boat, but he has passed hour after hour trying to conjure up some plan by which he might be enabled to possess himself of one. Such a one as he wants, and as most of the village have, would cost fifty dollars. Already he has laid by half that amount; but how is he to get the rest? He has begun to grow impatient. The yachting season has just opened; every day the river is dotted with white sails; trials of speed between the swiftest sailers come off almost every hour, and he is obliged to stand and look on, or content himself with rowing around in his skiff. It is true he has many friends who are always willing to allow him a seat in their boats, but that does not satisfy him. He has determined to have a yacht of his own, if there is any honest way for him to get it. For almost a year he has carefully laid aside every penny, and but half the necessary sum has been saved. How to get the remainder is the difficulty. He never asks his mother for money; he is too independent for that; besides, he has always been taught to rely on his own resources, and he has made up his mind that, if he can not _earn_ his boat, he will go without it. Three or four days after the commencement of our story, Frank might have been seen, about five o'clock one pleasant morning, seated on the wharf in front of the house, with Brave at his side. The question how he should get his boat had been weighing heavily upon his mind, and he had come to the conclusion that something must be done, and that speedily. "Well," he soliloquized, "my chance of getting a sail-boat this season is rather slim, I'm afraid. But I've made up my mind to have one, and I won't give it up now. Let me see! I wonder how the Sunbeam [meaning his skiff] would sail? I mean to try her. No," he added, on second thought, "she couldn't carry canvas enough to sail with one of the village yachts. I have it!" he exclaimed at length, springing to his feet. "The Speedwell! I wonder if I couldn't make a sloop of her. At any rate, I will get her up into my shop and try it." Frank, while he was paying a visit to his cousin in Portland, had witnessed a regatta, in which the Peerless, a large, schooner-rigged scow, had beaten the swiftest yachts of which the city boasted; and he saw no reason why his scow could not do the same. The idea was no sooner conceived than he proceeded to put it into execution. He sprang up the bank, with Brave close at his heels, and in a few moments disappeared in the wood-shed. A large wheelbarrow stood in one corner of the shed, and this Frank pulled from its place, and, after taking off the sides, wheeled it down to the creek, and placed it on the beach, a little distance below the wharf. He then untied the painter--a long rope by which the scow was fastened to the wharf--and drew the scow down to the place where he had left the wheelbarrow. He stood for some moments holding the end of the painter in his hand, and thinking how he should go to work to get the scow, which was very heavy and unwieldy, upon the wheelbarrow. But Frank was a true Yankee, and fruitful in expedients, and he soon hit upon a plan, which he was about putting into execution, when a strong, cheery voice called out: "Arrah, me boy! What'll yer be after doing with the boat?" Frank looked up and saw Uncle Mike, as the boys called him--a good-natured Irishman, who lived in a small rustic cottage not far from Mrs. Nelson's--coming down the bank. "Good morning, Uncle Mike," said Frank, politely accepting the Irishman's proffered hand and shaking it cordially. "I want to get this scow up to my shop; but I'm afraid it is a little too heavy for me to manage." "So it is, intirely," said Mike, as he divested himself of his coat, and commenced rolling up his shirt-sleeves. "Allow me to lend yer a helpin' hand." And, taking the painter from Frank's hand, he drew the scow out of the water, high upon the bank. He then placed his strong arms under one side of the boat, and Frank took hold of the other, and, lifting together, they raised it from the ground, and placed it upon the wheelbarrow. "Now, Master Frank," said Mike, "if you will take hold and steady her, I'll wheel her up to the shop for you." Frank accordingly placed his hands upon the boat in such a manner that he could keep her steady and assist Mike at the same time; and the latter, taking hold of the "handles," as he termed them, commenced wheeling her up the bank. The load was heavy, but Mike was a sturdy fellow, and the scow was soon at the door of the shop. Frank then placed several sticks of round wood, which he had brought out of the wood-shed, upon the ground, about three feet apart, to serve as rollers, and, by their united efforts, the Speedwell was placed upon her side on these rollers, and in a few moments was left bottom upward on the floor of the shop. CHAPTER IV. A Race on the Water. A week passed, and the Speedwell again rode proudly at her moorings, in front of the cottage; but her appearance was greatly changed. A "center-board" and several handy lockers had been neatly fitted up in her, and her long, low hull painted black on the outside and white on the inside; and her tall, raking mast and faultless rigging gave her quite a ship-like appearance. Frank had just been putting on a few finishing touches, and now stood on the wharf admiring her. It was almost night, and consequently he could not try her sailing qualities that day; and he was so impatient to discover whether or not he had made a failure, that it seemed impossible for him to wait. While he was thus engaged, he heard the splashing of oars, and, looking up, discovered two boys rowing toward him in a light skiff As they approached, he recognized George and Harry Butler, two of his most intimate acquaintances. They were brothers, and lived about a quarter of a mile from Mrs. Nelson's, but they and Frank were together almost all the time. Harry, who was about a year older than Frank, was a very impulsive fellow, and in a moment of excitement often said and did things for which he felt sorry when he had time to think the matter over; but he was generous and good-hearted, and if he found that he had wronged any one, he never failed to make ample reparation. George, who was just Frank's age, was a jolly, good-natured boy, and would suffer almost any indignity rather than retaliate. "Well, Frank," said Harry, as soon as they came within speaking distance, "George and I wanted a little exercise, so we thought we would row up and see what had become of you. Why don't you come down and see a fellow? Hallo!" he exclaimed, on noticing the change in the Speedwell's appearance, "what have you been trying to do with your old scow?" "Why, don't you see?" said Frank. "I've been trying to make a yacht out of her." "How does she sail?" inquired George. "I don't know. I have just finished her, and have not had time to try her sailing qualities yet." "I don't believe she will sail worth a row of pins," said Harry, confidently, as he drew the skiff alongside the Speedwell, and climbed over into her. "But I'll tell you what it is," he continued, peeping into the lockers and examining the rigging, "you must have had plenty of hard work to do in fixing her over. You have really made a nice boat out of her." "Yes, I call it a first-rate job," said George. "Did you make the sails yourself, Frank?" "Yes," answered Frank. "I did all the work on her. She ought to be a good sailer, after all the trouble I've had. How would you like to spend an hour with me on the river to-morrow? You will then have an opportunity to judge for yourself." The boys readily agreed to this proposal, and, after a few moments' more conversation, they got into their skiff and pulled down the creek. The next morning, about four o'clock, Frank awoke, and he had hardly opened his eyes before he was out on the floor and dressing. He always rose at this hour, both summer and winter; and he had been so long in the habit of it, that it had become a kind of second nature with him. Going to the window, he drew aside the curtain and looked out. The Speedwell rode safely at the wharf, gallantly mounting the swells which were raised by quite a stiff breeze that was blowing directly down the creek. He amused himself for about two hours in his shop; and after he had eaten his breakfast, he began to get ready to start on the proposed excursion. A large basket, filled with refreshments, was carefully stowed away in one of the lockers of the Speedwell, the sails were hoisted, the painter was cast off, and Frank took his seat at the helm, and the boat moved from the shore "like a thing of life." The creek was too narrow to allow of much maneuvering, and Frank was obliged to forbear judging of her sailing qualities until he should reach the river. But, to his delight, he soon discovered one thing, and that was, that before the wind the Speedwell was no mean sailer. A few moments' run brought him to Mr. Butler's wharf, where he found George and Harry waiting for him. Frank brought the Speedwell around close to the place where they were standing in splendid style, and the boys could not refrain from expressing their admiration at the handsome manner in which she obeyed her helm. They clambered down into the boat, and seated themselves on the middle thwarts, where they could assist Frank in managing the sails, and in a few moments they reached the river. "There comes Bill Johnson!" exclaimed George, suddenly, "just behind the Long Dock." The boys looked in the direction indicated, and saw the top of the masts and sails of a boat which was moving slowly along on the other side of the dock. "Now, Frank," said Harry, "turn out toward the middle of the river, and get as far ahead of him as you can, and see if we can't reach the island [meaning Strawberry Island] before he does." Frank accordingly turned the Speedwell's head toward the island, and just at that moment the sail-boat came in sight. The Champion--for that was her name--was classed among the swiftest sailers about Lawrence; in fact, there was no sloop that could beat her. She was a clinker-built boat, about seventeen feet long, and her breadth of beam--that is, the distance across her from one side to the other--was great compared with her length. She was rigged like Frank's boat, having one mast and carrying a mainsail and jib; but as her sails were considerably larger than those of the Speedwell, and as she was a much lighter boat, the boys all expected that she would reach the island, which the young skippers always regarded as "home" in their races, long before the Speedwell. The Champion was sailed by two boys. William Johnson, her owner, sat in the stern steering, and Ben. Lake, a quiet, odd sort of a boy, sat on one of the middle thwarts managing the sails. As soon as she rounded the lock, Harry Butler sprang to his feet, and, seizing a small coil of rope that lay in the boat, called out, "Bill! if you will catch this line, we'll tow you." "No, I thank you," answered William. "I think we can get along very well without any of your help." "Yes," chimed in Ben. Lake, "and we'll catch you before you are half-way to the island." "We'll see about that!" shouted George, in reply. By this time the Speedwell was fairly before the wind, the sails were hauled taut, the boys seated themselves on the windward gunwale, and the race began in earnest. But they soon found that it would be much longer than they had imagined. Instead of the slow, straining motion which they had expected, the Speedwell flew through the water like a duck, mounting every little swell in fine style, and rolling the foam back from her bow in great masses. She was, beyond a doubt, a fast sailer. George and Harry shouted and hurrahed until they were hoarse, and Frank was so overjoyed that he could scarcely speak. "How she sails!" exclaimed Harry. "If the Champion beats this, she will have to go faster than she does now." Their pursuers were evidently much surprised at this sudden exhibition of the Speedwell's "sailing qualities;" and William hauled more to the wind and "crowded" his boat until she stood almost on her side, and the waves frequently washed into her. "They will overtake us," said Frank, at length; "but I guess we can keep ahead of them until we cross the river." And so it proved. The Champion began to gain--it was very slowly, but still she did gain--and when the Speedwell had accomplished half the distance across the river, their pursuers were not more than three or four rods behind. At length they reached the island, and, as they rounded the point, they came to a spot where the wind was broken by the trees. The Speedwell gradually slackened her headway, and the Champion, which could sail much faster than she before a light breeze, gained rapidly, and soon came alongside. "There is only one fault with your boat, Frank," said William; "her sails are too small. She can carry twice as much canvas as you have got on her now." "Yes," answered Frank, "I find that I have made a mistake; but the fact is, I did not know how she would behave, and was afraid she would capsize. My first hard work shall be to make some new sails." "You showed us a clean pair of heels, any way," said Ben. Lake, clambering over into the Speedwell. "Why, how nice and handy every thing is! Every rope is just where you can lay your hand on it." "Let's go ashore and see how we are off for a crop of strawberries," said Harry. William had pulled down his sails when he came alongside, and while the conversation was going on the Speedwell had been towing the Champion toward the island, and, just as Harry spoke, their bows ran high upon the sand. The boys sprang out, and spent two hours in roaming over the island in search of strawberries; but it was a little too early in the season for them, and, although there were "oceans" of green ones, they gathered hardly a pint of ripe ones. After they had eaten the refreshments which Frank had brought with him, they started for home. As the wind blew from the main shore, they were obliged to "tack," and the Speedwell again showed some fine sailing, and when the Champion entered the creek, she was not a stone's throw behind. Frank reached home that night a good deal elated at his success. After tying the Speedwell to the wharf, he pulled down the sails and carried them into his shop. He had promised, before leaving George and Harry, to meet them at five o'clock the next morning to start on a fishing excursion, and, consequently, could do nothing toward the new sails for his boat for two days. CHAPTER V. A Fishing Excursion. Precisely at the time agreed upon, Frank might have been seen sitting on the wharf in front of Mr. Butler's house. In his hand he carried a stout, jointed fish-pole, neatly stowed away in a strong bag of drilling, and under his left arm hung his fish-basket, suspended by a broad belt, which crossed his breast. In this he carried his hooks, reels, trolling-lines, dinner, and other things necessary for the trip. Brave stood quietly by his side, patiently waiting for the word to start. They were not obliged to wait long, for hasty steps sounded on the gravel walk that led up to the house, the gate swung open, and George and Harry appeared, their arms filled with their fishing-tackle. "You're on time, I see," said Harry, as he climbed down into a large skiff that was tied to the wharf, "Give us your fish-pole." Frank accordingly handed his pole and basket down to Harry, who stowed them away in the boat. He and George then went into the boat-house, and one brought out a pair of oars and a sail, which they intended to use if the wind should be fair, and the other carried two pails of minnows, which had been caught the night before, to serve as bait. They then got into the boat, and Frank took one oar and Harry the other, and Brave stationed himself at his usual place in the bow. George took the helm, and they began to move swiftly down the creek toward the river. About a quarter of a mile below the mouth of the creek was a place, covering half an acre, where the water was about four feet deep, and the bottom was covered with smooth, flat stones. This was known as the "black-bass ground," and large numbers of these fish were caught there every season. George turned the boat's head toward this place, and, thrusting his hand into his pocket, drew out a "trolling-line," and, dropping the hook into the water behind the boat, began to unwind the line. The trolling-hook (such as is generally used in fishing for black-bass) can be used only in a strong current, or when the boat is in rapid motion through the water. The hook is concealed by feathers or a strip of red flannel, and a piece of shining metal in the shape of a spoon-bowl is fastened to it in such a manner as to revolve around it when the hook is drawn rapidly through the water. This is fastened to the end of a long, stout line, and trailed over the stern of the boat, whose motion keeps it near the surface. It can be seen for a great distance in the water, and the fish, mistaking it for their prey, dart forward and seize it. A few moments' pulling brought them to the bass ground, and George, holding the stick on which the line had been wound in his hand, waited impatiently for a "bite." They had hardly entered the ground when several heavy pulls at the line announced that the bait had been taken. George jerked in return, and, springing to his feet, commenced hauling in the line hand over hand, while whatever was at the other end jerked and pulled in a way that showed that he was unwilling to approach the surface. The boys ceased rowing, and Frank exclaimed, "You've got a big one there, George. Don't give him any slack, or you'll lose him." "Haul in lively," chimed in Harry. "There he breaches!" he continued, as the fish--a fine bass, weighing, as near as they could guess, six pounds--leaped entirely out of the water in his mad efforts to escape. "I tell you he's a beauty." Frank took up the "dip-net," which the boys had used in catching the minnows, and, standing by George's side, waited for him to bring the fish within reach, so that he might assist in "landing" him. The struggle was exciting, but short. The bass was very soon exhausted, and George drew him alongside the boat, in which he was soon safely deposited under one of the seats. They rowed around the ground for half an hour, each taking his turn at the line, and during that time they captured a dozen fish. The bass then began to stop biting; and Frank, who was at the helm, turned the boat toward the "perch-bed," which was some distance further down the river. It was situated at the outer edge of a bank of weeds, which lined the river on both sides. The weeds sprouted from the bottom in the spring, and by fall they reached the hight of four or five feet above the surface of the water. They were then literally swarming with wild ducks; but at the time of which we write, as it was only the latter part of June, they had not yet appeared above the water. The perch-bed was soon reached, and Harry, who was pulling the bow-oar, rose to his feet, and, raising the anchor, which was a large stone fastened to the boat by a long, stout rope, lifted it over the side, and let it down carefully into the water. The boat swung around until her bow pointed up stream, and the boys found themselves in the right spot to enjoy a good day's sport. Frank, who was always foremost in such matters, had his pole rigged in a trice, and, baiting his hook with one of the minnows, dropped it into the water just outside of the weeds. Half a dozen hungry perch instantly rose to the surface, and one of them, weighing nearly a pound, seized the bait and darted off with it, and the next moment was dangling through the air toward the boat. "That's a good-sized fish," said Harry, as he fastened his reel on his pole. "Yes," answered Frank, taking his prize off the hook and throwing it into the boat; "and we shall have fine sport for a little while." "But they will stop biting when the sun gets a little warmer; so we had better make the most of our time," observed George. By this time the other boys had rigged their poles, and soon two more large perch lay floundering in the boat. For almost two hours they enjoyed fine sport, as Frank had said they would, and they were too much engaged to think of being hungry. But soon the fish began to stop biting, and Harry, who had waited impatiently for almost five minutes for a "nibble," drew up his line and opened a locker in the stern of the boat, and, taking out a basket containing their dinner, was about to make an inroad on its contents, when he discovered a boat, rowed by a boy about his own age, shoot rapidly around a point that extended for a considerable distance out into the river, and turn toward the spot where they were anchored. "Boys," he exclaimed, "here comes Charley Morgan!" "Charley Morgan," repeated Frank. "Who is he?" "Why, he is the new-comer," answered George. "He lives in the large brick house on the hill." Charley Morgan had formerly lived in New York. His father was a speculator, and was looked upon by some as a wealthy man; but it was hinted by those who knew him best that if his debts were all paid he would have but little ready money left. Be that as it may, Mr. Morgan and his family, at any rate, lived in style, and seemed desirous of outshining all their neighbors and acquaintances. Becoming weary of city life, they had decided to move into the country, and, purchasing a fine village lot in Lawrence, commenced building a house upon it. Although the village could boast of many fine dwellings, the one on Tower Hill, owned by Mr. Morgan, surpassed them all, and, as is always the case in such places, every one was eager to discover who was to occupy the elegant mansion. When the house was completed, Mr. Morgan returned to New York to bring on his family, leaving three or four "servants," as he called them, to look after his affairs; and the Julia Burton landed at the wharf, one pleasant morning, a splendid open carriage, drawn by a span of jet-black horses. The carriage contained Mr. Morgan and his family, consisting of his wife and one son--the latter about seventeen years old. At the time of his introduction to the reader they had been in the village about a week. Charles, by his haughty, overbearing manner, had already driven away from him the most sensible of the village boys who had become acquainted with him; but there are those every-where who seem, by some strange fatality, to choose the most unworthy of their acquaintances for their associates; and there were several boys in Lawrence who looked upon Charles as a first-rate fellow and a very desirable companion. George and Harry, although they had frequently seen the "new-comer," had not had an opportunity to get acquainted with him; and Frank who, as we have said, lived in the outskirts of the village, and who had been very busy at work for the last week on his boat, had not seen him at all. "What sort of a boy is he?" inquired the latter, continuing the conversation which we have so unceremoniously broken off. "I don't know," replied Harry. "Some of the boys like him, but Ben. Lake says he's the biggest rascal in the village. He's got two or three guns, half a dozen fish-poles, and, by what I hear the boys say, he must be a capital sportsman. But he tells the most ridiculous stories about what he has done." By this time Charles had almost reached them, and, when he came alongside, he rested on his oars and called out, "Well, boys, how many fish have you caught?" "So many," answered George, holding up the string, which contained over a hundred perch and black-bass. "Have you caught any thing?" "Not much to brag of," answered Charles; "I hooked up a few little perch just behind the point. But that is a tip-top string of yours." "Yes, pretty fair," answered Harry. "You see we know where to go." "That does make some difference," said Charles. "But as soon as I know the good places, I'll show you how to catch fish." "We will show you the good fishing-grounds any time," said George. "Oh, I don't want any of your help. I can tell by the looks of a place whether there are any fish to be caught or not. But you ought to see the fishing-grounds we have in New York," he continued. "Why, many a time I've caught three hundred in less than half an hour, and some of them would weigh ten pounds." "Did you catch them with a hook and line?" inquired George. "Of course I did! What else should I catch them with? I should like to see one of you trying to handle a ten or fifteen-pound fish with nothing but a trout-pole." "Could you do it?" inquired Harry, struggling hard to suppress a laugh. "Do it? I _have_ done it many a time. But is there any hunting around here?" "Plenty of it." "Well," continued Charles, "I walked all over the woods this morning, and couldn't find any thing." "It is not the season for hunting now," said George; "but in the fall there are lots of ducks, pigeons, squirrels, and turkeys, and in the winter the woods are full of minks, and now and then a bear or deer; and the swamps are just the places to kill muskrats." "I'd just like to go hunting with some of you. I'll bet I can kill more game in a day than any one in the village." The boys made no reply to this confident assertion, for the fact was that they were too full of laughter to trust themselves to speak. "I'll bet you haven't got any thing in the village that can come up to this," continued Charles; and as he spoke he raised a light, beautifully-finished rifle from the bottom of the boat, and held it up to the admiring gaze of the boys. "That is a beauty," said Harry, who wished to continue the conversation as long as possible, in order to hear some more of Charles's "large stories." "How far will it shoot?" "It cost me a hundred dollars," answered Charles, "and I've killed bears and deer with it, many a time, as far as across this river here." Charles did not hesitate to say this, for he was talking only to "simple-minded country boys," as he called them, and he supposed he could say what he pleased and they would believe it. His auditors, who before had been hardly able to contain themselves, were now almost bursting with laughter. Frank and George, however, managed to draw on a sober face, while Harry turned away his head and stuffed his handkerchief into his mouth. "I tell you," continued Charles, not noticing the condition his hearers were in, "I've seen some pretty tough times in my life. Once, when I was hunting in the Adirondack Mountains, in the northern part of Michigan, I was attacked by Indians, and came very near being captured, and the way I fought was a caution to white folks. This little rifle came handy then, I tell you. But I must hurry along now; I promised to go riding with the old man this afternoon." And he dipped the oars into the water, and the little boat shot rapidly up the river. It was well that he took his departure just as he did, for our three boys could not possibly have contained themselves a moment longer. They could not wait for him to get out of sight, but, lying back in the boat, they laughed until the tears rolled down their cheeks. "Well, Frank, what do you think of him?" inquired Harry, as soon as he could speak. "I think the less we have to do with him the better," answered Frank. "I did think," said Harry, stopping now and then to indulge in a hearty fit of laughter, "that there might be some good things about him; but a boy that can tell such whopping big lies as he told must be very small potatoes. Only think of catching three hundred fish in less than half an hour, and with only one hook and line! Why, that would be ten every minute, and that is as many as two men could manage. And then for him to talk about that pop-gun of his shooting as far as across this river!--why, it's a mile and a half--and I know it wouldn't shoot forty rods, and kill. But the best of all was his hunting among the Adirondack Mountains, in Michigan, and having to defend himself against the Indians; that's a good joke." And Harry laid back in the boat again, and laughed and shouted until his sides ached. "He must be a very ungrateful fellow," said Frank, at length. "Didn't you notice how disrespectfully he spoke of his father? He called him his 'old man.' If I had a father, I'd never speak so lightly of him." "Yes, I noticed that," said George. "But," he continued, reaching for the basket which Harry, after helping himself most bountifully, had placed on the middle seat, "I'm hungry as blazes, and think I can do justice to the good things mother has put up for us." After eating their dinner they got out their fishing-tackle again; but the perch had stopped biting, and, after waiting patiently for half an hour without feeling a nibble, they unjointed their poles, drew up the anchor, and Frank seated himself at the helm, while George and Harry took the oars and pulled toward home. CHAPTER VI. The Regulators One of the range of hills which extended around the western side of the village was occupied by several families, known as the "Hillers." They were ignorant, degraded people, living in miserable hovels, and obtaining a precarious subsistence by hunting, fishing, and stealing. With them the villagers rarely, if ever, had intercourse, and respectable persons seldom crossed their thresholds. The principal man among the Hillers was known as Bill Powell. He was a giant in strength and stature, and used to boast that he could visit "any hen-roost in the village every night in the week, and carry off a dozen chickens each time, without being nabbed." He was very fond of liquor, too indolent to work, and spent most of his time, when out of jail, on the river, fishing, or roaming through the woods with his gun. He had one son, whose name was Lee, and a smarter boy it was hard to find. He possessed many good traits of character, but, as they had never been developed, it was difficult to discover them. He had always lived in the midst of evil influences, led by the example of a drunken, brutal father, and surrounded by wicked companions, and it is no wonder that his youthful aspirations were in the wrong direction. Lee and his associates, as they were not obliged so attend school, and were under no parental control, always amused themselves as they saw it. Most of their time was spent on the river or in the woods, and, when weary of this sport, the orchards and melon-patches around the village, although closely guarded, were sure to suffer at their hands; and they planned and executed their plundering expeditions with so much skill and cunning, that they were rarely detected. A day or two after the events related in the preceding chapter transpired, Charles Morgan, in company with two or three of his chosen companions, was enjoying a sail on the river. During their conversation, one of the boys chanced to say something about the Hillers, and Charles inquired who they were. His companions gave him the desired information, and ended by denouncing them in the strongest terms. Charles, after hearing them through, exclaimed, "I'd just like to catch one of those boys robbing our orchard or hen-roost. One or the of us would get a pummeling, sure as shooting." "Yes," said one of the boys, "but, you see, they do not go alone. If they did, it would be an easy matter to catch them. But they all go together, and half of them keep watch, and the rest bag the plunder; and they move around so still that even the dogs don't hear them." "I should think you fellows here in the village would take the matter into your own hands," said Charles. "What do you mean?" inquired his companions. "Why don't you club together, and every time you see one of the Hillers, go to work and thrash him like blazes? I guess, after you had half-killed two or three of them, they would learn to let things alone." "I guess they would, too," said one of the boys. "Suppose we get up a company of fifteen or twenty fellows," resumed Charles, "and see how it works. I'll bet my eyes that, after we've whipped half a dozen of them, they won't dare to show their faces in the village again." "That's the way to do it," said one of the boys. "I'll join the company, for one." The others readily fell in with Charles's proposal, and they spent some time talking it over and telling what they intended to do when they could catch the Hillers, when one of the boys suddenly exclaimed, "I think, after all, that we shall have some trouble in carrying out our plans. Although there are plenty of fellows in the village who would be glad to join the company, there are some who must not know any thing about it, or the fat will all be in the fire." "Who are they?" demanded Charles. "Why, there are Frank Nelson, and George and Harry Butler, and Bill Johnson, and a dozen others, who could knock the whole thing into a cocked hat, in less than no time." "Could they? I'd just like to see them try it on," said Charles, with a confident air. "They would have a nice time of it. How would they go to work?" "I am afraid that, if they saw us going to whip the Hillers, they would interfere." "They would, eh? I'd like to see them undertake to hinder us. Can't twenty fellows whip a dozen?" "I don't know. Every one calls Frank Nelson and his set the best boys in the village. They never fight if they can help it; but they are plaguy smart fellows, I tell you; and, if we once get them aroused, we shall have a warm time of it, I remember a little circumstance that happened last winter. We had a fort in the field behind the school-house, and one night we were out there, snowballing, and I saw Frank Nelson handle two of the largest boys in his class. There were about a dozen boys in the fort--and they were the ones that always go with Frank--and all the rest of the school were against them. The fort stood on a little hill, and we were almost half an hour capturing it, and we wouldn't ever have taken it if the wall hadn't been broken down. We would get almost up to the fort, and they would rush out and drive us down again. At last we succeeded in getting to the top of the hill, and our boys began to tumble over the walls, and I hope I may be shot if they didn't throw us out as fast as we could get in, and--" "Oh, I don't care any thing about that," interrupted Charles, who could not bear to hear any one but himself praised. "If I had been there, I would have run up and thrown _them_ out." "And you could have done it easy enough," said one of the boys, who had for some time remained silent. "Frank Nelson and his set are not such great fellows, after all." "Of course they ain't," said the other. "They feel big enough; but I guess, if we get this company we have spoken of started, and they undertake to interfere with us, we will take them down a peg or two." "That's the talk!" said Charles. "I never let any one stop me when I have once made up my mind to do a thing. I would as soon knock Frank Nelson down as any body else." By this time the boat, which had been headed toward the shore, entered the creek, and Charles drew up to the wharf, and, after setting his companions ashore, and directing them to speak to every one whom they thought would be willing to join the company, and to no one else, he drew down the sails, and pulled up the creek toward the place where he kept his boat. A week passed, and things went on swimmingly. Thirty boys had enrolled themselves as members of the Regulators, as the company was called, and Charles, who had been chosen captain, had carried out his plans so quietly, that he was confident that no one outside of the company knew of its existence. Their arrangements had all been completed, and the Regulators waited only for a favorable opportunity to carry their plans into execution. Frank, during this time, had remained at home, working in his garden or shop, and knew nothing of what was going on. One afternoon he wrote a letter to his cousin Archie, and, after supper, set out, with Brave at his heels, to carry it to the post-office. He stopped on the way for George and Harry Butler, who were always ready to accompany him. On the steps of the post-office they met three or four of their companions, and, after a few moments' conversation, William Johnson suddenly inquired, "Have you joined the new society, Frank?" "What society?" "Why, the Regulators." "I don't know what you mean," said Frank. "Yes, I guess they have managed to keep it pretty quiet," said William. "They don't want any outsiders to know any thing about it. They asked me to join in with them, but I told them that they ought to know better than to propose such a thing to me. Then they tried to make me promise that I wouldn't say any thing about it, but I would make no such promise, for--" "Why, Bill, what are you talking about?" inquired Harry. "You rattle it off as if we knew all about it." "Haven't you heard any thing about it, either?" inquired William, in surprise. "I was certain that they would ask you to join. Well, the amount of it is that Charley Morgan and a lot of his particular friends have been organizing a company for the purpose of thrashing the Hillers, and making them stop robbing hen-roosts and orchards and cutting up such shines." "Yes," chimed in James Porter, "there are about thirty of them, and they say that they are going to whip the Hillers out of the village." "Well, that's news to me," said Frank. "For my part," said Thomas Benton, "I, of course, know that the Hillers ought to be punished; but I do not think it is the duty of us boys to take the law into our own hands." "Nor I," said James Porter. "Well, _I_ do," said Harry, who, as we have said, was an impetuous, fiery fellow, "and I believe I will join the Regulators, and help whip the rascals out of the country. They ought, every one of them, to be thrashed for stealing and--" "Now, see here, Harry," interrupted George. "You know very well that such a plan will never succeed, and it _ought_ not to. You have been taught that it is wrong to take things that do not belong to you, but with the Hillers the case is different; their parents teach them to steal, and they are obliged to do it." "Besides," said Frank, "this summary method of correcting them will not break up their bad habits; kindness will accomplish much more than force." "Kindness!" repeated Harry, sneeringly; "as if kindness could have any effect on a Hiller!" "They can tell when they are kindly treated as well as any one else," said George. "And another thing," said Ben. Lake; "these Regulators must be a foolish set of fellows to suppose that the Hillers are going to stand still and be whipped. I say, as an old sea-captain once said, when it was proposed to take a man-o'-war with a whale-boat, 'I guess it will be a puttering job.'" "Well," said James, "I shall do all I can to prevent a fight." "So will I," said Frank. "_I_ won't," said Harry, who, with his arms buried almost to the elbows in his pockets, was striding backward and forward across the steps. "I say the Hillers ought to be thrashed." "I'm afraid," said William, without noticing what Harry had remarked, "that our interference will be the surest way to bring on a fight; because, after I refused to join the company, they told me that if any of us attempted to defend the Hillers, or break up the company, they would thrash us, too." "We don't want to break up their company," said Frank, with a laugh. "We must have a talk with them, and try to show them how unreasonable they are." "Here they come, now," said George, pointing up the road. The boys looked in the direction indicated, and saw the Regulators just turning the corner of the street that led to Mr. Morgan's house. They came around in fine order, marching four abreast, and turned up the street that led to the post-office. They had evidently been well drilled, for they kept step admirably. "They look nice, don't they?" said Ben. "Yes," answered George; "and if they were enlisted in a good cause, I would off with my hat and give them three cheers." The Regulators had almost reached the post-office, when they suddenly set up a loud shout, and, breaking ranks, started on a full run down the street. The boys saw the reason for this, when they discovered Lee Powell coming up the road that led from the river, with a large string of fish in his hand. He always had good luck, but he seemed to have been more fortunate than usual, for his load was about as heavy as he could conveniently carry. He walked rapidly along, evidently very much occupied with his own thoughts, when, suddenly, two or three stones came skipping over the ground, and aroused him from his reverie. He looked up in surprise, and discovered that his enemies were so close to him that flight was useless. The Regulators drew nearer and nearer, and the stones fell thick about the object of their wrath, until, finally, one struck him on the shoulder, and another knocked his cap from his head. "I can't stand that," said Frank; and, springing from the steps, he started to the rescue, followed by all of his companions, (except Harry, who still paced the steps), and they succeeded in throwing themselves between Lee and his assailants. Several of the Regulators faltered on seeing Lee thus defended; but Charles, followed by half a dozen of his "right-hand men," advanced, and attempted to force his way between Frank and his companions. "Hold on, here!" said Frank, as he gently, but firmly, resisted Charles's attempts to push him aside. "What are you trying to do?" "What business is that of yours?" answered Charles, roughly, as he continued his efforts to reach Lee. "You question me as if you were my master. Stand aside, if you don't want to get yourself in trouble." "You don't intend to hurt Lee, do you?" "Yes, I do. But it's none of your business, any way. Get out of the way!" "Has he ever done you any harm?" "It's none of your business, I say!" shouted Charles, now almost beside himself with rage. "And I want you to keep your hands off me!" he continued, as Frank seized his arm, which he had raised to strike Lee, who stood close behind his protector. Frank released his hold, and Charles sprang forward again, and, dodging Frank's grasp, slipped under his arm, and attempted to seize the Hiller. But Frank was as quick as a cat in his motions; and, before Charles had time to strike a blow, he seized him with a grip that brought from him a cry of pain, and seated him, unceremoniously, on the ground. As soon as Charles could regain his feet, he called out, "Here it is, boys--just as I expected! Never mind the Hiller, but let's go to work and give the other fellows a thrashing that they won't get over in a month." And he sprang toward Frank, against whom he seemed to cherish an especial grudge, followed by a dozen Regulators, who brandished their fists as if they intended to annihilate Lee's gallant defenders. But, just as Charles was about to attack Frank, a new actor appeared. Harry Butler, who had greatly changed his mind in regard to "thrashing the Hillers," seeing that the attack was about to be renewed, sprang down the steps, and caught Charles in his arms, and threw him to the ground, like a log. The others had been no less successful in repulsing their assailants; and, when Charles rose to his feet, he saw three or four of the Regulators, who had followed him to the attack, sprawling on the ground, and the rest retreating precipitately. "Now," said Harry, "let's stop this. We've had enough of it." But Charles, and several more of the Regulators, seemed to be of a different opinion, and were about to recommence their hostile demonstrations, when Harry continued, "We've only been playing with you so far Charley; so you had better not try to come any more of your Regulator tricks on us. We don't want to fight, but we shall defend ourselves." "If you had attended to your own affairs, you would not have been obliged to defend yourselves," said Charles, sullenly. "What sort of fellows do you suppose we are?" said Harry. "If you expected us to stand still and see thirty fellows pitch on one, you are very much mistaken." "Come, Lee," said Frank, taking the former by the arm, "I guess we can go now. We'll see you out of harm's way." The crest-fallen Regulators divided right and left, and allowed Frank and his companions to depart, unmolested. They accompanied Lee almost to the miserable hovel he called "home," and, when about to bid him good-night, he said, with some feeling, "I'll remember you, boys; and, if it ever comes handy, you will find that Lee Powell has got feelings, as well as any one else." And he sprang over a fence, and disappeared. CHAPTER VII. The Revenge. While Frank and his companions were accompanying Lee toward home, some of the Regulators were indulging in feelings of the deepest malice; and there were about a dozen of them--Frank's old enemies--who determined that he should not go unpunished. But there were others who began to see how cowardly they had acted in attacking a defenseless boy, for the only reason that he was a bad boy, and to fear that they had lost the good-will of Frank and his associates. The village boys, with a few exceptions, were accustomed to look up to Frank as a sort of leader; not that he aspired to the position, but his generosity, and the easy way he had of settling the disputes that sometimes arose among the boys, had won for him many a fast friend. We have seen, however, that he was not beloved by all; every good boy has his enemies, and Frank, of course, had his share of them. They were boys who were jealous of him, and hated him because he held a position in the estimation of the village people to which they could not attain. But this class was very small, comprising, as we have said, about a dozen of the Regulators; and, while they were enraged at their defeat, and studying plans for revenge, the others were repenting of their folly, and trying to think of some way by which they might regain their lost reputation. Charles's overbearing and haughty manner was so different from Frank's kind, obliging ways, that they had already grown tired of his company, and began to think seriously of having nothing more to do with him; and the things that had just transpired served to convince them that the sooner they left him the better. As soon as Lee and his gallant defenders had disappeared, one of the Regulators remarked, "Well, boys, I don't call this a paying business, trying to thrash a boy who has done us no harm." "That's my opinion," said another. "And I, for one, wish I had kept out of this scrape," said a third. "So do I," said the one who had first spoken. "Oh, you begin to back down, do you, you cowards?" exclaimed Charles, who was taken completely by surprise by this sudden change of affairs. "_I_ never give up till I am whipped. If it hadn't been for my lame hand, I would have knocked some of those fellows into cocked hats. I'll fix that Frank Nelson, the next time I catch him." "Why didn't you do it to-night?" inquired one of the boys, sneeringly. "I've got a lame hand, I tell you," roared the bully; "and I don't want you to speak to me in that way again; if you do, you and I will have a meeting." "That would be an unpleasant job for you, to say the least," said one of the boys; "the most of us are heartily sick of your company, and we have been talking, for two or three days, of sending in our resignations. Now, boys," he continued, "this is as good an opportunity as we shall have; so those that won't have any thing more to do with Regulating, say 'I!'" "I! I!" burst from a score of throats. "Now," he resumed, turning to Charles, "good-by; and, if you ever wish to recruit another company, you need not call on any of us." So saying, he walked off, followed by nearly all the Regulators; those who remained were Frank's enemies and rivals. "Well, boys," said Charles, as soon as the others had gone, "there are a few of us left, and we can annoy the fellows who think they are too good to associate with us in the worst way. Let us adjourn to our barn, where we can talk the matter over." A few moments' walk brought them to Mr. Morgan's house, and, when they entered the long carriage-way that led up to the barn, Charles said, "Now, boys, you stay here, and I'll go in and get a light." He ran into the house, and soon reappeared with a lantern in each hand, and led the way toward the barn. He unlocked the door, and he and his companions entered; and, after allowing them time to examine, to their satisfaction, the splendid equipage that had attracted so much attention the morning they arrived at the village, Charles proceeded to call the meeting to order. "Now, boys," said he, "we don't intend to disband, do we?" "No," answered several. "Then, the first thing for us to do is to change our name, for we don't want to let those cowardly sneaks that deserted us to-night know any thing about us. What shall we be called?" Several names were proposed, but they did not suit Charles. At length, one of the boys inquired, "What name would you like?" "I think that 'Midnight Rangers' would be a good name for us," answered Charles. "That's a splendid name!" "Now," continued Charles, "we must change our plan of operations a little. We must give up the idea of thrashing the Hillers for awhile, because there are not enough of us; but I should like it, if we could go to work and whip every one of those fellows that stuck up for Lee Powell to-night, especially Frank Nelson." "So would I," answered William Gage, whom Charles looked upon as his 'right-hand man;' "but it wouldn't do to attempt it, for he has got too many friends. We must shoot his dog, or steal his boat, or do something of that kind. It would plague him more than a dozen whippings." "That's so!" exclaimed another of the Rangers. "If we could only go up there, some dark night, and steal his scow, and run her out into the river, and burn her, wouldn't he be mad?" "Yes," chimed in another, "but it wouldn't pay even to attempt that. He always keeps his boats chained up, and the noise we would make in getting them loose would be sure to start that dog of his, and then we should have a dusty time, I reckon." "I guess so, too," said William Gage. "Whatever we do, we must be careful not to start that dog, for he would go through fire and water to catch us; and, if he ever got hold of one of us--" And William shrugged his shoulders, significantly. "Hasn't he got an orchard or melon-patch that we could visit?" inquired Charles. "No," answered one of the Rangers; "but he's got as nice a strawberry-patch as ever laid out-doors. But it's a little too early for strawberries." "Who cares for that?" said Charles. "We don't go to get the fruit; we only want to pay him for defending the Hiller--meddling with other people's business. It's too late to do any thing to-night," he added, glancing at his watch, "but let us go there to-morrow night, and pull up every strawberry-plant we can lay our hands on. You know, we can do as much mischief of that kind as we please, and it will all be laid to the Hillers." "Where shall we meet?" inquired one of the Rangers. "Come here at precisely seven o'clock; and, remember, don't lisp a single word to any one about it, for, if you do, we shall be found out." The Rangers were about to disperse, when one of them suddenly inquired, "Will not folks mistrust that something is in the wind, if they see us all starting up the road at that time of night?" "That's a fact," said William Gage. "Wouldn't it be a better plan for us to meet in the woods, at the back of Mrs. Nelson's lot? Let us all be there at eight o'clock; and, if no two of us go in company, no one will be the wiser for it." "That is the best plan," said Charles. "Now, remember, don't say any thing about it." "All right!" was the answer; and, in a few moments more, the Rangers were on their way home. The next evening, at seven o'clock, Charles left his home, and, avoiding the principal streets as much as possible, started toward the place of rendezvous, where he arrived at almost precisely the time agreed upon. He found the Rangers all waiting for him; and, as it was already dark, it was decided to commence operations immediately. "We want a guide," said Charles, who, of course, was captain of the Rangers. "Who knows exactly where that strawberry-bed lies? for, if we have to fumble about much, we shall start that dog, and then, it strikes me, from what I have seen and heard of him, we shall be in a predicament." "You may safely bet on that," said one of the boys; "he's a savage fellow." "And a first-rate watch-dog, too," observed another. "Well," said Charles, "all we have to do is to move so still that you can't hear a leaf rustle; but, if we do rouse the dog, let each one grab a stone and let him have it." "That would only make a bad matter worse," said one. "I am afraid we shall have more than we bargained for, if we undertake that," remarked another. "Let the cowards go home, and the rest come with me," said Charles, impatiently. "Bill," he continued, turning to his right-hand man, "can you act as guide?" "Yes." "Then, lead on." William led the way out of the woods, across a narrow meadow, where they came to the fence that inclosed Mrs. Nelson's garden. "Now, boys," he whispered, "keep still as mice; but, if we do start the dog, don't stop to fight him, but run like white-heads." The Rangers climbed over the fence, and followed their guide, who threaded his way through the trees and bushes with a skill worthy of a better cause, and a few moments sufficed to bring them to the strawberry-patch. "Be careful, boys," said Charles, in a low whisper. "Don't leave a single plant in the ground." The young scapegraces worked with a will, and, in a few moments, the strawberry-bed--which was Frank's pride, next to his museum, and on which he had expended a great amount of labor--was almost ruined; and so quietly did they proceed in their work of wanton destruction, that Brave, although a very vigilant dog, was not aroused, and the marauders retraced their steps, and reached the woods in safety. "There," said Charles, at length, "that's what I call doing it up brown. It almost pays off my debts. I don't think they will receive much benefit from those strawberries this year." "They have got some nice pears," said one of the Rangers, "and when they get ripe, we must plan another expedition." "That's so," answered Charles. "But we must not forget that we have others to settle with; and we must meet, some time next week, and determine who shall be visited next." On the following morning, Frank arose, as usual, at four o'clock, and, shouldering his fish-pole, started off through the woods to catch a mess of trout, intending to be back by breakfast-time. But, as the morning was cloudy, the trout bit voraciously, and in the excitement of catching them, he forgot that he was hungry, and it was almost noon before he reached home. As soon as he entered the house, Aunt Hannah exclaimed, "Master Frank, you were altogether too good to Lee Powell, the other night." "What makes you think so?" he inquired. At this moment Julia, hearing his voice, burst in from the dining-room, exclaiming, "Frank, the Hillers have robbed your strawberry-patch!" "Not robbed it, exactly," said his mother, who had followed close after Julia, "but they have completely ruined it. There are not a dozen plants left in the ground." Frank was so surprised that he could scarcely utter a word; and, hardly waiting to hear what his mother said, he hurried from the house toward the strawberry-patch. It did, indeed, present a strange and desolate appearance. The bed had covered nearly half an acre; and, so well had the Rangers performed their work, that but few plants were left standing. The sight was enough to upset even Frank's well-established patience, and he exclaimed, "If I had the rascals that did this mischief, I could pay them for it, without troubling my conscience much." "You must tell Lee Powell, the next time you see him," said Julia, who had followed him, "that he ought not to--" "Lee didn't do it," said Frank. "What makes you think so?" "See here," said Frank, bending over a footprint in the soft earth; "the Hillers all go bare-foot, and these fellows wore boots. I know who did it, as well as if I had seen them. It was the work of Charles Morgan and a few of his particular friends. They must have been very still about it, for Brave didn't hear them." "I don't see what object they had in doing it," said Julia. "I know what they did it for," said Frank; "and if I ever catch--But," he added, checking himself, "there's no use in grumbling about it; no amount of fretting will repair the damage." So saying, he led the way toward the house. It did not take him long to don his working-suit, and, shouldering his hoe, he returned to the strawberry-bed, and, in less than an hour, the plants were all in the ground again. CHAPTER VIII. How to Spend the "Fourth." That evening, after supper, Frank retired to his room, and, settling himself in his comfortable armchair, was soon deeply interested in one of Bayard Taylor's works. While thus engaged, a light step was heard in the hall, and, afterward, a gentle rap at his door, and Julia came into the room. "Now, Frank," she began, "I don't want you to read to-night." "Why not?" he inquired. "Why, you know that day after to-morrow is the Fourth of July, and--" "And you haven't got your fire-works yet?" interrupted Frank. "That's it, exactly." "Well," said her brother, rising to put away his book, "then, I suppose, I shall have to go down to the village and get you some. What do you want?" "I want all the things that are written down on this paper." Frank took the paper and read, "Three packs of fire-crackers, four boxes of torpedoes, three Roman candles, half a dozen pin-wheels, and a dozen sky-rockets." "Whew!" said Frank, as he folded up the paper and put it into his pocket, "that's what I should call going it strong! Well, I'll tell Mr. Sheldon [the store-keeper] to send up all the fire-works he has got." Julia burst into a loud laugh, and, the next moment, Frank and Brave were out of the gate, on their way to the village. In the mean time several of Frank's acquaintances had been amusing themselves on the village common with a game of ball. At length it grew too dark for their sport to continue, and one of the boys proposed that they should decide upon some pleasant way of spending the Fourth. In spite of the humiliating defeat which Charles Morgan and his companions had sustained, they were present; and the former, who had been making every exertion to regain the good-will of the village boys, exclaimed, "Let's go hunting." "No, no," shouted several. "The game in the woods isn't good for any thing this time of year, Charley," said James Porter, who, although he cordially disliked Charles, always tried to treat him kindly. "Who cares for that?" exclaimed Charles, who, having always been accustomed to lead and govern his city associates, could not endure the steadfastness with which these "rude country boys," as he called them, held to their own opinions. Although, during the whole afternoon, he had been endeavoring to work himself into their favor, he was angry, in an instant, at the manner in which they opposed his proposition. He had been considerably abashed at his recent defeat, and he knew that it had humbled him in the estimation of the Rangers, who, although they still "held true" to him, had changed their minds in regard to the prowess of their leader, and began to regard him, as one of them remarked, as a "mere bag of wind." Charles was not long in discovering this, and he determined to seize the first opportunity that was offered to retrieve his reputation. Hastily casting his eyes over the group that surrounded him, he discovered that Frank and Harry, the ones he most feared, were still absent. This was exactly what he had wished for. With the assistance of his companions, the Rangers, who, he was confident, would uphold him, he could settle up all old scores, without fear of suffering in return. Addressing himself to James, he continued, in an insulting tone, "We don't go to get the game to _eat_, you blockhead, but only for the sport of killing it." "I know that," answered James, in a mild voice, not the least disconcerted by the other's furious manner; "but wouldn't it be better to--" "Shut up!" shouted Charles. "I'll do just as I please. Besides, I never allow any one to dictate to me." "I didn't intend to dictate at all, Charley. I was going to say--" "Are you going to keep still," roared the bully, "or shall I make you?" And he began to advance toward James. "See here, old fellow," said Ben. Lake, suddenly striding up, and placing himself directly in front of Charles, "don't begin another fight, now." "I'll show you whether I will or not!" exclaimed Charles; and, turning to the Rangers, he continued, "Come on, boys! We can have things all our own way now. We'll see if--" "Hold on!" shouted William Johnson. "Here comes Frank. Now you had better take yourself off in a hurry." Charles's hostile demonstrations ceased in an instant; and, hastily whispering a few words to the Rangers, they disappeared. In a few moments, Frank, accompanied by George and Harry, arrived, and the boys, in a few words, explained to them what had just happened. "I hope," said Frank, "that Charley will see, before long, how unreasonably he acts. He makes himself, and every one around him, uncomfortable." "Well," said James Porter, "all I have got to say is that those fellows who go with him are very foolish. However, we can't help it. But, come," he added, "we were trying to find some pleasant way of spending the Fourth." "Let's have a picnic on Strawberry Island," said one. "We want something exciting," said another "Let's have a boat-race." "Come, Frank," said Ben. Lake, "let's hear what you have got to say. Suggest something." "Well," answered Frank, who was always ready with some plan for amusement, "I have been thinking, for two or three days, of something which, I believe, will afford us a great deal of sport. In the first place, I suppose, we are all willing to pass part of the day on the river?" "Yes, of course," answered the boys. "The next thing," continued Frank, "is to ascertain how many sail-boats we can raise." "I'll bring mine." "And mine," called out several voices. "Oh, that's no way to do business," exclaimed William Johnson, who always liked to see things go off in order. "Let all those who have boats hold up their hands." Sixteen hands came up, and Frank said, "We shall be gone all day, and, of course, we want plenty of provisions." "Of course." "Well, then, what I thought of proposing is this: Let us take three or four of the swiftest sailing-boats, and give the provisions into their charge, and call them smugglers, and let the other boats play the part of revenue-cutters, or a blockading squadron, and let the smugglers try to land the provisions on Strawberry Island, without being caught." "That's capital!" shouted several. "It's better than shooting game, at this time of year," said one. "Yes, and being scolded all day by that tyrant," observed another, who had belonged to the Regulators. "It will take some time to make all our arrangements," said William, "and I move that we adjourn to our house, where we can hold our meeting in order." This was readily assented to, and William led the way, followed by all the boys, who were highly delighted at Frank's plan of spending the Fourth. George Butler was speedily chosen president of the meeting, and, in less than half an hour, their arrangements were completed. The Speedwell, Champion, and Alert--the latter a fine little schooner, owned by George and Harry--were to act the part of smugglers, and Ben. Lake and Thomas Benton, who had no boats, were chosen by the smugglers to assist them. The provisions, of which each boy was expected to furnish his share, were all to be left at Mr. Butler's boat-house by six o'clock on the following evening, where they were to be taken charge of by the smugglers, of whom Frank was chosen leader. It was also understood that the smugglers were to carry the provisions all in one boat, and were to be allowed to take every possible advantage of the "men-o'-war," and to make every effort to land the provisions on the island. The other thirteen boats, which were to act as "coast-guards," were to be under the command of Charles Sheldon, a shrewd, cunning fellow, who had the reputation of being able to handle a sail-boat as well as any boy in the village. The coast-guards were also divided into divisions of three boats each, and a captain was appointed for each division. These arrangements, as we have said, were speedily completed; and, although the coast-guards were almost wild with delight at the prospect of the exciting times that would occur during the race, they were confident that the smugglers could be easily caught, and even some of the smugglers themselves seemed to think that their chances of landing the provisions were small indeed. As the meeting was about to break up, one of the coast-guards exclaimed, "We'll have easy times catching you smugglers." "Do you think so?" asked Harry Butler. "It would be funny if you should slip up on it, wouldn't it?" "We'll risk that," said another, "for we've got thirteen boats to your three." "I say, Frank," said Charles Sheldon, "don't you think we can catch you?" "Oh, yes," answered Frank, "easily enough, if you only try. Now, boys," he continued, "remember that we want all the refreshments left at Mr. Butler's boat-house, by six o'clock to-morrow evening." They all promised to be on hand, and the meeting broke up. But the coast-guards gathered in little knots in front of the house, or walked slowly toward home, talking the matter over, and congratulating themselves on the easy manner in which the capture of the "contrabands" was to be effected. The smugglers remained together, and, as soon as the others were out of hearing, George inquired, "Do you think we can give them the slip?" "Yes," answered Frank, "I am certain we can. We must not think of beating them in sailing, because there are too many of them, but we must outwit them." "What do you propose to do?" inquired Ben. "We must get up in the morning before they do." "We shall be obliged to get up at twelve o'clock, then," said Thomas. "I had rather stay up all night than have them beat us," said Harry. "Well, boys," said George, "you must all come and sleep at our house to-morrow night. Some of us will be sure to wake up early, and, I think, we shall have no trouble in getting the start of the coast-guards." The boys spent some time in talking over their plans, and, finally, reluctantly separated, and started for home. CHAPTER IX. The Coast-guards Outwitted. About three o'clock in the afternoon of the following day, Frank bade his mother and sister good-by, and he and Brave got into the Speedwell, and sailed slowly down the creek. He found the Champion already moored at Mr. Butler's dock, and the smugglers were all waiting for him. As soon as he landed, Ben. Lake said, "Frank, it is a gone case with us. I _know_ we shall be caught." "You think so, do you?" asked Frank, as if not at all concerned. "Yes, I'm certain of it. I overheard some conversation among the coast-guards, this afternoon, and one of them said that Charley Sheldon would have the whole fleet anchored before the mouth of the creek at half-past two to-morrow morning." "Besides," said William Johnson, "they are all going to sleep in their boats to-night, and the North Star and Sampson are to act as police." "And I heard Charley Sheldon say," chimed in Harry, "that strict watch must be kept of the Speedwell, and no attention paid to the other boats." "That's all right," said Frank. "I'm glad of it." "Why are you?" asked George, in surprise. "You know, we agreed to carry the provisions all in one boat, and yours is the only one that will hold them all." "I tell you, Frank, we're gone suckers," said Ben. "You fellows seem to be pretty well posted as to the coast-guards' intentions," said Frank. "Yes," said George; "we've been spying about and playing eavesdroppers all day." "I have learned one thing to-day," said Frank, "that pleased me very much, and that is that the coast-guards intend to keep spies about the boat-house all night." "Why does that please you?" inquired Harry. "Do you want them to discover all our plans, so that they may be ready for us?" "By no means. I'll risk good deal that they will not learn more than we want them to know. I've thought of a way to set them on the wrong scent, and, from what I have heard, I think it will work first-rate." "What is it?" "I'll show you in half a minute," said Frank, "All we have got to do is to fool the spies; then we are all right." At this moment several boys, belonging to the blockading squadron, entered the boat-house, bringing their refreshments, and this, of course, put a stop to all further conversation between the smugglers. By six o'clock the last basket of provisions had been brought in, and the coast-guards took their departure, after repeatedly assuring the smugglers that their capture was certain. The provisions had been brought in twenty medium-sized market-baskets, and one large clothes-basket that belonged to George and Harry, and seven pails. There was, also, a small bag filled with lemons, which had been brought by Charles Sheldon. The boys stood for some time looking at them without speaking. At length, Thomas Benton said, "You will have to carry them, Frank. They will make too large a load for either of the other boats." "I know that," said Frank; "but we must make the coast-guards think that the Alert is going to carry them." "How can we manage that?" inquired George. "Have you got three or four market-baskets, a clothes-basket, one or two pails, and a salt-bag?" asked Frank, without stopping to answer George's question. "I guess so," said Harry. "I'll go up to the house and see." He led the way, followed by three or four of the smugglers, and the articles in question were soon brought into the boat-house. "Now, Bill," said Frank, "you take this salt-bag, if you please, and fill it with smooth, round stones, about the size of lemons." "All right," answered William, who began to see through the trick. "Now," continued Frank, "we want some pieces of cloth, large enough to tie over the tops of these baskets and pails." These were speedily procured, and, in a few moments, William returned with the salt-bag filled with stones. "Now, tell us what you intend to do," exclaimed Harry, whose patience was well-nigh exhausted. "We are making some sham provisions," said Frank. "Oh, yes, I thought so," said Thomas; "but we haven't got pails and baskets enough." "Oh, that's nothing," said Frank. "We'll fill half a dozen of these old bags with shavings, and, as soon as it grows dark, we'll pull the Alert alongside the wharf, and tumble these sham provisions into her; then we will cover them up with that piece of sail, as if we wanted to keep them dry. We'll be sure to fool the men-o'-war." "I don't exactly see it," said Thomas. "Why," said Harry, "as soon as we are out of sight, their spies, who are, of course, watching every movement, will go and tell Charley Sheldon that we have got the things stowed away in the Alert." "That's very well, as far as you go," said Ben; "but suppose they should mistrust that something is in the wind, and should go to work and examine the provisions?" "What if they do?" said Frank. "It will be too dark for them to make much of an examination; and, if they put their hands into the boat, they will feel the baskets and pails there, and will go away satisfied." The boys now saw through the trick, and there was no longer any feeling of doubt in their minds. They were now as certain of success as they had before been of being captured. In a few moments the "sham provisions," as Frank had called them, were all completed, and, placing them where they could be easily taken out, they locked the door, to prevent surprise, and started for the house. As they were about to enter the gate, George suddenly exclaimed, "See there!" The boys looked in the direction George indicated, and saw the blockading squadron, with the exception of two boats, anchored in the creek, just opposite the long dock. The North Star, a fine, swift-sailing little schooner, was anchored near the middle of the stream, and a boy sat in the stern sheets, reading a book. The Sampson, a very large sloop-rigged boat, was standing up the creek, under full sail. These were the "police boats," and they were taking their stations. "I wonder where the Sampson is going," said Harry. "She's going to take her station in Duck's Creek," said Ben. Upon hearing this, Harry's expectations fell again. "It's no use," he exclaimed. "Charley Sheldon knows too much for us." "Not a bit," said Frank. "This arrangement is only for to-night. When we get up in the morning, we shall find the boats all out in the river." This immediately reassured Harry; and, after watching the Sampson until she disappeared in Duck's Creek, he led the way to the house. After supper, as soon as it began to grow dark, they proceeded to put their plans into execution; but, before they started, Frank said, "Now, boys, we must watch and see how the trick takes, for I know that there are spies now around that boat-house. As soon as we get the sham provisions into the boat, one or two of us had better slip down into the willows behind the wharf, and see what course things are going to take." "Well," said Harry, "suppose you and Bill act as spies." "Agreed. Come on, but don't act as if you suspected anything." And he led the way toward the boat-house. Two of the boys busied themselves in bringing out the sham provisions, and the others brought the Alert alongside, and fastened her to the dock, in front of the boat-house. Frank and Harry then got down into the boat, and the other boys passed the provisions down to them, and they placed them in such a manner as to take up as much space as possible. They were soon all stowed away, and covered over with a large sail, as if to keep off the dew. Ben and George then got into a small skiff that lay at the dock, and towed the Alert out into the middle of the creek, and anchored her. As soon as this was done they returned, and the smugglers began to amuse themselves by pushing each other about the wharf. They all appeared to enter heartily into the sport, and kept nearing the willows which extended along the bank of the creek, close to the wharf, and Frank and William, watching their opportunity, concealed themselves, and the others ran toward the house. They had hardly disappeared, when the smugglers saw several boys steal cautiously around the corner of the boat-house, where they had been concealed, and one of them crept up the bank, to assure himself that the coast was clear, while the others remained in the shadow of the house. The former, who proved to be Charles Sheldon, the commander of the coast-guards, as soon as he had satisfied himself that the smugglers had gone into the house, called out, in a low whisper, to the others, who were the captains of the divisions of the squadron, "All right, boys; go ahead, but be careful not to make any noise. I didn't see Frank Nelson's dog go into the yard," he continued; "he must be around here somewhere. We must not let him hear us." Brave _was_, as Charles had said, "around there somewhere." He was lying by his master's side, among the willows, no doubt wondering at the strange things that were going on, and, well-trained as he was, it was with great difficulty that Frank could keep him quiet. The coast-guards crossed the wharf with noiseless steps, and, unfastening the skiff which the smugglers had just used, they climbed down into it, and pushed off toward the Alert. A few strokes brought them alongside of her, and, thrusting their arms under the sail, they began the examination which the smugglers had so much dreaded. "What do you find?" inquired Charles, who still kept watch at the top of the bank. "Here are a lot of baskets and pails," said one "And here's the large basket that George and Harry brought," said another. "What are these round things in this bag, I wonder?" said the one who had first spoken. "Oh, those are the lemons I brought," said Charles. "Gracious! how hard they are!" continued the boy, trying to dig his fingers into them. At this, Frank and William, who, of course, had heard every word of the conversation, and had sat fairly trembling with excitement, fearful that their trick would be discovered, could scarcely refrain from laughing outright. Had it been daylight, the ruse of the smugglers would certainly have been detected, but, as it was, the coast-guards never mistrusted that any thing was wrong. The night was rather dark, and the sham provisions were so neatly tied up, and so carefully stowed away, that the deception was complete. "I guess they are all here," said one of the boys, at length. "Well, come ashore, then," said Charles, "and let's be off." The boys pulled back to the wharf, and Charles continued, "I didn't think that the Alert would hold all of the refreshments, did you?" "No," answered one of the boys, whom the smugglers recognized as James Porter; "I guess it was a tight squeeze; I could hardly get my hand in between the baskets." "What do you suppose the smugglers intend to do?" inquired another. "I don't know," answered Charles, "unless they propose to get up in the morning before we do, and slip over to the island before we know it. I wonder how they felt when they saw us taking our positions." "But what do you suppose made them put the provisions in the Alert?" "Oh, I think I can see through that easily enough," said James. "Frank knows that we expected that he was going to carry them over to the island, and he calculates to get us to chase him and give the Alert a chance to land the provisions. He is a cunning fellow, but this time we are too sharp for him." "I wonder why Frank don't send some one out to act as a spy," said Charles. "I guess he's afraid that he would be taken prisoner." We may as well state here (and we should have done so before) that it had been agreed that if one side could catch any of the other acting as spies, they were at liberty to hold them as prisoners until the race was over, and that the prisoner should, if required, give his captors all the information possible relative to the movements and plans of his party, and they could also require him to lend assistance in carrying out their own. The prisoner, of course, was allowed the privilege of escaping, if he could. This _was_ the reason why the smugglers had not sent out any spies; and, if the coast-guards had been aware that Frank and William were hidden away in the willows, they could easily have captured them, and, according to the agreement, obliged them to divulge all their plans. "Well," said Charles, "we don't want any prisoners now, for we know all their plans; but I wanted to catch Frank this morning, for I was afraid he would beat us. If he should find out that this trick was discovered, he would plan another in five minutes. I guess we had better remain where we are to-night," he continued, "and, at half-past two o'clock, we will pull out into the river, and blockade the creek. All we have to do is to take care of the Alert, and let the other boats do as they please. But we had better be off, or the smugglers may slip out and make some of us prisoners." And the spies departed as cautiously and quickly as they had come. As soon as they had gone, the smugglers arose from their places of concealment, and stole into the house, and acquainted the other boys with the success of their stratagem. After enjoying a hearty laugh at the expense of the coast-guards, led by George and Harry, they ran up stairs into the "large chamber," a room containing three beds, and they were soon snug between the sheets. But sleep was, for a long time, out of the question; they laughed and talked until their jaws ached, and the hands of the old clock that stood in the room pointed to twelve; then they allowed their tired tongues to rest, and lay for a long time, each occupied with his own thoughts, and, finally, one after the other fell asleep. The hours passed on, and nothing was heard but their gentle breathing. Suddenly Harry, who always talked in his sleep when any thing exciting was going on, turned over in bed with a jerk, and began to mutter some unintelligible words. All at once, raising himself to a sitting posture, he sang out, at the top of his voice, "Starboard your helm there, George--starboard your helm; bring her around quick. The Alert can show as clean a pair of heels as any boat about the village." In an instant the other boys were awake, and Harry continued to shout his directions, until several hearty thumps on the back caused him to change his tune. "Let me alone!" he shouted. "We haven't cheated you. We promised to carry the provisions all over in one boat, and we've done it." Harry was quickly dragged out of bed and placed upon his feet, and he was wide awake in an instant, but he stood in the middle of the room, as if bewildered, while the others rolled on the beds, convulsed with laughter. At length, William Johnson, who was the first that could speak, inquired, "I wonder what time it is." "Wait until I light this candle, and we'll see," said George. "No, no, don't do that," said Frank. "The coast-guards may be on the watch, and, if they see a light in the house, will be getting ready for us." And, going to the clock, he opened it, and, feeling of the hands, said, "It's about ten minutes to three." "What shall we do?" inquired Ben. "Let us go and see what our friends of the squadron are doing," said Thomas; "and, if they are not on hand, we can slip over and land our goods." By this time every one was dressed, and they crept carefully down stairs and out of the house. "Hold on a minute, boys," said Frank. "I will bet there are spies around that boat-house now." "Let's take them prisoners," exclaimed Harry. "That's just what I was about to propose," said Frank; "but, in order to do it, we had better divide into two parties, so as to surround the house." "Well," said George, "three of us will go up the road, and cross over by the bridge, and the rest of you can go down the road, and get into the willows behind the mill." "That's a good idea," said Frank. "We will meet at the back of the boat-house." The boys accordingly separated, and started in different directions. Frank and his party, which consisted of Harry and Ben, threaded their way through the garden, and across a meadow, until they arrived opposite Mr. Butler's mill. Here they crossed the road, and, after a careful reconnoissance, entered the willows, and crawled, almost on their hands and knees, toward the boat-house. At length they arrived at the place where they were to meet their companions, but nothing was to be seen or heard of them. "I hope they have not been taken prisoners," whispered Frank. "I don't think they have," said Ben, "because we should have heard something of it. They are not the ones to give up without a struggle. But I don't see any thing of the spies." "Neither do I," said Harry. "They must be around the other side of the boat-house." "If they are there," said Frank, "we will soon make them show themselves." And, as he spoke, he seized a branch above his head, and shook it violently. "Oh, that's no way," whispered Harry, excitedly; "you will frighten the--" "--sh! there they are!" said Frank. And, as he spoke, the smugglers saw a boy come cautiously around the corner of the boat-house. He gazed impatiently toward the willows, and uttered a low whistle. Frank instantly answered it, and the boy came down the bank, and said, in a low voice, "Come out here, Jim. I thought you would never relieve us. No signs of the smugglers yet--" "You must be mistaken," said Frank, springing lightly from his concealment; and, before the coast-guard could recover from his surprise, he found himself a prisoner. "Don't make any noise," said Frank. "Where's your companion? There must be two of you." "Yes, there is another one," answered the prisoner. "Ned Wilbur is around the other side of the boat-house." "Well, Ben," said Frank, "if you will watch this fellow, Harry and I will see what we can do for Ned." So saying, he went carefully around one side of the boat-house, and Harry disappeared around the other. Frank reached the end of the house first, and discovered the coast-guard standing in the door-way, as motionless as a statue. He was waiting for Harry to make his appearance at the opposite end, when the sentinel suddenly uttered an ejaculation of surprise, and bounded up the bank; but, just as he reached the top, a dark form, which seemed to rise out of the ground, clasped the fleeting coast-guard in its arms, and a voice, which Frank recognized as William Johnson's, said, in a low whisper, "You're my prisoner!" "It's just my luck," said the crest-fallen sentinel, bitterly, as William led him down the bank. "I told Charley Sheldon that we would be sure to be gobbled up if we were stationed here. Now, I suppose, you want me to tell all our plans." "No, we don't," answered Harry; "we know all your plans already." By this time the smugglers had all come in, and, holding fast to their captives, they held a consultation, in which it was decided that it would be best to reconnoiter before attempting to leave the creek. It was very dark, and not a sound broke the stillness of the night; but the smugglers were too cunning to believe that the coast was clear, for they knew that the enemy would resort to every possible means to effect their capture. Three of the smugglers were directed to get into Mr. Butler's yawl, taking one of the prisoners with them, and drop down to the mouth of Glen's Creek, and note the position of the enemy there; and Frank and the other boys stepped into the skiff, and started up toward Ducks' Creek, to ascertain the condition of affairs, taking Ned with them. They pulled rapidly, but noiselessly, along, and had almost reached the creek, when a strong, cheery voice, directly before them, called out, "Boat ahoy!" "There," whispered Harry, "we're discovered." "No, I guess not," said Frank. "Ned," he continued, turning to the prisoner, "you must talk for us. Answer them." "Ay, ay, sir," shouted Ned, in reply to the hail. "What boat is that?" "Dispatch boat," answered Ned, prompted by Frank; "and we bring orders for you to pull down and join the fleet, which is now blockading the mouth of Glen's Creek." "All right," answered the voice. "We've been waiting an hour for that order. This playing police is dull business." And the smugglers heard the rattling of a chain, as if the anchor was being pulled up. "Tell them to make haste," whispered Frank. "Come, hurry up there, now," shouted Ned. "Ay, ay," was the answer. And, in a few moments, the Sampson, propelled by four oars, shot past them, on her way down the creek. "That's what I call pretty well done," said Ben, as soon as the coast-guards were out of hearing. "I don't," said Ned. "It goes against me to fool a fellow in that way; and my own friends, too." The smugglers now continued on their way, and a few strong pulls brought them within a short distance of the mouth of Ducks' Creek; and Frank, who was at the helm, turned the boat's head toward the shore, and, as soon as her keel touched the bottom, he and Ben sprang out, leaving Harry to watch the prisoner. They had landed upon Reynard's Island, and immediately started for the opposite side, to learn, if possible, what was going on upon the river. Every thing was as silent as midnight; and the smugglers were obliged to move very carefully, for the slightest sound--the snapping of a twig or the rustling of a leaf--could be heard at a long distance. After proceeding a quarter of a mile in this cautious manner, they reached the opposite side of the island. "Well," said Ben, after trying in vain to peer through the darkness, "how do matters stand? I wonder if we could not have slipped by their police, and reached the island, before they knew it?" "No, sir," said Frank, "not by a good deal. We should certainly have been captured." "How do you know? I can't see any thing." "Neither can I; but listen, and you will _hear_ something. They are taking their positions." The boys remained silent, and the suppressed murmur of voices, the strokes of muffled oars, and, now and then, a gentle splashing in the water, as of an anchor dropped carefully overboard, could be distinctly heard. "I am still of the opinion," said Ben, "that we could run the blockade before they could catch us." "And I still think that we should get caught," said Frank. "If we should attempt to hoist a sail, it could be heard across the river; besides, there is no breeze." "Then, try the oars." "They would overtake us before we had gone twenty rods. You must remember that they outnumber us, six to one, and could easily tire us out, or cut us off from the island. Wait until the breeze springs up, and then we will see what we can do." "Listen," whispered Ben, suddenly; "some of the boats are coming down this way. They are sending a division of the fleet to guard Ducks' Creek." And so it proved. The slow, measured strokes of oars came nearer and nearer, and, finally, the tall, raking masts of three of the swiftest-sailing boats in the squadron could be dimly seen moving down the river toward the creek. As they approached, the smugglers discovered that two boys, in a light skiff, led the way, and one of them, who proved to be Charles Sheldon, pointed out the position he wished each boat to occupy. The places assigned them were not directly opposite the mouth of the creek, but a little up the river, and about twenty feet from the shore; and this, afterward, proved to be a very favorable circumstance for the smugglers. "Now, boys," said Charles, after he had placed the little vessels to his satisfaction, "keep a good look-out up the river." "I should think," said the captain of the division "that you ought to have us anchor directly in the mouth of the creek. We shall have a good stiff breeze before long, and the Alert might slip out at any time, and, before we could hoist a sail, she would be half-way across the river." "I don't think she will trouble you down here," said Charles. "Frank Nelson wouldn't be foolish enough to send her out here, for it's a good quarter of a mile below the foot of the island; and, even if she does come out here, and succeeds in getting by you, all we will have to do will be to send a division down to the foot of the island to meet her there, and then her capture is certain. Now, remember, keep an eye open to everything that goes on up the river. Never mind the Speedwell and Champion--let them go where they please; but, if you see the Alert, why, you know what to do." And Charles and his attendant pulled back up the river. "Now, Ben," said Frank, "we've heard enough to know that we have fooled them nicely; so let's go back." This, however, was no easy undertaking. The way to their boat lay through bushes that could scarcely be penetrated, even in the day-time. The coast-guards were anchored close by the shore, and the slightest noise would arouse their suspicions. Frank led the way on his hands and knees, carefully choosing his ground, and they, at length, succeeded in reaching their boat, without disturbing the coast-guards. A few moments' pulling brought them alongside Mr. Butler's wharf, where they found the others waiting for them. "What news?" inquired George, as they clambered up out of the boat. Frank explained, in a few words, the position of the squadron at the mouth of Ducks' Creek, as well as the conversation they had overheard, and also inquired of George the result of his observations. "It was too dark to see much," he answered; "but we could plainly hear them taking their positions opposite the mouth of the creek. It will be hard work to get through them, I tell you." "How are you going to work it, Frank?" inquired Ben. "I'll tell you what I thought of doing," he answered "By the way Charley Sheldon spoke, I should judge that he expects to see the Alert start from Glen's Creek; so, I think, it would be a good plan, as soon as the breeze springs up, to have the Champion and Alert drop down Ducks' Creek, and let the former run out and start for the island. The coast-guards will not give chase, of course, but will think it is only a ruse of ours to make them believe that the Alert is going to start from the same place, and that will make them watch Glen's Creek closer than ever, and the Alert will have a chance to get a good start before they can hoist their sails, and, while they are after her, Ben and I will run out and land our goods." "That's the way to do it," said William, approvingly. "We will fool them so completely that they will not want to hear of smugglers again for six months." "Let's go and get some breakfast," said George. "Never go to work on an empty stomach, you know." "Yes, come on," said Harry, taking each of the captive coast-guards by the arm; "we never feed our prisoners on half rations." After "stowing away" a large supply of bread and milk, the smugglers, in company with their prisoners, again repaired to the boat-house. By this time it was five o'clock, and the breeze which the coast-guards had predicted began to spring up, and promised to freshen into a capital "sailing wind." In a few moments the _real_ provisions were all packed away, as closely as possible, in the Speedwell, and the load was as large as she could well carry, there being scarcely room enough left for the action of the sails. "I guess we are all ready now," said Frank; "so, Bill, you might as well drop down Ducks' Creek and sail out." "All right," answered William. And he and Thomas clambered down into the boat, with the prisoners, the sails were hoisted, and the Champion was soon hidden from sight by the tall reeds and bushes that lined the banks of the creek. "Now, Harry," continued Frank, "Ben and I will take our boat and hide behind the point, and, in about five minutes, you may follow the Champion." "Now, make use of your best seamanship," said Ben. "You can lead them a long chase, if you try." "I assure you that we will do our best," said George. The Speedwell's sails were hoisted, and Frank took his seat at the helm, while Ben placed himself so as to assist in managing the sails. Brave took his usual station in the bow, and they moved slowly down the creek. The point of which Frank had spoken was a long, low neck of land, covered with trees, which completely concealed the mouth of Glen's Creek. In a few moments they reached this point, and the Speedwell's bow ran high upon the sand, and the boys sprang out, and hurried over to the other side of the point, to watch the proceedings on the river, while Brave, at his master's command, remained in the boat. Concealing themselves behind a large log, they waited impatiently for the appearance of the Champion. The vessels of the squadron, with the exception of the division stationed at the foot of Reynard's Island, were anchored in a semicircle directly before the mouth of Glen's Creek, from which it was expected that the Alert would start. Each sloop was manned by two boys, and the schooners had a crew of four. Every one stood at his post, and was ready to move at the word. "They meant to be ready for us, didn't they?" asked Frank. "I wonder if they thought we would be foolish enough to send the Alert out of this creek, in the face of all those boats?" "I don't know," answered Ben. "I suppose they thought--See there! there goes the Champion." Frank looked down the river, and saw that the stanch little sloop had already run the blockade, and was standing boldly toward the island. Her appearance was sudden and wholly unexpected and several of the coast-guards sprang to their feet, and a dozen sails were half-way up the mast in a twinkling; but, as soon as they discovered that it was not the Alert, they quickly returned to their posts, and, in a moment, all the bustle and confusion was over. The eye of every boy in the squadron was now directed toward Glen's Creek, expecting, every moment, to see the schooner round the point. The Champion had accomplished, perhaps, half the distance across the river, when the Alert suddenly shot from Ducks' Creek, and, hauling around before the wind, ran in between two of the blockading fleet, so close as to almost graze them, and stood toward the foot of the island. As soon as the coast-guards could recover from their surprise, Charles shouted, "Up anchor--quick!" The next moment he called out, "Jim, take your division, and creep down the shore of the island, and be ready to catch her there, if she gets away from us." For a few moments there was a "great hurrying" among the coast-guards. The anchors were drawn up with a jerk, the sails flew up the masts, and the little fleet bore rapidly down upon the smuggler. As soon as Frank saw that the race had fairly begun, he exclaimed, "Now's our time, Ben!" They ran back to their boat, and hastily shoved from the shore, and the Speedwell, making good her name, was soon plowing the river, in the direction of the island. So intent were the coast-guards upon catching the Alert, that they thought of nothing else; and Frank rounded the head of the island, and landed, without being discovered. Meanwhile, George and Harry were leading their pursuers a long chase. Under their skillful management--standing first on one tack and then on the other--they had succeeded in outmaneuvering several of the swiftest-sailing vessels in the squadron. Two or three small sloops had succeeded in getting between the Alert and the island; but Harry, who was at the helm, did not deem them worthy a moment's notice. He was confident that his schooner, by her superior sailing qualities, would soon leave these behind also. The smugglers began to grow jubilant over their success, and George called out, "Where are your men-o'-war now? Throw us a line, and we'll tow you." "Come on, you coast-guards," chimed in Harry. "You will never catch us, at this rate." If the smugglers _had_ succeeded in eluding their pursuers, it would, indeed, have been an achievement worth boasting of; but they had to deal with those who were as cunning and skillful as themselves. Charles was not to be beaten so easily; and, although he said nothing, the smugglers saw him smile and shake his head, as if he were certain that he could yet win the day. "Can you discover any fast boats ahead of us, George?" inquired Harry. George rose to his feet to take a survey of the squadron, and answered, "No, there are only two or three little things standing across our bows, but we'll soon--We're caught, sure as shooting!" he suddenly exclaimed, changing his tone. "Bring her around before the wind--quick! There's the North Star, Sunshine, and Sampson. We might as well haul down the sails." James Porter's division, which had been "laying to" at the foot of Glen's Island, now bore down upon the Alert, and George had just discovered them; and they were coming on in such a manner that escape was impossible. "Yes," answered Harry, as soon as he had noted the positions of the approaching vessels, "we are caught. We began to brag too soon." "Well, we don't lose any thing," said George. "Frank has landed the provisions long before this." "I know it; but still I wish we could have beaten them." "What do you think now, Harry?" asked Charles, whose boat was following close in the wake of the Alert. "I think we are done for." And, as Harry "luffed in the wind," George drew down the sails, and gave up the struggle. In a moment the little fleet closed about the smuggler, and, to prevent accident, the sails were all hauled down, and the boats lay motionless on the water. "I tell you," said Charles, "you fellows worked it pretty well." "Yes," answered George, as if a little crest-fallen at their defeat. "We did the best we could." "I thought we had more provisions than this," said one of the captains of the squadron, pulling his boat alongside of the Alert. "I didn't think you could get them all in here." And he pulled up the covering, and looked under it. "They are packed in tight, you see," said Harry, who wished to keep up the "sell," as he called it, as long as possible. "What are in these bags?" inquired one. "Shavings," answered George. "We thought we might want to kindle a fire for something." "I say, George," said James Porter, standing up in his boat to get a good view of the things in the Alert. "I wish you would feel in my basket, and get a cup that is in there, and pass it over this way. I'm thirsty. I was so excited," he continued, taking off his hat and wiping the perspiration from his forehead, "that I sweat as if I had been dumped in the river. There isn't a dry rag on me." "Which is your basket?" inquired Harry, struggling hard to suppress a laugh. "It's a brown basket, with a white cover," answered James. George and Harry were too full of laughter to trust themselves to speak; but Charles exclaimed, as he drew aside the covering, "There's no brown basket here." "There ought to be," said one of the coast-guards; "I brought my things in a brown basket." "So did I," exclaimed another. "There's a cheat somewhere," said James. "You haven't done as you agreed," said Charles. "You promised to carry all the things in one boat." "Yes, that's what you agreed to do," shouted several. "And we've kept our promise," said Harry. "Then, where's _my_ basket?" inquired one of the boys, who had failed to discover it among the things in the Alert. "I'll bet the Champion carried some of the provisions over," said another, "for there are not half of them here." "No, the Champion didn't have a thing in her," said a third. "She passed so close to my boat, that I could have jumped into her, and I took particular pains to see that she was empty." "Well, here are the things that I brought, at any rate," said Charles, who had just caught sight of the bag which contained, as he supposed, his lemons. "My goodness!" he continued, as he lifted them out of the boat, "how heavy they are!" And he began to untie the bag, and soon disclosed to the view of the coast-guards, not the lemons, but almost half a peck of smooth, round stones. George and Harry, who could contain themselves no longer, rolled on the bottom of the boat, convulsed with laughter; and several ready hands tore off the coverings of the baskets and pails, and they were found to be empty. A more astonished set of boys one never saw; and, as soon as they could speak, they burst out with a volley of ejaculations that will hardly bear repetition. "We've been chasing the wrong boat," said one. "Yes," answered another, "and I knew it would be so. That Frank Nelson is too much of a Yankee for us." "The Speedwell--the Speedwell!" shouted another; "keep a good look-out for her." "Oh, you're too late," said Harry, with a laugh, "the provisions were landed long ago." "I don't believe it. I didn't see any thing of her." "Of course you didn't," said Charles; "you were too intent on catching the Alert. Boys," he continued, "we're fairly beaten. Let's start for the island." The coast-guards silently obeyed, and the smugglers refrained from making any remarks, for they saw that the squadron's crew took their defeat sorely to heart. In a few moments the little fleet rounded the foot of the island, and the boys discovered the Champion and Speedwell, lying with their bows high upon the sand, and their crews were busy carrying the provisions under the shade of a large oak, that stood near the water's edge. As soon as the last vessel came in sight, the smugglers on shore greeted them with three hearty cheers, which George and Harry answered with a will, but the coast-guards remained silent. In a few moments they had all landed, and the smugglers joined their companions; and Charles took off his hat, and said to the coast-guards, "Boys, I want to have just one word with you. We have been beaten," he continued, as they gathered silently about him, "completely outwitted; but it was fairly done. We took all the advantage of the smugglers that we could, but they have beaten us at our own game. I feel as cheap as any of you do, but it can't be helped now; and there's no use of having unpleasant feelings about it, for that would spoil a good day's sport. If we didn't catch them, we did our best, and we had a good, exciting race--one that I wouldn't have missed for a good deal. Now, boys, show that you appreciate the good trick that has been played on us, by giving the smugglers three hearty cheers." This little speech--showing Charles to be a boy of good feeling--had the effect of convincing the coast-guards that to manifest any ill-will at their defeat would be both unkind and selfish, and the cheer that rose from forty strong lungs was almost deafening. The smugglers, who had heard what Charles had said, cheered lustily, in turn, for the coast-guards, and instantly every unkind feeling vanished. The coast-guards readily entered into conversation with the smugglers, and the latter explained the trick of which they had made use, as well as the manner in which the capture of the prisoners was affected, and the adventure with the police-boat; and, although the coast-guards were provoked at themselves for "not having more sense," as they termed it, they could not refrain from joining in a hearty laugh. By this time the refreshments had all been carried under the tree of which we have spoken, where there was a smooth grass-plat, which made a nice place to set the table. The boys had spent some time relating various incidents that had occurred during the chase, when Ben suddenly inquired, "Well, boys, what's to be the order of the day? You know that we came over here to enjoy ourselves, and we had better be about it." "I think," said Charles, "that it would be a good plan to appoint a committee to arrange those eatables. We came away without our breakfast, and I, for one, feel hungry." "There's where we had the advantage of you," said Thomas. "While you were hurrying around, and taking your positions, we were eating our breakfast. You see, we took matters easy." "And beat us, after all," said one of the coast-guards; "it's too bad. But let's have that committee appointed." A dozen boys were speedily chosen to set the table, and the others, catching up all the empty pails and baskets they could find, scattered over the island in search of strawberries. In about an hour they met again under the tree, and found the refreshments all ready for them, and they fell to work in earnest. So full were they of their sport, that it took them two hours to eat their dinner, as they had said they had come to enjoy themselves, and felt in duty bound to eat all their baskets contained. After dinner, one of the smugglers proposed to go squirrel-hunting; but many of the coast-guards had passed the preceding night without any sleep, and, to use their own expression, they "didn't feel like it;" so this project was abandoned, and the boys lay on the grass, under the tree, telling stories, until almost three o'clock, and then began to get ready to start for home. CHAPTER X. A Queer Cousin. As every one knows, it would be almost an impossibility for sixteen sail-boats to go any where in company without trying their speed, especially if they were sailed by boys. When our heroes stepped into their vessels, each skipper made up his mind that his boat must be the first one to touch the opposite shore. Not a word was said about a race, but every one knew that one would be sure to come off. Every thing was done in a hurry, and the little vessels were all afloat in a moment. They were on the leeward side of the island--that is, the side from the wind--and they would be obliged to get around to the opposite side before they could use their sails. The coast-guards shoved their boats out into the current, and allowed themselves to float down toward the foot of the island, thinking that course easier than pulling, against the current, up to the head of the island. Frank noticed this movement, and said, in a low voice, to the smugglers, "Don't follow them, boys. They will find themselves becalmed in less than a quarter of an hour. The breeze is dying away. If you want to beat them, hoist your sails, and get out your oars, and row up to the head of the island; we can reach it before they reach the foot, and, besides, the current will carry them further down the river than they want to go." The smugglers did as Frank had directed; and as they moved from the shore, and turned up the river, one of the coast-guards called out, "Where are you fellows going?" "Home," answered Ben. "You are taking the longest and hardest way." "The longest way around is the nearest way home, you know," answered William. "I don't believe it is, in this instance," said James Porter. "Let's see who will be at the long dock first." "All right," answered the smugglers. And they disappeared behind a high-wooded promontory of the island. It was hard work, pulling against a current that ran four miles an hour, but they were accustomed to it, and the thought of again beating the coast-guards gave strength to their arms. In a few moments a sudden filling of the sails announced that they had caught the breeze. The oars were drawn in, and every sheet hauled taut, and, when they rounded the head of the island, not one of the squadron was in sight. "I expected," said Harry, speaking in a loud voice, so that the others could hear, "that they would feel the wind long before this." "Even if they had," answered Frank, "we could have beaten them easily enough. You see, when they come around the foot of the island, they will be some distance below the long dock, and the current will carry them still further down, while we are above it, and can sail right down to it. Here they come!" The boys looked down the river, and saw the men-o'-war rapidly following each other around the foot of the island. "I guess they have discovered their mistake before this time," said William. "Now," he continued, as he drew his mainsail down a little closer "the Champion is going to be the first to sail into the creek." "That's the game, is it?" said Frank. "Ben, perch yourself up on the windward side, and we'll see which is the best boat." Ben did as he was desired, and the little vessels increased their speed, and bounded over the gentle swells as if some of their crews' spirit had been infused into them. They had started nearly even--the Alert and Champion being a little in advance of the Speedwell--and the boys knew that the race was to be a fair trial of the speed of their boats. The Alert and Speedwell had never been "matched" before, and the boys were anxious to learn their comparative speed. The former was the "champion" boat of the village, and Harry and George were confident that Frank's "tub," as they jokingly called it, would soon be distanced. Frank thought so, too; but the reputation of owning the swiftest boat in the village was well worth trying for, and he determined to do his best. Since his race with the Champion, he had made larger sails for his boat, and added a flying-jib and a gaff-topsail, and he found that her speed was almost doubled. The Champion soon fell behind, and the two rival boats were left to finish the race, which, for a long time, seemed undecided. But, at length, the Speedwell, with her strong mast groaning and creaking under the weight of the heavy canvas, began to gain steadily, and soon passed the Alert. Ten minutes' run brought them across the river; and when Frank, proud of the victory he had gained, rounded the long dock, the Alert was full four rods behind. The breeze was rapidly dying away, and not one of the coast-guards had yet reached the shore. Some of them had been carried almost a mile below the creek, and lay with the sails idly flapping against the masts. Frank and Ben sailed slowly along up the creek, and, when they arrived at the end of the dock, the Speedwell was "made fast," and the boys started to get their mail. As they entered the post-office, Frank stepped up to the "pigeon-hole," and the postmaster handed him two letters; one was addressed to his mother, and the other bore his own name, written in a full, round, school-boy's hand. "Ben," he exclaimed, as he broke the seal, "I've got a letter from Archie. I wrote to him a month ago; I should think it was about time to get an answer." "See if he says any thing about getting a letter from me," said Ben. "I haven't heard from him in a long time." Before proceeding further, it may not be improper to say a word about Archie Winters. He was, as we have already said, Frank's cousin, and lived in the city of Portland. He was just Frank's age, and, like him, was kind and generous; but he was not the boy for books. When in school, he was an obedient and industrious pupil, and learned very readily; but, when four o'clock came, he was the first to lay aside his books. He was very fond of rural sports, and, for a city boy, was a very expert hunter; he even considered himself able to compete with Frank. He was also passionately fond of pets, and, if he could have had his own way, he would have possessed every cat and dog in the city. His father was a wealthy ship-builder, and Archie was an only child. But he was not, as is generally the case, spoiled by indulgence; on the contrary, his parents always required his prompt and cheerful obedience, and, when out of their sight, Archie was very careful to do nothing of which he thought his parents would not approve. Every vacation he paid a visit to his cousin, and sometimes staid until late in the winter, to engage in his favorite sport. He was well known to the village boys, among whom his easy and obliging manners had won many a steadfast friend. But let us now return to the letter, which ran as follows: PORTLAND, _June_ 28, 18--. DEAR COUSIN: Your letter of the 16th of last month was duly received, and, I suppose, you think it is about time for me to answer it. They say that a person who is good at making excuses is good for nothing else; but, I suppose, you will expect some apology for my seeming neglect. You perhaps remember hearing your mother speak of James Sherman, a cousin whom we had never seen. About two weeks since, father received a letter from his mother, stating that she and James would be at our house in about three days. Well, they came agreeably to notice, and I have had the pleasure of entertaining our cousin ever since. I have had to pilot him around, and show him all the sights, and I have had time for nothing else. I will not tell you what sort of a fellow he is; I will leave you to judge of his general character, etc. He and his mother are now on their way to Lawrence, and they expect to be at your house about the 6th (July). They intend to remain about two weeks. When I saw them getting into the train, and knew that in a few days they would be with you, I wanted very much to accompany them. But mother says _one_ noisy boy in the house is sufficient. (I wonder whether she means you or James!) But as soon as they have ended their visit, if nothing happens, you may expect to see our family landing from the Julia Burton, some fine morning. I have been pent up in the city now almost six months, and I am impatient to get into the country again--especially among the trout-streams about your quiet little village. I have often thought of the sport we had the day we went up to Dungeon Brook. I know it rained hard, but the string of trout we caught beat any thing of the kind I ever happened to see. But I've got some good news for you. Father has decided to spend part of the winter at Uncle Joe's, and he promises to take you and me with him; so you can begin to pack up your duds as soon as you wish. That trout-pole you made for me last winter met with a serious accident a few days since. One of my schoolmates invited me to go up the river with him, and try a perch-bed he had accidentally discovered. I had sent off my heavy pole to the painters, so I was obliged to take my trout-pole. I was afraid that I should break it, but it behaved beautifully for about two hours, during which time I drew in sixty fine perch and rock-bass--some of the former weighing between one and two pounds--and I began to think that the pole was too tough to break. But I was very soon convinced of my mistake, for, as bad luck would have it, I hooked on to a black-bass. I thought I handled him very carefully, but, before we could land him, he broke my pole in three pieces; but the line held, and he was soon floundering in the boat. He was a fine fellow--a regular "sockdologer"--weighing six pounds and a half. But I heartily wished him safe in the bottom of the river. I have laid the pole away, and intend to bring it to you for repairs. But it is ten o'clock, and father suggests that, if I wish to get to the post-office before the mail closes, I had "better make tracks." So I must stop. Love to all. Yours affectionately, A. Winters. P.S.--Please tell Ben and Harry that I will answer their letters immediately. A.W. By this time the rest of the smugglers had arrived, and, as soon as Frank had run his eye over the letter, and began to fold it up, George inquired, "Well, what does he say? Did he receive Harry's letter?" "Yes, and also one from Ben. He says he will answer them at once." After a few moments' conversation, the boys separated, and started for home, expressing themselves highly delighted at Frank's way of spending the Fourth. The day on which Mrs. Sherman and her son were expected at length arrived. As a fine breeze was blowing, Frank and his sister--accompanied, of course, by Brave--stepped into the Speedwell, and started to enjoy a sail on the river. It was now the summer vacation, and the boys were determined to have plenty of recreation after their long siege of study; and, when Frank reached the mouth of the creek, he found the river dotted with white sails as far as he could see. Several of the boats had started on fishing excursions, but the majority of them were sailing idly about, as if nothing particular had been determined on. Frank turned the Speedwell's head down the river, and soon joined the little fleet. He had hoisted every stitch of canvas his boat could carry, and she flew along, passing several of the swiftest vessels, and finally encountered the Alert. The race was short, for the Speedwell easily passed her, and George and Harry were compelled to acknowledge that, to use their own expression, "the Alert was nowhere." In about two hours the Julia Burton was seen rounding the point, and a loud, clear whistle warned the villagers of her approach. Frank turned the Speedwell toward home, and arrived at the wharf about ten minutes after the steamer had landed. As they sailed along up the creek, Julia suddenly exclaimed, "I wonder who those people are!" Frank turned, and saw a lady just getting into a carriage, and a boy, apparently about his own age, stood by, giving orders, in a loud voice, to the driver, about their baggage. Both were dressed in the hight of fashion, and Frank knew, from the description his aunt had given his mother, that they were the expected visitors. As soon as the boy had satisfied himself that their baggage was safe, he continued, in a voice loud enough to be heard by Frank and his sister, "Now, driver, you're sure you know where Mrs. Nelson lives?" "Yes, sir," answered the man, respectfully. "Well, then, old beeswax, hurry up. Show us how fast your cobs can travel." So saying, he sprang into the carriage, and the driver closed the door after him, mounted to his seat, and drove off. "Why," said Julia, in surprise, "I guess that's Aunt Harriet--don't you?" "Yes," answered her brother, "I know it is." "I am afraid I shall not like James," continued Julia; "he talks too loud." Frank did not answer, for he was of the same opinion. He had inferred from Archie's letter that James would prove any thing but an agreeable companion. The brisk wind that was blowing carried them rapidly along, and, in a few moments, they came to a place where the road ran along close to the creek. The distance to Mrs. Nelson's, by the road, was greater, by a quarter of a mile, than by the creek, and, consequently, they had gained considerably on the carriage. Soon they heard the rattling of wheels behind them, and the hack came suddenly around a turn in the road. James was leaning half-way out of the window, his cap pushed on one side of his head, and, not knowing Frank, he accosted him, as he came up, with his favorite expression. "Hallo, old beeswax! Saw-logs must have been cheap when you had that boat built. You've got timber enough there to finish off a good-sized barn." Frank, of course, made no reply; and, in a moment more, the hack was out of sight. They soon reached the wharf, in front of the house, and Frank helped Julia out, and, after making his boat fast, started toward the house, and entered the room where their visitors were seated. His aunt's greeting was cold and distant, and she acted as if her every motion had been thoroughly studied. James's acknowledgment was scarcely more than agreeable. To Frank's inquiry, "How do you do, sir?" he replied, "Oh, I'm bully, thank you, old beeswax. Not you the cod I twigged[A] navigating that scow up the creek?" [Footnote A: Saw.] Frank acknowledged himself to be the person, and James continued, "I suppose she's the champion yacht, isn't she?" "Yes," answered Frank, "she is. There's no boat about the village that can beat her." "Ah, possibly; but, after all, you had better tell that to the marines. I've seen too much of the world to have a country chap stuff me, now I tell you, old beeswax." We will not particularize upon James's visit. It will suffice to relate one or two incidents that will illustrate his character. A day or two after his arrival, he discovered the schooner standing on Frank's bureau, and he could not be contented until he should see "how she carried herself in the water," and Frank, reluctantly, carried it down to the creek and set it afloat. For a few moments James seemed to have forgotten his evil propensities, and they amused themselves by sailing the schooner from one side of the creek to the other. But he very soon grew tired of this "lame, unexciting sport," as he called it, and, gathering up an armful of stones, he began to throw them into the water near the boat, shouting, "Storm on the Atlantic! See her rock!" "Please don't, James," urged Frank; "I'm afraid you will hit the schooner." "No fear of that," answered James, confidently, still continuing to throw the stones; "I can come within a hair's-breadth of her, and not touch her. Now, see." And, before Frank could speak, away flew a large stone, with great force, and, crashing through the mainsail of the little vessel, broke both masts and the bowsprit short off. "There," exclaimed Frank, "I was afraid you would do that." James did not appear to be in the least sorry for it, but he skipped up the bank, shouting, in an insulting tone, "There's your boat, old beeswax. When do you expect her in port?" Frank did not answer, but drew what remained of the schooner to the shore, and, taking it under his arm, started for his shop, saying, "Now, that's a nice cousin for a fellow to have. I'll do my best to treat him respectfully while he stays, but I shall not be sorry when the time comes to bid him good-by." And that time was not far distant. James often complained to his mother that Frank was a "low-minded, mean fellow," and urged an immediate departure. His mother always yielded to his requests, or rather _demands_, no matter how unreasonable they might be; and they had scarcely made a visit of a week, when they announced their intention of leaving Lawrence by the "next boat." On the day previous to their departure, Mrs. Nelson had occasion to send Frank to the village for some groceries, and, as a favorable wind was blowing, he decided to go in his boat. But, before starting, he managed to slip away from James long enough to write a few lines to Archie, urging him to come immediately. Frank intended to start off without James's knowledge; but the uneasy fellow was always on the look-out, and, seeing his cousin going rapidly down the walk, with a basket on each arm, and his dog--which, like his master, had not much affection for James--he shouted, "Hallo, old beeswax, where are you bound for?" "For the village," answered Frank. "Are you going to take the tow-path?" "The tow-path! I don't know what you mean." "Are you going to ride shanks' horses?" "I don't understand that, either." "Oh, you are a bass-wood man, indeed," said James, with a taunting laugh. "Are you going to _walk_? Do you think you can comprehend me now?" "Yes," answered Frank, "I can understand you when you talk English. No, I am not going to walk." "Then I'll go with you, if you will leave that dog at home." "I don't see what objections you can have to his company. He always goes with me." "I suppose you think more of him than you do of your relations; but I'm going with you, at any rate." And he quickened his pace to overtake Frank. While his cousin was hoisting the sails, James deliberately seated himself in the stern of the boat, and took hold of the tiller. "Do you understand managing a sail-boat?" inquired Frank, as he stood ready to cast off the painter. "If any one else had asked me that question," answered James, with an air of injured dignity, "I should have considered it an insult. Of course I _do_." "All right, then," said Frank, as he pushed the boat from the wharf. "Go ahead. We shall be obliged to tack a good many times, going down but we can sail back like a book, and--" "Oh, you teach your grandmother, will you?" interrupted James. "I've sailed more boats than you ever saw." Frank, at first, did not doubt the truth of this assertion, for James lived in a seaport town, and had had ample opportunity to learn how to manage a yacht; but they had not made twenty feet from the wharf, when he made up his mind that his cousin had never before attempted to act as skipper. Instead of keeping as close as possible to the wind, as he should have done, he turned the boat's head first one way and then another, and, of course, made no headway at all. "I never saw such a tub as this," said James, at length; "I can't make her mind her helm." Just at this moment a strong gust of wind filled the sails, and, as James was not seaman enough to "luff" or "let go the sheet," the Speedwell same very near capsizing. As she righted, the wind again filled the sails, and the boat was driven with great speed toward the shore. Frank had barely time to pull up the center-board before her bows ran high upon the bank, and the sheet was roughly jerked from James's hand, and flapped loudly against the mast. "There," said Frank, turning to his cousin, who sat, pale with terror, "I guess it's a long time since you attempted to sail a boat; you seem to have forgotten how, I tell you," he continued as he noticed James's trepidation, "if I hadn't pulled up that center-board just as I did, we should have been obliged to swim for it." "I can't swim," said James, in a weak voice. "Then you would have been in a fix," said Frank. "Now, let me see if I can have any better luck." James very willingly seated himself on one of the middle thwarts, and Frank pushed the boat from the shore, and took hold of the tiller, and, under his skillful management, the Speedwell flew through the water like a duck. James soon got over his fright, and his uneasy nature would not allow him to remain long inactive, and, as he could find nothing else to do, he commenced to rock the boat from one side to the other, and, as she was "heeling" considerably, under the weight of her heavy canvas, the water began to pour in over her side. Although the speed of the boat was greatly diminished, Frank, for some time, made no complaint, hoping that his cousin would soon grow tired of the sport. But James did not seem inclined to cease, and Frank, at length, began to remonstrate. He reminded James that it would not require much to capsize the boat, and, as the creek was very deep, and as he (James) had said he could not swim, he might be a "gone sucker." This, at first, had the effect of making James more careful, but he soon commenced again as bad as ever. Brave was seated in his usual place, and directly behind James. He seemed to dislike the rocking of the boat as much as his master, but he bore it very patiently for awhile, thinking, no doubt, that the best way to deal with James was to "let him severely alone." But the rocking increased, and Brave began to slide from one side of the boat to the other. This was enough to upset his patience; and, encouraged, perhaps, by some sly glances from Frank, he sprang up, and, placing a paw on each shoulder of his tormentor, barked fiercely, close to his ear. James screamed loudly; and Brave, evidently thinking he had punished him enough, returned to his seat. "Let me ashore," shouted James; "I shan't stay in here any longer." Frank gladly complied, and, the moment the Speedwell's bows touched the bank, James sprang out. "I wouldn't risk my life in that tub again for any money," he shouted; "you may bet on that, old beeswax." Frank made no reply, but pushed the boat from the shore again as soon as possible. James now felt safe; and, gathering up a handful of stones, determined to wreak his vengeance on Brave. The sensible Newfoundlander, at first, paid no attention to this cowardly assault; but the stones whizzed by in unpleasant proximity, now and then striking the sail or the side of the boat, and he began to manifest his displeasure, by showing his teeth and growling savagely. Frank stood it as long as possible, knowing that the best plan was to remain silent; but James continued to follow the boat, and the stones struck all around the object of his vengeance. "I wish you wouldn't do that," said Frank, at length. "You do, eh?" said James. "How are you going to hinder it? But perhaps you would rather have me throw at you." And, picking up a large stone, he hurled it at his cousin with great force. It fell into the creek, close to the boat, and splashed the water all over Frank. This seemed to enrage Brave more than ever, and he sprang into the water, and swam toward the shore, and no amount of scolding on Frank's part could induce him to return. James, fearing that he was about to be punished in a way he had not thought of, turned and took to his heels. At this moment a loud shout was heard, and several boys sprang over the fence into the road, and James was speedily overtaken and surrounded. They were a ragged, hard-looking set of fellows, and Frank knew that they were the Hillers; besides, he recognized the foremost of them as Lee Powell. They had their fishing-rods on their shoulders, and each boy carried in his hand a long string of trout. "Look'e here, you spindle-shanked dandy," said Lee, striding up and laying hold of James's collar with no friendly hand, "does yer know who yer was a heavin' rocks at? Shall we punch him for yer?" he added, turning to Frank. "No," answered Frank; "let him go; he's my cousin." Lee accordingly released him, and James said, in a scarcely audible voice, "I was only in fun." "Oh, only playin', was yer?" said Lee; "that alters the case 'tirely--don't it, Pete?" The boy appealed to nodded his assent, and Lee continued, "We thought yer was in blood arnest. If yer _had_ been, we wouldn't a left a grease-spot of yer--would we, Pete?" "Mighty cl'ar of us," answered Pete. As soon as James found himself at liberty, he started toward home at full speed, hardly daring to look behind him. Brave had by this time gained the shore, and was about to start in pursuit, but a few sharp words from Frank restrained him. "Whar are yer goin'?" inquired Lee, walking carelessly down the bank. "I'm going to the village," answered Frank. "Will yer give a feller a ride?" "Certainly. Jump in." The Hillers accordingly clambered into the boat, and, in a few moments, they reached the wharf, at the back of the post-office. Lee and his companions immediately sprang out, and walked off, without saying a word; and Frank, after fastening his boat to the wharf, began to pull down the sails, when he discovered that the Hillers had left two large strings of trout behind them. Hastily catching them up, he ran around the corner of the post-office, and saw Lee and his followers, some distance up the road. "Hallo!" he shouted, at the top of his lungs; "Lee Powell!" But they paid no attention to him. "I know they heard me," said Frank. And he shouted again, but with no better success. At length, one of the village boys, who was coming across the fields, with a basket of strawberries on his arm, shouted to the Hillers, and, when he had gained their attention, pointed toward Frank, "See here!" Frank shouted, as he held up the fish; "you have forgotten these." "No, I guess not," shouted Lee, in reply. "We Hillers don't forget favors as easy as all that comes to. Ye're welcome to 'em." And he and his companions walked rapidly off. CHAPTER XI. Trout-Fishing. A few days after the events related in the preceding chapter transpired, Frank, with one or two companions, was standing in the post-office, waiting for the opening of the mail. The steamer had just landed, and the passengers which she had brought were slowly walking toward the hotel, where they intended to take dinner. At length, a village hack came rapidly down the road leading from the wharf, and, when it came opposite the post-office, a head was suddenly thrust out at the window, the driver reined in his horses, the door flew open, and Archie Winters sprang out. We shall not attempt to describe the meeting of the cousins, nor the joy that prevailed among the village boys at the arrival of their city friend. Archie had not written that it was his intention to come so soon, and his sudden appearance among them took them completely by surprise. After a few moments' conversation, Frank and Archie got into the carriage, and, in a short time, were set down at the door of Mrs. Nelson's house. Frank's mother and sister expressed much joy at Archie's arrival, and, after the excitement of meeting was over, they inquired after his parents. "When are they coming?" asked Frank. "They intended to come in the fall," answered Archie, "but father has more business on his hands than he expected, and they may not be here before the holidays; but I couldn't wait." "I'm glad you didn't," said Frank. "You are not going home before spring, are you?" "No," said Archie, "I'm going to stay as long as you will keep me." Frank was overjoyed at this, and, if he had not been in the house, he would have given, as he said, "a yell that would have done credit to an Indian." But, before going further, we must say a word about Archie's companions--we mean his dogs. One of them, that answered to the name of Sport, was as fine a fox-hound as one would wish to see. He was a large, tan-colored animal, very fleet and courageous, and was well acquainted with all the tricks of his favorite game, and the boys often boasted that "Sport had never lost a fox in his life." The black fox, which had held possession of Reynard's Island so long, was captured by Frank and his cousin, with the assistance of Sport, after a chase of three hours. Lightfoot--for that was the name of the other--was an English grayhound. He stood full three feet high at the shoulders, and his speed was tremendous. He was young, however, and knew nothing about hunting; but he had been taught to "fetch and carry," and, as he learned very readily, the boys expected plenty of sport in training him. After supper, Archie's trunk was carried into the "study," and the boys busied themselves in taking out its contents. The clothing was all packed away in the bureau; and then came Archie's "sporting cabinet," as he called it--a fine double-barreled shot-gun, which was hung upon the frame at the foot of the bed; a quantity of ammunition, a small hatchet, powder-flasks, shot bags, and a number of other things, which were stowed away in safe places. At length Archie drew out two fish-poles, neatly stowed away in strong bags, and one of them proved to be the one about which Archie had written. This was placed away in one corner, and Frank promised to mend it immediately. "See here," said Archie, as he drew out two queer-looking implements; "I have been acting on the suggestion of Uncle Joe Lewis." "What are they?" inquired Frank. One of them was a thin rod of steel, about three feet in length, very pointed and sharp at the end the other looked very much like a fish-spear, only the "tines" were smaller and sharper. "They are spears," said Archie, in answer to Frank's question. "So I see; but what use can you put them to?" "This," said Archie, taking up the rod of steel, "is a mink-spear. Last winter we lost a good many minks, when, if we had had an instrument like this, we could have secured them easily enough. You know that sometimes you get a mink into a place where you can see him, but, if you go to work to chop a hole large enough to get a stick in to kill him, he will jump out before you know what you are about. You will remember a little incident of this kind that happened last winter--that day we had such good luck. We were following a mink up the creek on the ice, when Brave suddenly stopped before a hollow stub, and stuck his nose into a hole, and acted as if there was a mink in there; and, you know, we didn't believe there was, but we thought we could stop and see. So we cut a hole in the stub, and, sure enough, there was a mink, and, as good luck would have it, we had cut the hole close to the place where he was, and we thought we had him sure; and, while Harry Butler went to cut a stick to kill him with, I chopped the hole a little larger, so that we could see him plainer, when, all of a sudden, out popped the mink, and, before we could say 'scat,' it was under the ice." "Yes," said Frank, "I remember it very well; and, I guess, there were some mad boys around that place, somewhere." "Yes," said Archie, "I was provoked because it was all my fault that we lost him. If we had had this spear, we could have killed him easy enough. We wouldn't be obliged to cut a hole larger than an inch square, and no mink I ever saw could get through that. And this," he continued, taking up the other instrument, "is a muskrat-spear. The way to proceed is this: Go to a muskrat's house, and, with an ax, cut a chunk out of the top, directly over where they sleep." "And, by the time you get that done," said Frank, with a laugh, "the muskrats will be out of your way." "I know that; they will undoubtedly start off the first blow you strike, and swim to some breathing-hole; but in a quarter of an hour they will be sure to return. While they are gone, you will have plenty of time to cut the chunk, and, after taking it out, place it carefully back, in such a manner that it can be removed instantly; then, if there are any other houses near, serve them in the same way. Then, in half an hour or so, take your spear and go to the houses, making as little noise at possible, and let your companion lift out the chunk suddenly, and you be ready to strike. Father says he has seen Uncle Joe Lewis catch half a dozen in one house, in this way, very frequently. He always spears the one nearest the passage that leads from the house down into the water, and this will prevent the others from escaping." "I don't much like the idea," said Frank. "Neither do I," said Archie. "It will do well enough for those who make their living by hunting; but, if I want to hunt muskrats, I would rather wait until the ice breaks up, in spring; I can then shoot them quite fast enough to suit me, and the sport is more exciting." One morning, about a week after Archie's arrival, they arose, as usual, very early, and, while they were dressing, Frank drew aside the curtain, and looked out. "I say, Archie," he exclaimed, "you've got your wish; it's a first-rate morning to go trout-fishing." Archie had been waiting impatiently for a cloudy day; he was very fond of trout-fishing, and he readily agreed to his cousin's proposal to "take a trip to Dungeon Brook," and they commenced pulling on their "hunting and fishing rig," as they called it, which consisted of a pair of stout pantaloons that would resist water and dirt to the last extremity, heavy boots reaching above their knees, and a blue flannel shirt. While Archie was getting their fishing-tackle ready, Frank busied himself in placing on the table in the kitchen such eatables as he could lay his hands on, for he and his cousin were the only ones up. Their breakfast was eaten in a hurry; and, after drawing on their India-rubber coats--for Frank said it would rain before they returned--they slung on their fish-baskets, and took their trout-poles in their hands, and started out. Dungeon Brook lay about five miles distant, through the woods. It was a long tramp, over fallen logs and through thick bushes; but it was famous for its large trout, and the boys knew they would be well repaid for their trouble. In about two hours they arrived at their destination; and, after partaking of a lunch, which Frank had brought, they rigged their "flies," and Archie went up the brook a little distance, to try a place known among the boys as the "old trout-hole," while Frank dropped his hook down close to a large log that lay across the stream, near the place where he was standing. The bait sank slowly toward the bottom, when, suddenly, there was a tremendous jerk, and the line whizzed through the water with a force that bent the tough, elastic pole like a "reed shaken with the wind." Frank was a skillful fisherman, and, after a few moments' maneuvering, a trout weighing between three and four pounds lay floundering on the bank. Archie soon came up, having been a little more successful, as two good-sized fish were struggling in his basket. They walked slowly down the brook, stopping now and then to try some favorite spot, and, about three o'clock in the afternoon, they reached the place where the brook emptied into Glen's Creek, and were about two miles from home. They had been remarkably successful; their baskets were filled, and they had several "sockdologers" strung on a branch, which they carried in their hands. After dropping their hooks for a few moments among the perch, at the mouth of the brook, they unjointed their poles, and started toward home, well satisfied with their day's work. The next day, as Frank and Archie were on their way to the village, on foot--the wind being contrary, they could not sail--they met George and Harry, who had started to pay them a visit. "Hallo, boys!" exclaimed the former, as soon as they came within speaking distance, "we've got news for you." "And some that you will not like to hear, Frank," said Harry, with a laugh. "What is it?" inquired Archie. "Why, you know, Charley Morgan, some time since, sent to New York for a couple of sail-boats, a sloop and schooner. They arrived yesterday, and he thinks they are something great, and says the Speedwell is nowhere." "Yes," chimed in Harry, "he said, when those boats came, he would show us 'country chaps' some sailing that would make us open our eyes; but, come to find out, they are perfect tubs. I saw the sloop coming up the creek, and she made poor headway. The Alert can beat her all hollow, with only the foresail hoisted." During the conversation the boys had been walking toward the village, and, in a few moments, they reached the dock behind the post-office, where the two new boats lay. One of them was a short, "dumpy," sloop-rigged boat, with no deck or center-board, and the other was a beautifully-modeled schooner. "What do you think of them?" inquired Harry, after they had regarded them several moments. "Well," answered Archie, "I have seen a good many boats like these in New York, but I don't think they will do much here. That schooner may show some fine sailing qualities, but that sloop will prove to be the slowest boat about the village; she is altogether too short. Take it where the waves are long and regular, and she will do well enough but here in the river, where the waves are all chopped up, she can't accomplish much." "That's your private opinion, expressed here in this public manner, is it?" said a sneering voice. "You have made a fine show of your ignorance." The boys turned, and saw Charles Morgan and several of the Rangers standing close by. "If I didn't know more about yachts than that," continued Charles, "I'd go home and soak my head." This remark was greeted by the Rangers with a loud laugh; and Archie, who, like Frank, was a very peaceable fellow, said, "Every one to his own way of thinking, you know." "Certainly," answered Charles; "but, if I was as much of a blockhead as you are, I'd be careful to keep my thoughts to myself." Archie did not answer, for he knew it would only add fuel to the fire; for Charles's actions indicated that he was bent on getting up a quarrel. He had determined to make another attempt to "settle accounts" between himself and Frank. "I'll bet you fifty dollars," said Charles, "that there are not half a dozen boats about the village that can beat that sloop." "I'm not in the habit of betting," answered Archie; "but, if you will find a boat about the village that _can't_ beat her, I'll eat your sloop." "You are green, indeed," said Charles. "Now, what do you suppose that sloop cost me?" "Well," answered Archie, thrusting his hands deep into his pockets, "I think ten dollars would foot the bill." Archie said this in so comical a manner that Frank and the others could not refrain from laughing outright. Charles was angry in an instant, and, quick as thought, he sprang forward and seized Archie. But he soon discovered that he had undertaken more than he could accomplish; for his antagonist, though considerably smaller than himself, was possessed of enormous strength, and was as active as a cat, and he glided like an eel from Charles's grasp, and, seizing him by both wrists, held him fast. After a few desperate, but ineffectual, attempts to free himself, Charles shouted to the Rangers, who had been bustling about in a state of considerable excitement, but very prudently keeping in the background, "Help, help, you cowards!" But nothing could induce them to attempt the rescue. At this moment a boat, which had entered the creek unnoticed by the boys, drew up to the dock, and a strong, cheery voice, called out, "Hang on to him, little fellow--hang on to him. We've got a few little matters to settle up." And Leo Powell came running toward them, with half a dozen of his ragged followers close at his heels. "Oh, let me go," cried Charles, turning very pale, and writhing and twisting in the strong grasp that held him; "I'll be civil to you after this, only don't let them get hold of me; they will half kill me." Archie accordingly released his captive, but the Hillers were so close to him that Charles dare not run, and he remained close to Frank for protection, while the rest of the Rangers beat a precipitate retreat. "Here, Pete, hold my coat," said Lee, tossing his tattered garment to one of his companions; "I'll show this Cap'n Regulator that some folks are as good as others." And he advanced toward Charles, and commenced rolling up his sleeves. "No, Lee," said Frank, placing himself before the frightened Ranger, "you mustn't touch him." "Mustn't touch him!" repeated Lee, in surprise. "Why, wasn't he jest tryin' to wallop your friend here?" "Oh, he's able to defend himself," answered Frank. "Then he's all right. But I haven't paid for trying to Regulate me, that night." "He didn't do it, did he?" inquired Frank. "No, 'cause you fellows wouldn't let him." "Then, we don't want you to whip him now." "Wal, if you say so, I won't; but he oughter be larnt better manners--hadn't he, Pete?" "'Course," was Pete's laconic answer. "Now, Charley," said Archie, "you may take yourself off as soon as you wish; they will not hurt you." "Not this time," said Lee, shaking his hard fist in Charles's face; "but we may come acrost you some time when you hasn't nobody to stand up for you; then you had better look out--hadn't he, Pete?" "Hadn't he, though!" was the answer. Charles did not need any urging, and he was quickly out of sight. "I'd like to see you jest a minit, Frank," said Lee, as the former was about to move away. Frank drew off on one side, and the Hiller continued, "I promised I'd allers be a friend to you fellers that stood up for me that night, and I want to let you see that I haven't forgot my promise. I know that I can't do much for you, but I jest want to show you that I allers remember favors." Here he turned, and made a motion to one of his companions, who darted off to the boat, and soon returned, bringing a young otter in his arms. "I allers heerd," continued Lee, as his companion came up, "that you have a reg'lar hankerin' arter ketchin' and tamin' wild varmints. Now, we want you to take this as a present from us. I know it ain't much, but, arter all, a young otter is a thing a feller can't ketch every day. Will you take it?" "Certainly," answered Frank, as he took the little animal in his arms. "I have long wished for an otter, and I thank--" "Hold on there," interrupted Lee. "Keep your thanks for them as needs them, or likes to hear 'em. We Hillers have got feelings as well as any body. It's our way of bringin' up that makes us so bad. Now, good-by; and, if you ever want any thing, jest call on Lee Powell." And he and his companions walked rapidly toward their boat, and soon disappeared. CHAPTER XII. A Deer-Hunt on the Water. The next morning, after breakfast, Frank and his cousin, accompanied by the dogs, got into the skiff, and pulled up the creek, on a "prospecting expedition." They had started for the swamp, which lay about two miles and a half from the cottage, to see what the prospects were for a good muskrat-hunt in the spring. This swamp covered, perhaps, five hundred acres, and near its center was a small lake, which emptied into Glen's Creek. A few moments' pulling brought them to this lake, and Frank, who was seated at the helm, turned the boat's head toward a high point that projected for some distance out into the lake, and behind which a little bay set back into the land. This point was the only high land about the swamp, and stretched away back into the woods for several miles. It was a favorite place for sunfish and perch; and the boys landed, and were rigging their poles, intending to catch some for their dinner, when they heard a strange noise, that seemed to come from the bay behind the point. They knew in a moment that it was made by a duck, but still it was a sound they had never heard before, and, hunter-like, they determined to discover where it came from. So, reaching for their guns, they crawled carefully through the bushes, until they came within sight of the bay. A brood of young ducks, under the direction of two old ones, were sporting about among the broad leaves of the water-lilies. They had never seen any like them before; but Frank knew in a moment, from descriptions he had often read, that they were eider-ducks, and he determined, if possible, to capture some of the young ones, which, he noticed, were but half-fledged, and too small to fly. But the question was how to proceed. If the ducklings could not fly, they could swim like a streak; and he knew that, the moment they were alarmed, they would either make for the opposite side of the bay or for the lake, and, if they succeeded in reaching the open water, he might whistle for his ducks. His only chance was to corner them in the bay; they would then be obliged to hide among the lilies, and perhaps they might succeed in capturing some of them. Hurriedly whispering to his cousin, they crept back to the skiff, pulled around the point, and entered the bay. The moment they came in sight, the old ones uttered their cries of warning, took to wing, and flew out over the lake, and, as they had expected, the young ones darted in among the lilies, and were out of sight in an instant. But the boys had kept their eyes open, and knew about where to look for them; and, after half an hour's chase, they succeeded in securing three of them with the dip-net. After tying them up in their caps, Frank pulled leisurely along out of the bay, and was just entering the lake, when Archie, who was steering, suddenly turned the boat toward the shore, and said, in a scarcely audible whisper, "A deer--a deer! sure as I live!" Frank looked in the direction his cousin indicated, and saw a large buck standing in the edge of the water, not twenty rods from them. Luckily he had not heard their approach, and Frank drew the boat closer under the point, to watch his motions. They were a good deal excited, and Archie's hand trembled like a leaf, as he reached for his gun. Another lucky circumstance was, that the dogs had not discovered him. Brave and Hunter could have been kept quiet, but Lightfoot was not sufficiently trained to be trusted. The boys determined to make an effort to capture him; he would make a splendid addition to their museum. Besides, they had never killed a deer, and now the opportunity was fairly before them. But the question was how to proceed. The buck was out of range of their shot-guns, and they knew it would be worse than useless to fire at him; so they concluded to lie still in the boat, and await the movements of the game. The buck was standing in the water, up to his knees, deliberately cropping the leaves of the lilies, and now and then gazing toward the opposite shore, as if he were meditating upon something. At length he appeared to have decided upon his course, for he waded deeper into the water, and swam boldly out into the lake. This was exactly what the boys had wished for; and, when the buck had made about ten rods from the shore, Archie took his seat at the oars, and pulled the boat silently out from behind the point. The moment they entered the lake, Lightfoot discovered the game, and uttered a loud bark. The buck heard it, and his first impulse was to turn and regain the shore he had just left. But Archie gave way on the oars manfully, and succeeded in intercepting him; and the buck, finding himself fairly cut off, uttered a loud snort, and, seeming to understand that his only chance for escape was straight ahead, he settled himself down in the water, and struck out again for the opposite shore. The dogs now all broke out into a continuous barking, and Archie exclaimed, in an excited voice, "Shoot him! shoot him!" "He is too far off," answered Frank. "You must remember that our guns are loaded with small shot. Give way lively!" The boys very soon discovered that they had no easy task before them. The light skiff, propelled by Archie's powerful strokes, danced rapidly over the little waves; but the buck was a fast swimmer and made headway through the water astonishingly. "Don't we gain on him any?" inquired Archie, panting hard from his exertions. "Yes, a very little," answered Frank. "But he swims like a streak." At length they reached the middle of the lake, and Frank, to his delight, discovered that they were gaining rapidly. Archie redoubled his efforts, and a few more strokes brought them close alongside of the buck, which snorted aloud in his terror, and leaped half-way out of the water, then settled down nobly to his work. Had Frank been an experienced deer-hunter, he would have been very careful not to approach the game in that manner; for a deer, when he finds himself unable to escape, will fight most desperately, and his sharp antlers and hoofs, which will cut like a knife, are weapons not to be despised. But Frank, in his excitement, did not step to think of this, and, letting go the tiller, he seized his gun, and fired both barrels in quick succession. But the shot was not fatal; and the buck, maddened with pain, leaped almost entirely out of the water. Frank now saw their danger, and, seizing the oars, attempted to turn the boat out of the reach of the wounded animal; but it was too late, for the buck, in his struggles, placed his fore-feet in the bow of the skiff, and overturned it in an instant, and boys, dogs, ducks, and all, were emptied into the cold waters of the lake. When they rose to the surface, they found the skiff right side up, and dancing over the waves they had made, and the ducks and oars were floating in the water around them. Their first thought was to discover what had become of the buck; he and Brave were engaged in a most desperate fight, in which the dog was evidently getting the better of it. The hounds, probably not relishing their ducking, were making for the nearest shore, as if their lives depended upon the issue. Frank swam up to the skiff, and took hold of it, to keep himself afloat; but Archie picked up an oar, and struck out toward the buck, exclaiming, "I guess I'd better take a hand in this fight." "No, no," said Frank, quickly, "you had better keep away from him; he has too much strength left. He would beat you down under the water in less than a minute. Brave can manage him alone." The next moment Frank happened to think of his gun. Where was it? He drew himself up and looked into the canoe. It was not there; it was at the bottom of the lake. "Archie," he exclaimed, "we've lost our guns." "Just my luck," answered his cousin, bitterly. "Now, I'll have revenge for that." And, swimming around behind the buck, out of reach of his dangerous hoofs, he raised himself in the water, and struck him a powerful blow, that shivered the blade of the oar into fragments. It was a fatal blow; and the buck ceased his struggles, and lay motionless on the water. It was a lucky circumstance for Brave that Archie had taken part in the fight, for the poor dog had experienced some pretty rough handling. He had received several wounds from the sharp hoofs of the buck, and there was a severe cut in his neck, from which the blood was flowing profusely; but the way he continued to shake the buck after Archie had dealt the fatal blow showed that there was plenty of fight left in him. Frank carefully lifted him into the boat, and, by their united efforts, after a good deal of hard work, the buck was thrown in after him. The boys then climbed in themselves, and Frank said, "Well, we have captured our first deer, haven't we?" "I wish we had never seen him," answered Archie. "We've lost our guns by the operation." "I am afraid so; but we will, at least, make an attempt to recover them." "How will we go to work?" "We will dive for them." Archie shrugged his shoulders, but made no reply. Frank's first care was to bandage Brave's neck with his handkerchief. He then divested himself of his clothes, and, after wringing the water out of them, he spread them out in the bow of the boat to dry. "I don't much like the idea of going down in there," said Archie, looking dubiously at the dark, muddy water; "there may be snakes in it, or it may be full of logs, or the bottom may be covered with weeds that will catch hold of a fellow's leg and keep him down." "I can't help it," said Frank; "we must have the guns; I'd rather risk any thing than lose them. The only thing I am afraid of is that the water is too deep. I'll be a little careful at first" So saying, he lowered himself over the side of the boat, and, drawing in a long breath, sank slowly out of sight. Meanwhile Archie was pulling off his clothes, and, when his cousin appeared, he exclaimed, "How do things look down there? Rather muddy, isn't it?" "Yes," answered Frank, as he wiped the water from his face, "but the bottom is all clear, and the water is only about fifteen feet deep." "Did you see any thing of the guns?" "No, I couldn't stay down long enough to make observations. I'm going to dive this time," he continued, as he commenced climbing back into the boat. "Well, here goes!" said Archie. And, clasping his hands above his head, he dived out of sight, and Frank followed close after. When the latter again appeared at the surface, he found Archie holding on to the boat, with one of the guns elevated above his head, to allow the water to run out of the barrels. The boys climbed up into the boat, and dived again, but neither of them met with any success. The next time Archie was again the fortunate one, for, when Frank rose to the surface, he was climbing up into the boat, with the other gun in his hand. "I don't call this a very unlucky hunt, after all," said Frank. "Neither do I," said Archie. "I say, Frank," he continued, "I wish we could reproduce in our museum the scene we have just passed through." "So do I. If we could represent the buck in the act of upsetting us, it would be our 'masterpiece,' wouldn't it? But I am afraid that is further than our ingenuity extends." The boys drew on their clothes, which were but partially dry, and, after pulling ashore to get the hounds, which had kept up a loud barking all the time, they turned the boat's head toward home. After changing their clothes and eating a hearty dinner--during which they related their adventure to Mrs. Nelson and Julia--they carefully removed the buck's skin, and hung it up in the shop by a fire to dry. Their guns were found to be none the worse for their ducking; the loads, of course, were wet, and had to be drawn, but a good coat of oil, and a thorough rubbing inside and out, made them look as good as new. During the afternoon, as the boys sat on the piazza in front of the house, talking over the events of the morning, their attention was attracted by a combat that was going on between one of Frank's pet kingbirds and a red-headed woodpecker. The latter was flying zigzag through the air, and the kingbird was pecking him most unmercifully. At length the woodpecker took refuge in a tree that stood on the bank of the creek, and then seemed perfectly at his ease. He always kept on the opposite side of the tree, and the kingbird, active as he was, could not reach him. His loud, angry twittering soon brought his mate to his assistance, and then the woodpecker found himself between two fires. After trying in vain to elude them, he suddenly popped into a hole in the tree, and stuck out his long bill, as if defying them to enter. The kingbirds were completely outwitted; and, after making two or three angry darts at the hole in which their cunning enemy had taken refuge, they settled down on the branches close by to wait until he should show himself. They had no intention of giving up the contest. The woodpecker seemed to take matters very coolly, and improved his time by pounding away industriously on the inside of the tree. Occasionally he would thrust his head out of the hole, but, seeing his enemies still on the watch, he would dodge back, and go to work again. After waiting fully a quarter of an hour for him to come out, and seeing that the kingbirds had no idea of "raising the siege," Archie concluded (to age his own expression) that he "might as well lend a little assistance." So he ran round to the shop, and, having procured an ax, he went up to the tree, and dealt it a heavy blow. The next moment the woodpecker flew out, and the kingbirds were after him in an instant They followed him until he reached the woods, and then returned to the cottage. CHAPTER XIII. A 'Coon-Hunt. We might relate many more interesting events that transpired before the hunting season set in; we might tell of the "tall times" the boys had whipping the trout-streams, of the trials of speed that came off on the river, when it turned out, as Archie had predicted, that Charles Morgan's sloop "couldn't sail worth a row of pins;" and we might tell of many more desperate "scrapes" that came off between the bully and his sworn enemies the Hillers; but we fear, reader, you are already weary of the Young Naturalist's home-life, and long to see him engaging in his favorite recreations--roaming through the woods, with his gun on his shoulder, or dealing death among the ducks on the river. Well, autumn came at length; and, early one chilly, moonlight evening, Frank and his cousin, accompanied by George and Harry, might have been seen picking their way across the meadow at the back of Mrs. Nelson's lot, and directing their course toward a large cornfield, that lay almost in the edge of a piece of thick woods, about a quarter of a mile distant. They had started on a 'coon-hunt. Frank and Harry, who were two of the best shots in the village, were armed with their double-barreled shot-guns, and the others carried axes and lanterns. We have said that it was a moonlight night, but, so far as a view of the chase was concerned, the light of the moon would benefit them but little; and the boys carried the lanterns, not to be able to follow the 'coon when started, but to discover him when "treed," and to assist them in picking their way through the woods. During a raccoon-hunt, but little is seen either of the dogs or the game. The woods, let the moon shine ever so bright, are pitch-dark; and the dogs rely on their scent and the hunter trusts to his ears. The 'coon seldom strays far from his tree, and, of course, when started, draws a "bee-line" for home, and the game is for the dogs--which should be very swift, hardy animals, having the courage to tackle him if he should turn at bay--to overtake him, and compel him to take to some small tree, where he can be easily shaken off or shot. But if he succeeds in reaching home, which he always makes in a large tree, he is safe, unless the hunter is willing to go to work and fell the tree. The boys were accompanied by their dogs, which followed close at their heels. Lightfoot was about to take his first lesson in hunting, but Brave and Sport evidently knew perfectly well what the game was to be, and it was difficult to restrain them. A few moments' walk brought them to the corn field. A rail-fence ran between the field and the woods; and two of the boys, after lighting their lanterns, climbed over the fence, and the others waved their hands to the dogs, and ordered them to "hunt 'em up." Brave and Sport were off in an instant, and Lightfoot was close at their heels, mechanically following their motions, and evidently wondering at their strange movements. The boys moved quietly along the fence, and, in a few moments, a quick, sharp yelp from Brave announced that he had started the first 'coon. The boys cheered on the dogs, and presently a dark object appeared, coming at full speed through the corn, and passed, at a single bound, over the fence. The dogs, barking fierce and loud at every jump, were close at his heels, and both they and the game speedily disappeared in the darkness. The boys followed after, picking their way through the bushes with all possible speed. The chase was a short one, for the dogs soon broke out in a regular, continuous barking, which announced that the 'coon was treed. The hunters, guided by the noise, soon came in sight of them, standing at the foot of a small sapling. Brave and Sport took matters very easily, and seemed satisfied to await the arrival of the boys, but Lightfoot had caught sight of the 'coon as he was ascending the tree, and was bounding into the air, and making every exertion to reach him. Frank and Harry stood ready with their guns to shoot him, and the others held their lanterns aloft, and peered up into the top of the tree, to discover his hiding-place; but nothing could be seen of him. The sapling had grown up rather high, and all objects outside of the circle of light made by their lanterns seemed to be concealed by Egyptian darkness. "He's up there, I know," said Archie. And, laying down his ax and lantern, he caught hold of the sapling, and shook it with all his strength. But it was a little too large for him to manage, and, although it swayed considerably, the 'coon could easily retain his hold. "Well," said Archie, "if he will not come down to us, we'll have to go up to him, I suppose." And he commenced ascending the tree. Archie was a good hand at climbing, and had shaken more than one 'coon from his roost, and he carefully felt his way up, until he had almost reached the top of the sapling, when, not wishing to trust his weight on the small limbs, he stopped, and again shook the tree, and this time with better success. There was an angry snarling among the branches above his head, and the 'coon, after trying in vain to retain his hold, came tumbling to the ground. Quick as thought the dogs were upon him, and, although he made a most desperate resistance, he was speedily overpowered and killed. The boys picked up their prize, and went back to the cornfield. The dogs were again sent in, and another 'coon was started, which, like the first, "drew a bee-line" for the woods, with the dogs close behind, and the boys, worked up to the highest pitch of excitement, followed after as fast as their legs could carry them. The 'coon had managed to get a good start of his pursuers, and he led them a long chase through a low, swampy part of the woods, to the top of a ridge, where the heavy timber grew; and when, at length, the boys came up with the dogs, they found them standing at the foot of a large maple fully ten feet in circumference. "There!" exclaimed George, "the rascal has succeeded in reaching home. Good-by, 'coon!" "Yes," said Frank, leaning on the muzzle of his gun, and wiping the perspiration from his forehead, "we're minus that 'coon, easily enough, unless we wait until morning, and cut the tree down." "Look here, boys," suddenly exclaimed George, who had been holding his lantern above his head, and examining the sides of the tree; "did you ever see a tree look like this before?" As they moved around to the side where George stood, Archie called out, "There must be a big nest of 'coons in here; the tree is completely skinned." "Yes," said Frank, "we've accidentally stumbled upon a regular 'coon-tree. There must be a big family of them living here. The tree looks as if some one had taken an ax and cleaned off the bark. But," he added, "finding where the 'coons have been and catching them are two very different things." "What do you mean?" inquired Archie, "You don't pretend to say that the 'coons are not in the tree?" "Certainly I do. I wouldn't be afraid to stake Brave against any little cur in the village that the 'coon the dogs have just followed here is the only one in the tree." "What makes you think so?" "Why, now is their feeding-time, and all the 'coons in this part of the woods are in the cornfield. It wouldn't pay to cut down this big tree for one 'coon; so let's go home and go to bed, and early to-morrow morning we will come back here and bag our game." The boys agreed to this, and they whistled to their dogs, and started through the woods toward home. The next morning, at the first peep of day, they again set out, and in half an hour arrived at the 'coon-tree. The boys knew that they had something to accomplish before they could secure their game, but they were not the ones to shun hard work. They had frequently cut down trees for a single 'coon, and they felt confident that there were at least three of the animals in the tree, and they were willing to work for them. Archie and George were armed, as on the preceding night, with axes, and, after pulling off their coats, they placed themselves on opposite sides of the tree, and set manfully to work. Harry and Frank stood by, ready to take their places when they grew tired, and the dogs seated themselves on the ground close by, with their tongues hanging out of the sides of their mouths, and now and then giving vent to an impatient whine. The boys worked for an hour and a half--taking their turns at chopping--almost without speaking. At length the top of the tree began to waver, and a loud crack announced that it was about to fall. Frank and Archie were chopping, and the blows of their axes resounded with redoubled force, and the other boys caught up the guns, and ran off in the direction in which the tree was about to fall, followed by Sport and Lightfoot, and Brave stationed himself close behind his master, and barked and whined furiously. A few sturdy blows finished the business, and the tree began to sink--slowly at first, then with a rushing sound, and struck the earth with a tremendous crash. In an instant boys and dogs were among the branches. The 'coons--some of which were not injured in the least by the fall--scattered in every direction; and one of them--a fine, large fellow--bounded off through the bushes. Frank discovered him just in time, and, fearing that he would lose sight of him, he hurled his ax at him with all his strength; but it went wide of the mark, and Frank started in hot pursuit. He was very swift of foot, and there seemed to be no limit to his endurance, but, in running through the bushes, the 'coon had decidedly the advantage. Frank was not slow to discover this, and he began to think about sending his ax after him again, when he heard a crashing in the bushes behind him, and the grayhound passed him like the wind, and two or three of his tremendous bounds brought him up with the 'coon. Frank knew very well that Lightfoot had something of a job before him, for it requires a very tough, active dog to "handle" a full-grown coon when he is cornered. But Frank thought it was a capital time to judge of the grayhound's "grit;" so he cheered him on, and hurried forward to witness the fight. As Lightfoot came up, he made a grab at the 'coon, which, quick as a flash, eluded him, and, when the hound turned upon him, the 'coon gave him one severe bite, when Lightfoot uttered a dismal howl, and, holding his nose close to the ground, beat a hasty retreat; and the Young Naturalist could not induce him to return. During the fight, short as it was, Frank had gained considerably, and, as the 'coon turned to make off, he again threw his ax at him, which, true to its aim, struck the 'coon on the head, and stretched him lifeless on the ground. Meanwhile Archie was endeavoring to secure his 'coon, under rather more difficult circumstances. As soon as the tree had begun to fall, Archie dropped his ax, seized a short club that lay near him on the ground, and, discovering a 'coon making for the bushes, he started after him at full speed. The animal appeared to run heavily, as if he had been partially stunned by the falling of the tree; and Archie had followed him but a short distance, when he had the satisfaction of discovering that he was gaining at every step. The 'coon seemed to understand that his chance of escape was rather small; and, after various windings and twistings, commenced ascending a small tree. Archie ran forward with all possible speed, with the hope of reaching the tree before he could climb out of the way. The 'coon moved but slowly, and Archie felt sure of his prize; and, as soon as he came within the proper distance, he struck a powerful blow at the animal, but he was just out of reach, and the club was shivered to pieces against the tree. Archie, however, did not hesitate a moment, but, placing his hands on the tree, commenced climbing after him. The 'coon ascended to the topmost branch, and looked down on his enemy, growling and snapping his teeth, as if to warn him that he intended to make a desperate resistance; but Archie was not in the least intimidated, and, reaching the branch on which the 'coon was seated, he shook it violently, and the animal tumbled to the ground, and, as soon as he could regain his feet, started off again. Archie descended as quickly as possible, and started in pursuit, hoping to overtake his game before he could again take to a tree. There was an abundance of large trees growing in the woods, and, if the 'coon should take it into his head to ascend one of them, Archie might whistle for his game. The young hunter well understood this, and he "put in his best licks," as he afterward remarked, and, in a few moments, had almost overtaken him, and began to look around for something to strike him with, when the 'coon, as if guessing his intention, suddenly turned and ran up a large tree that stood close by, and, crawling out on a limb, about fifty feet from the ground, he settled himself down, as if he had concluded to take matters more easily. This was discouraging; and Archie seated himself on a log under the tree, and for a moment thought seriously of giving up the chase. But the 'coon was a fine, fat fellow, and his skin would make a valuable addition to the museum, and, besides, he had followed him so far already, that he was reluctant to go back to his companions without him, and, on second thought, he concluded that he would _not_ go back unless he could carry the 'coon with him. He first thought of ascending the tree, but, after taking a hasty survey of it, he abandoned the idea. The tree was partially decayed; in fact, there was but one sound limb in it that Archie could discover, and that was about four feet above the one on which the 'coon was seated, and stretched out directly over it. Archie did not like the idea of trusting himself among the unsound limbs, and, besides, the cunning animal had crawled out to the extreme end of one of the decayed branches, which bent beneath his weight, and the young hunter, of course, could not follow him. There was only one way that Archie could discover to bring him down; and he straightway opened upon the devoted 'coon a tremendous shower of clubs and sticks. He was a very accurate thrower, and, for some time, had hopes of being able to bring down the 'coon; but, although the missiles frequently hit him, Archie could not throw them with sufficient force; and he again turned his attention to the tree. Throwing his arms around it, he commenced working his way up. The bark was very smooth and slippery, and the lowest limb was the one on which the 'coon had taken refuge; but he kept steadily at work, and his progress, though slow, was sure, and he reached the limb; and, bearing as little of his weight as possible upon it, he drew himself up to the sound limb above. After testing it thoroughly, to make sure that it would sustain his weight, he commenced walking out on the branch on which the 'coon was seated, keeping a firm hold of the limb above his head. He had made scarcely a dozen steps, when there was a loud crack, and the branch on which he was standing broke into fragments, and fell to the ground with a crash, carrying the 'coon with it, and leaving Archie hanging in the air, fifty feet from the ground. Not in the least terrified at his dangerous situation, the young hunter coolly swung himself up on the limb, and, crawling carefully back to the tree, slid rapidly down the trunk, and, as if nothing had happened, ran to the place where the 'coon had fallen, hoping that at last he was secured. But he was again disappointed. Nothing was to be seen of the animal, and only a few drops of blood on the leaves indicated the direction in which he had gone. This quickly caught Archie's eye, and he began to follow up the trail, which led toward a creek that flowed close by. But when he arrived upon its bank he was again at fault--the trail was lost; and, while he was running up and down the bank, searching for it, he happened to cast his eye toward the opposite side of the creek, and there was his 'coon, slowly ascending a tall stump that stood at the water's edge. Archie could not refrain from giving a shout of joy, for he was confident that the chase would soon be over; and he hurried, impatiently, up and down the bank to find some place to cross, and finally discovered a small tree lying in the water, whose top reached almost to the opposite bank. The 'coon had undoubtedly crossed on this bridge; and Archie sprang upon it. It shook considerably, but he kept on, and had almost reached the opposite side, when the tree broke, and he disappeared in the cold water. He rose immediately, and, shaking the water from his face, struck out for the shore, puffing and blowing like a porpoise. A few lusty strokes brought him to the bank, and, as he picked up a handful of stones, he said to himself, "I guess I'm all right now. If I could only have found some stones when I treed that 'coon in the woods, he would not have been up there now, and I should not have got this wet hide. But we'll soon settle accounts now." As we have said, the 'coon had taken refuge in a high stump. The branches had all fallen off, with the exception of one short one, about two feet from the top; and the 'coon, after trying in vain to squeeze 'himself into a small hole, about half-way up the stump, settled down on this limb, and appeared to be awaiting his fate. Archie took a favorable position, and, selecting a stone, hurled it with all his force at the 'coon. It whizzed harmlessly by, close to his head; but the next brought him to the ground, dead. "There!" exclaimed the young hunter, as he shouldered his prize, and walked up the creek to find a crossing-place, "I've worked pretty hard for 'coons, first and last, but this beats all the hunts I ever engaged in." He at length reached a place where the water was about knee-deep, waded across the creek, and started through the woods to find his companions. When he arrived at the place where they had felled the tree, he saw Harry sitting on a log, with Frank's gun in his hand, but nothing was to be seen of the other boys. As soon as the latter discovered Archie, he burst into a loud laugh. "No doubt you think it a good joke," said Archie, as he came up, "but I don't. It isn't a funny thing to tramp through the woods, on a cold day like this, with your clothes wringing wet. But I've got the 'coon." "You must have had a tough time catching him," said Harry. "But let us go down to the camp." As they walked along, Archie related his adventures; and, when he told about being "dumped in the creek," Harry laughed louder than ever. A few moments' walk brought them to what Harry had called the "camp." It was in a little grove of evergreens, on the banks of a clear, dancing trout-brook. A place about forty feet square had been cleared of the trees and bushes and in it stood a small, neatly-built, log-cabin, which Frank and some of his companions had erected the winter previous. Near the middle of the cabin a hole about four feet square, had been dug, and in this a fire was burning brightly; and a hole in the roof, directly over it, did duty both as chimney and window. On the floor, near the fire--or, rather, there _was_ no floor, the ground serving for that purpose--stood some tin dishes, which one of the boys had just brought to light from a corner of the cabin, four plates, as many knives and forks, two large platters, a coffee-pot, four quart-cups, and a pan containing some trout, which George had caught in the brook, all cleaned and ready for the spit, and there was also a large plate of bread and butter. Frank, who always acted as cook on these expeditions, and knew how to get up a dinner that would tempt an epicure, was kneeling before the fire, engaged in skinning some squirrels which Brave had treed for him. George was in front of the cabin, chopping wood; and close by the door lay five 'coons--the fruits of the morning's hunt; and near them lay the dogs, fast asleep. Such was the scene presented when Harry and Archie burst in upon the camp. The latter was greeted with a loud laugh. "Well, boys," said he, as he threw his 'coon down with the others, "you may laugh, but I wish some of you were obliged to go through what I did. I was bound to have the 'coon, if I had to follow him clear to Moosehead Lake." "That's the way to talk," said Frank. "Now, throw yourself down by the fire, and I'll soon be ready to give you something to eat. A cup or two of hot coffee will set you all right again." Archie's ducking and his long walk in his wet clothes had chilled him completely through, and he was very willing to comply with his cousin's suggestion, and he drew up as close as possible to the fire. When Frank had finished skinning the squirrels, he stuck them up before the fire, on spits, to roast. The trout he served in the same manner; and, raking out a few live coals from the fire, he placed the coffee-pot upon them, when the work of getting breakfast began in earnest. In the course of half an hour the impatience of the hungry hunters (whose appetites had been sharpened by the savory smell of the cooking viands) was relieved by Frank's welcome invitation-- "Now, boys, you may help yourselves." And they _did_ help themselves most bountifully. Archie kept his place by the fire, and a plate filled with bread and butter, and roasted squirrel and trout, and a cup of coffee, were passed over to him; and, supporting himself on one elbow, he did them ample justice. The dogs were well supplied with what remained of the breakfast; and, after washing the dishes in the clear water of the brook, and placing them carefully away for future use, the boys seated themselves around the fire, and Harry exclaimed, as he settled himself back into a comfortable position, "Give us a story, Frank." "Well," answered Frank, after thinking a few moments, "I remember one that, I think, will interest you. You will probably remember, Archie, that, during the last visit we made at Uncle Joe's, we met his brother Dick, who has passed forty years of his life among the Rocky Mountains. You will remember, also, that he and I went mink-trapping, and camped out all night, and during the evening he related to me some of his adventures, and wound up with the following story of his 'chum,' Bill Lawson. I will try to give it, as nearly as possible, in his own words. CHAPTER XIV. Bill Lawson's Revenge. "This Bill Larson," said Dick, knocking the ashes from his pipe, "was _some_ in his day. I have told you about his trappin' qualities--that there was only one man in the county that could lay over him any, an' that was ole Bob Kelly. But Bill had some strange ways about him, sometimes, that I could not understand, an' the way he acted a'most made me think he was crazy. Sometimes you couldn't find a more jolly feller than he was; an' then, again, he would settle down into one of his gloomy spells, an' I couldn't get a word out of him. He would sit by the camp-fire, an' first fall to musing; then he would cover his face with his hands, an' I could see the big, scalding tears trickle through his fingers, an' his big frame would quiver and shake like a tree in a gale of wind; then he would pull out his long, heavy huntin'-knife, an' I could see that he had several notches cut in the handle. He would count these over an' over again; an' I could see a dark scowl settle on his face, that would have made me tremble if I had not known that I was his only sworn friend, an' he would mutter, "'Only seven! only seven! There ought to be eight. There is one left. He must not escape me. No, no; he must die!' "An' then he would sheath his knife, an' roll himself up in his blanket, an' cry himself to sleep like a child. "I had been with ole Bill a'most ten years--ever since I was a boy--but he had never told me the cause of his trouble. I didn't dare to ask him, for the ole man had curious ways sometimes, an' I knowed he wouldn't think it kind of me to go pryin' into his affairs, an' I knowed, too, that some day he would tell me all about it. "One night--we had been followin' up a bar all day--we camped on the side of a high mountain. It was very cold. The wind howled through the branches of the trees above our heads, makin' us pull our blankets closer about us an' draw as nigh to the fire as possible. "Ole Bill sat, as usual, leanin' his head on his hands, an' lookin' steadily into the fire. Neither of us had spoken for more than an hour. At len'th the ole man raised his head, an' broke the silence by sayin', "'Dick, you have allers been a good friend to me, an' have stuck by me like a brother, through thick an' thin, an', I s'pose, you think it is mighty unkind in me to keep any thing from you; an' so it is. An' now I'll tell you all.' "He paused a moment, an', wipin' the perspiration from his forehead with his coat-sleeve, continued, a'most in a whisper, "'Dick, I was not allers as you see me now--all alone in the world. Once I was the happiest boy west of the mountains. My father was a trader, livin' on the Colorado River, I had a kind mother, two as handsome sisters as the sun ever shone on, an' my brother was one of the best trappers, for a boy, I ever see. He was a good deal younger nor I was, but he was the sharer of all my boyish joys an' sorrows. We had hunted together, an' slept under the same blanket ever since we were big enough to walk. Oh! I was happy then! This earth seemed to me a paradise. Now look at me--alone in the world, not one livin' bein' to claim me as a relation; an' all this was brought upon me in a single day.' "Here the ole man stopped, an' buried his face in his hands; but, suddenly arousin' himself, he continued, "'One day, when the ice were a'most out of the river, father an' me concluded it was about time to start on our usual tradin' expedition; so we went to work an' got all our goods--which consisted of beads, hatchets, lookin'-glasses, blankets, an' such like--into the big canoe, an' were goin' to start 'arly in the mornin' to pay a visit to the Osage Injuns, an' trade our things for their furs. That night, while we were eatin' our supper, a party of horsemen came gallopin' an' yellin' down the bank of the river, an', ridin' up to the door of the cabin, dismounted, an', leavin' their horses to take care of themselves, came in without ceremony. We knowed very well who they were. They were a band of outlaws an' robbers, that had been in the county ever since I could remember, an', bein' too lazy to make an honest livin' by trappin', they went around plunderin' an' stealin' from every one they come across. They had stole three or four horses from us, an' had often come to our cabin an' called for whisky; but that was an article father never kept on hand. Although he was an ole trapper, an' had lived in the woods all his life, he never used it, an' didn't believe in sellin' it to the red-skins. The captain of the outlaws was a feller they called "Mountain Tom," an' he was meaner than the meanest Injun I ever see. He didn't think no more of cuttin' a man's throat than you would of shootin' a buck. The minute they came into the cabin we could see that they had all been drinkin'. They acted like a lot of wild buffalo-bulls, an', young as I was, I could see that they meant mischief, an' I knowed that our chance for life was small indeed. As I arterwards learned, they had been up the river, about two miles, to a half-breed's shanty, an' had found half a barrel of whisky, an', arter killin' the half-breed, an' drinkin' his liquor, they felt jest right for a muss, an' had come down to our cabin on purpose for a fight. "'"Now, ole Lawson," said Mountain Tom, leanin' his rifle up in the corner, "we have come down here for whisky. We know you've got some; so jest draw your weasel, if you want to save unpleasant feelin's; an' be in a hurry about it, too, for we're mighty thirsty." "'"Tom," said my father, "how often have I told you that I haven't got a drop of liquor in the shanty? I never had. I don't use it myself, an' I don't keep it for--" "'"That's a lie!" yelled three or four of the band. "'"You a trader among the Injuns, an' not keep whisky?" "'"We know a thing or two more than that." "'"We have heard that story often enough," said Tom. "We know you have got the liquor, an' we are goin' to get it afore we leave this shanty. If you won't bring it out an' treat, like white man had ought to do, we'll have to look for it ourselves--that's all. Here, boys," he said, turning to his men, "jest jump down into the cellar an' hunt it up, 'cause we know he's got some. An' you, Jake," he added, catching hold of a big, ugly-lookin' feller, "you stand here, an shoot the first one that tries to get away." "'The men ran down into the cellar, and we could hear them cussin' an' swearin', as they overturned every thing in the useless search. My mother, a'most frightened to death, gathered us children around her, an' sank back into the furthest corner. I thought my father had gone crazy; he strode up an' down the floor of the cabin like some caged wild animal, clenchin' his hands an' grindin' his teeth in a way that showed that there was plenty of fight in him, if he only had a chance to let it out. Once in awhile he would look at his rifle, that hung against the wall, then at the man that stood at the top of the cellar-stairs, guardin' us, as if he had a'most made up his mind to begin a knock-down an' drag-out fight with the rascals. But then he would look at my mother an' us children, back in the corner, an' go to pacin' the floor again. If we had been out of the way, I know that he would not have let them rummage about as he did; he would have had a fight with them that would do your eyes good to look at. But, as it was, I guess he kinder thought that if he was peaceable they would go off an' leave us, arter they found that no whisky was to be had. After searchin' around the cellar for more 'n ten minutes, one of 'em called out, "'"Wal, boys, it's easy enough to see that the cuss has fooled us. Thar's no liquor here. He's hid it in the woods, somewhere 'bout the shantee." "'"That's so," said another. "I'll bet he has got plenty of whisky somewhere. Let's go up and hang him till he tells us where it is." "'"No, no, that won't do," said Mountain Tom. "You fellers are gettin' so that you talk like babies. Shoot the rascal down. We've had trouble enough with him. If we can't get the liquor here, there are plenty of places where we can get it." "'"That's the talk!" yelled the band. "Shoot him down! Tear him to pieces!" "'The man who was standin' at the head of the stairs heard all the rascals had said, an', with a yell of delight, he raised his rifle an' drew a bead on my mother. But the ole man was too quick for him. With a bound like a painter, he sprang across the floor, an', grabbin' the villain by the throat, lifted him from his feet, and throwed him down into the cellar, an' in an instant shut the door, an' fastened it with a heavy bar of wood. Then, takin' down his rifle, he said to us, a'most in a whisper, "'"Now run! run for your lives! We must cross the prairy an' get into the woods afore the rascals cut their way out. Run! quick!" "'My mother took my sisters by the hand an' led them out, an' me an' my brother followed her. Father closed both the windows an' the door, an' fastened them on the outside. All this while the robbers had been yellin' an' swearin', an' cuttin' away at the cellar-door with their tomahawks; an' we well knowed that they would soon be out an' arter us. Our cabin stood in a large, natural prairy, an' we had to travel full half a mile acrost the open ground afore we come to the woods. My father followed close behind us, with his rifle, ready to shoot the first one that come in sight, an' kept urgin' us to go faster. We hadn't gone more'n half the distance acrost the prairy, when a loud crash and yells of triumph told us, plain enough, that the villains had worked their way out of the cellar. Then heavy blows sounded on the window-shutter, which, strong as it was, we knowed could not long hold out ag'in 'em. In a few minutes it was forced from its hinges, an' Mountain Tom sprang out. "'"Here they are, boys," he shouted. "Come on! We'll l'arn 'em not to hide--" "'The report of father's rifle cut short his words, an' Mountain Tom, throwin' his hands high above his head, sank to the ground like a log. By this time the rest of the band had come out, an the bullets rattled around us like hailstones. My father and brother both fell-the latter never to rise; but father, although he had received three bullets, staggered to his feet, an' follered along arter us, loadin' his rifle. Then began the race for life. It seemed to me that we flew over the ground, but the villains gained on us at every step. Just as we reached the woods, my father called out, "'"Down--down, every one of you! They're going to shoot again!" "'Obeyin' that order was what saved my life. I throwed myself flat into the bushes, an' escaped unhurt; but both my sisters were shot dead, an' my father received another ball that brought him to the ground. My mother, instead of thinkin' of herself, kneeled beside him, an' supported his head in her arms. The next minute the outlaws entered the woods, an' one passed so close to me that I could have touched him. "'"Wal, Bill Lawson," said a voice that I knowed belonged to Mountain Tom, "you see I'm here again. I s'pose you kind o' thought you had rubbed me out, didn't you?" "'"Yes, I did," said father--an' his voice was so weak that I could hardly hear him. "'"You won't have a chance to draw a bead on me again, I guess. We shoot consider'ble sharp--don't we?" "'"I shan't live long," said father. "But, whatever you do to me, be merciful to my wife an'--" "'The dull thud of the tomahawk cut short my father's dying prayer, an' his brains were spattered on the bush where I was concealed; an', a'most at the same moment, another of the band buried his knife in my mother's heart.' "Old Bill could go no further. He buried his face in his hands an' cried like a child. At length, by a strong effort, he choked down his sobs, and went on. "'I knew no more until I found myself lyin' in the cabin of an ole hunter, who lived about ten miles from where we used to live. He had been out huntin', an' had found me lyin' close beside my father an' mother. He thought I was dead, too, at first, but he found no wounds on me; so, arter buryin' all my relatives in one grave, he took me home with him. In three or four days I was able to get around again; an', beggin' a rifle an' some powder an' ball of the ole hunter, I started out. I went straight to the grave that contained all I loved on earth, an' there, kneelin' above their heads, I swore that my life should be devoted to but one object--vengeance on the villains who had robbed me of all my happiness. How well I have kept my oath the notches on my knife will show. Seven of them have fallen by my tomahawk; one only is left, an' that is Mountain Tom. For fifteen long years I have been on his trail; but the time will come when my vengeance will be complete.' "An' the ole man rolled himself up in his blanket, an', turning his back to me, sobbed himself to sleep. "But my story is not yet told," continued Dick. "About a year arter this, Bill an' me were ridin' along, about noon, in a little valley among the mountains, when we came, all of a sudden, on the camp of two trappers. "'Heaven be praised! there he is!' said ole Bill. "An', swinging himself from his horse, he strode up to one of the men, who sprang from his blanket, and ejaculated, "'Bill Lawson!' "'Yea, Mountain Tom,' said ole Bill, 'I'm here. You an' me have got a long reckonin' to settle now.' "The villain at first turned as pale as a skewer; but he seemed to regain his courage, and exclaimed, "'It won't take us long to settle up,' "And, quick as lightnin', he drew his knife, an' made a pass at Bill. "But he had got the wrong buck by the horn. The ole man was as quick as he; an', grabbin' hold of his arm, he took the knife away from him as if he had been a baby. "'Tom,' said he, as he drew his tomahawk from his belt, 'I've followed you all over this country for fifteen years, an', thank Heaven, I've found you at last.' "'Oh, Bill,' shrieked the condemned man, sinkin' on his knees before the ole man, 'I was--' "'Stand up,' said Bill, ketchin' hold of him, an' jerkin' him to his feet. 'You were brave enough when you were killing my wounded father.' "'Oh, Bill--' "'With the tomahawk you killed my father, an' by the tomahawk you shall die.' "'For mercy's sake, Bill,' again shrieked the terrified man, taking hold of a tree for support, 'hear me!' "The tomahawk descended like a streak of light, and the last of the murderers sank at the ole man's feet. The eighth notch was added to those on the knife, an' the debt was canceled." CHAPTER XV. Wild Geese. About two o'clock in the afternoon the boys concluded that it was about time to start for home; so, after putting out the fire and fastening the door of the cabin, they set out. Archie led the way, with a 'coon slung over each shoulder, and another dangling from his belt behind. The others followed close after him, in "Indian file." In this manner they marched through the woods, joking and shouting, and talking over the events of the day, and now and then indulging in a hearty laugh when they happened to think how Archie looked when he came into the camp, dripping wet. But Archie took matters very good-naturedly, and replied, "If I had come back without the 'coon, I should never have heard the last of it; and now you laugh at me because I fell into the drink while I was trying to catch him." In half an hour they reached the edge of the timber, and were about to climb over the fence into the cornfield, when a long, loud bark echoed through the woods. "That's Brave," exclaimed Frank; "and," he continued, as all the dogs broke out into a continuous cry, "they've found something. Let's go back." The boys all agreed to this, and they started back through the woods as fast as their legs could carry them. A few moments' run brought them in sight of the dogs, sitting on their haunches at the foot of a stump, that rose to the hight of twenty feet, without leaf or branch. Near the top were several holes; and, as soon as Frank discovered these, he exclaimed, "The dogs have got a squirrel in here." "How are we going to work to get him out?" inquired Archie. "Let's cut the stump down," said George. "That's too much sugar for a cent," answered Harry. "That will be working too hard for one squirrel." "Why will it?" asked George. "The stump is rotten." And he laid down his 'coon, and walked up and dealt the stump several lusty blows with his ax. Suddenly two large black squirrels popped out of one of the holes near the top, and ran rapidly around the stump. Quick as thought, Frank, who was always ready, raised his gun to his shoulder, and one of the squirrels came tumbling to the ground; but, before he had time to fire the second barrel, the other ran back into the hole. "Hit the tree again, George," exclaimed Harry, throwing down his 'coon, and bringing his gun to his shoulder. "It's no use," said Frank; "they will not come out again, if you pound on the stump all day." George, however, did as his brother had requested, but not a squirrel appeared. "Let's cut the tree down," said Archie. And, suiting the action to the word, he set manfully to work. A few blows brought off the outside "crust," and the heart of the tree was found to be decayed, and, in a few moments, it came crashing to the ground, and was shivered into fragments by the fall. The boys supposed that there was only one squirrel in the tree, and were running up to secure him, when, to their surprise, they discovered a number of the little animals scattering in different directions, and drawing "bee-lines" for the nearest trees. Frank killed one with his remaining barrel, and Harry, by an excellent shot, brought down another that had climbed up into the top of a tall oak, and was endeavoring to hide among the leaves. Brave and Sport both started after the same one, and overtook and killed it before it could reach a tree; but the grayhound came very near losing his. As soon as the stump had fallen, he singled out one of the squirrels, and, with two or three of his long bounds, overtook it; but, just as he was going to seize it, the squirrel dived into a pile of brush, out of the reach of the hound. A few loud, angry yelps brought Archie and George to his assistance, and they immediately began to pull the pile of brush to pieces. Suddenly the squirrel darted out, and started for a tree that stood about two rods distant. The boys threw their clubs at him, but he reached the foot of the tree unharmed. At this moment Lightfoot discovered him; two or three bounds carried him to the tree, and, crouching a moment, he sprang into the air, and attempted to seize the squirrel. But he was just a moment too late; the little animal had ascended out of his reach; but the next moment the sharp report of Harry's gun brought him to the ground. The squirrels were now all secured, and the young hunters again turned their faces homeward. One cold, stormy night, in the latter part of October, Frank and his cousin lay snug in bed, listening to the howling of the wind and the pattering of the rain against the window, and talking over their plans for the future, when, all at once, Frank sat upright in bed, and, seizing Archie's arm with a grip that almost wrung from him a cry of pain, exclaimed, "Listen! listen!" And the next moment, clear and loud above the noise of the storm, they heard the trumpet-like notes of a flock of wild geese. They passed over the house, and the sound grew fainter as they flew rapidly away. "My eye!" exclaimed Archie, "don't I wish it was daylight, and we stood out in front of the house, with our guns all ready!" "That's a nice thing to wish for," answered Frank; "but, if it were daylight, we should not stand any better chance of shooting them than we do here in bed." "What's the reason?" "Why, in the first place, if they went over at all, they would fly so high that it would need a rifle to reach them; and, in the next place, we have not got a rifle. Just wait until morning, and we'll make a scattering among them, if some one don't get the start of us." "I suppose we are not the only ones that have heard them." "Not by a good deal. I shouldn't wonder if there were a dozen fellows that have made up their minds to have a crack at them in the morning." And Frank was right. Many a young hunter, as he lay in bed and heard the wild geese passing over, had determined to have the first shot at them, and many a gun was taken down, and cleaned and loaded, in readiness for the morning's hunt. Wild geese seldom remained longer than two or three days about the village, and then they generally staid in the swamp. This made it difficult for the young hunters to get a shot at them, and only the most active and persevering ever succeeded. Although for a month the young sportsmen had been expecting them, and had carefully scanned the river every morning, and listened for the welcome "honk-honk" that should announce the arrival of the wished-for game, this was the first flock that had made its appearance. "I am afraid," said Archie, "that some one will get the start of us. Let's get up." "No; lie still and go to sleep," said Frank. "I am afraid we shall oversleep ourselves. I wonder what time it is." "I'll soon find out," said Frank. And, bounding out on to the floor, he lighted a match, and held it up before the little clock that stood on the mantle-piece. "It's twelve o'clock," he continued. And he crawled back into bed, and in a few moments was almost asleep, when Archie suddenly exclaimed, "They're coming back!" And the geese again passed over the house, in full cry. They knew it was the same flock, because they came from toward the river, and that was the same direction in which they had gone but a few moments before. In a short time they again returned; and, during the quarter of an hour that followed, they passed over three times more. "I wonder what is the matter with those geese," said Archie, at length. "Nothing," replied Frank; "only they have got a little bewildered, and don't know which way to go." "Where will we have to go to find them in the morning?" "Up to the swamp," answered Frank. "The last time they passed over they flew toward the north, and the swamp is the only place in that direction where they can go to find water, except Duck Lake, and that is too far for them to fly this stormy night." "I wish it was morning," said Archie, again. "Let's get up." "What's the use? It will be five long hours before it will be light enough to hunt them up; and we might as well go to sleep." "I'm afraid we shall sleep too long," said Archie, again, "and that some one will beat us." "No fear of that," answered Frank; "I'll wake you up at three o'clock." And he turned over and arranged his pillow, and in a few moments was fast asleep. But Archie was so excited that he found it difficult even to lie still; and he lay awake almost two hours, thinking of the sport they should have in the morning, and at last dropped into an unquiet slumber. It seemed to him that he had hardly closed his eyes, when a strong hand was laid on his shoulder, and a voice said, in his ear, "Wake up here; it's three o'clock." He did not need a second call, but was out on the floor in an instant. It was still storming. The wind moaned and whistled through the branches of the trees around the cottage, and sent the big drops of rain rattling against the window. It was a wild time to go hunting, and some boys would have preferred tumbling back into bed again. But Frank and his cousin had made up their minds that if any one got a shot at the geese, they were to be the ones. As soon as they were dressed, Frank led the way into the kitchen, and, while he was lighting a fire, Archie brought out of the pantry a pan of milk, two spoons and bowls, and a loaf of bread. He was so impatient to "get a crack at the geese," as he said, that, although he was very fond of bread and milk, he could scarcely eat at all. "I'm afraid some one will get the start of us," he exclaimed, noticing that his cousin, instead of being in a hurry, was taking matters very coolly. "What if they do?" answered Frank, deliberately refilling his bowl from the pan. "We shall stand just as good a chance as they do. It will not be daylight these two hours. It's as dark as pitch, and all we can do is to go up to the swamp, and get under a tree, and wait until it is light enough to see where our geese are." As soon as they had finished their breakfast, they brought out their guns, and began to prepare for the hunt. Extra charges were put in each barrel; and, while they were drawing on their rubber coats, Archie said, "We had better leave my dogs at home, hadn't we? Lightfoot would make too much noise, and Sport, although he would keep still enough, would be of no use to us, for he will not go into the water after a wounded bird." "Yes," said Frank, "we had better leave them behind. But we must have Brave with us. I'll go and call him." And he opened the door, and, walking out upon the piazza, which ran entirely around the cottage, gave a low whistle. There was a slight rustling among the straw in the kennel where the dogs slept, and Brave came out, and followed his master into the house. After wrapping up their guns in their coats, they were ready to set out. Half an hour's walk, through mud up to their ankles, brought them to Uncle Mike's house, which stood at the end of the road, and, climbing over the fence that inclosed his pasture, they struck off through the woods toward the lake. After picking their way for half a mile over fallen logs, and through wet, tangled bushes, Frank, who was leading the way, suddenly stopped, and, leaning back against a tree to get out of the rain, said, "Here we are. Had we better try to cross the creek now, or shall we wait until daylight?" "You must have cat's eyes," said Archie, trying to peer through the darkness. "I knew there was a creek here somewhere, but I didn't suppose we had reached it yet." "Well, we have; and, unless I am very much mistaken, you will find the bridge right before you. Shall we try to cross it now? It will be a slippery job." The "bridge" that Frank referred to was simply a large tree that the boys had felled across the creek, and stripped of its branches. It could easily be crossed in the day-time, but in a dark, stormy night it was a difficult task to undertake. The boys could scarcely see their hands before them; and Frank had accomplished something worth boasting of in being able to conduct his cousin directly to the bridge. "It will require the skill of a rope-dancer to cross that bridge now," said Archie; "and, if we should happen to slip off into the water, we would be in a nice fix." "Besides," said Frank, "if we did succeed in crossing, we could not go far in the dark, on account of the swamp; so, I think, we had better wait." The boys stood under the tree, talking in low tones, when Frank suddenly exclaimed, "We're all right. The geese are in the lake. Do you hear that?" Archie listened, and heard a splashing in the water, mingled with the hoarse notes of the gander. "I wish it was daylight," said he, impatiently. "Don't be in a hurry," said Frank; "there's time enough." "I'm afraid they will start off as soon as it gets light." "Oh, no; the lake is a good feeding-ground, and they would stay, perhaps, all day, if they were not disturbed." In about an hour the day began to dawn; and, as soon as objects on the opposite side of the creek could be discerned, Frank led the way across the bridge. A short run through the woods brought them to the swamp. Now the hunt began in earnest. The swamp was covered with water, which, in some places, was two feet deep; and the trees and bushes grew so thick, that it was with difficulty that they could work their way through them. Besides, they were obliged to proceed very carefully, for every step brought them nearer the game; and the slightest splashing in the water, or even the snapping of a twig, might alarm them. At length they found themselves on the shore of the lake; and, peering out from behind a thicket, where they had crept for concealment, they discovered, about half-way to the opposite shore, as fine a flock of geese as one would wish to see--fifteen of them in all. They were swimming around, turning their heads first one way and then the other, as if they had been alarmed. "It's a long shot, isn't it?" said Archie, measuring the distance with his eye. "Yes," answered his cousin; "but that is not the worst of it; they are getting further away from us every moment." "Well," said Archie, cocking his gun, and pushing it carefully through the bushes, "you be ready to take them as they rise." As he spoke he took a quick aim at the nearest of the flock, and pulled the trigger. The cap snapped. "Plague on the gun!" he exclaimed. "Shall I throw it in the lake!" "No, no," answered Frank; "try the other barrel; and you had better be quick about it--they're going to fly." Archie again raised his gun to his shoulder. This time there was no mistake. The nearest of the geese received the entire charge, and lay dead on the water. Frank now waited for his turn; but the geese, after skimming along the surface of the water until they were out of gun-shot, rose in the air, and flew rapidly across the lake. As the boys stood watching their flight, they saw a cloud of smoke issue from a clump of bushes on the opposite shore, followed by the report of a gun, and one of the flock fell to the water, and another, evidently badly wounded, rose high in the air, and flew wildly about. Another puff of smoke rose from the bushes, a second report was heard, and the wounded bird came tumbling into the lake. The geese, surprised at this sudden repulse, quickly wheeled, and flew back toward the place where our hunters were stationed. Frank raised his gun to his shoulder, and, as soon as they came within range, he pulled the trigger, and brought down two geese--one stone-dead, and the other with a broken wing. Hardly waiting to see the effect of the shot, he fired his second barrel at the flock, just as they were disappearing over the tops of the trees. They had flown so high, that he hardly expected the shot would prove effective. To his surprise, one of the flock gradually fell behind, and, after trying in vain to support itself, fell slowly through the air, until it almost reached the water; then it seemed to regain the power of using its wings, and began to fly more regularly. "Try your gun again, Archie," said Frank; "I'm afraid we are going to lose him." Archie accordingly drew a bead on the goose, but with no better success, and the bird speedily disappeared over the trees. "Confound my luck!" exclaimed Archie, impatiently. "I'll try and keep my powder dry after this." "He can't fly far," said Frank. "Let's be lively, and we will have him yet. Here, Brave!" he continued, pointing to the geese in the lake, "fetch 'em out!" Brave plunged into the water, and made toward the nearest of the geese, which happened to be the one Frank had wounded. As soon as the bird saw him approaching, instead of trying to save himself by flight, he raised himself in the water, elevated his uninjured wing, and set up a loud hiss. But these hostile demonstrations, instead of intimidating the Newfoundlander, served rather to enrage him, and he kept on, with open mouth, ready to seize the game. The moment he came within reach, the goose thrust out his long neck, and, catching Brave by the ear, dealt him a hard blow over the head with his wing. But he did not have time to repeat it, for the dog gave a loud, angry yelp, and, springing forward in the water, seized the goose, and killed it with a single bite; then, turning round, he swam back to the shore, deposited the game at his master's feet, and again plunged in to bring out the others. "I wonder who that is on the other side of the lake?" said Archie. "I guess it's Bill Johnson," answered Frank, who had reloaded his gun, and stood holding it in the hollow of his arm. "I saw a dog that looked very much like his bringing out the geese. There he is now!" And as he spoke the boy stepped out of the bushes, and a loud, shrill whistle echoed across the lake. "That's Bill," said Archie. "Hallo!" he continued, raising his voice so that William could hear; "wait for us at Uncle Mike's--will you?" "All right," shouted William, in reply. And, gathering up his game, he again disappeared in the bushes. By this time Brave had brought out the last of the geese, and Archie had succeeded in shooting off the wet charge; so they started back toward the road. Frank led the way, carrying three of the geese; Brave followed close at his heels, carrying the fourth; and Archie brought up the rear, loading his gun as he went. An hour's walk brought them to Uncle Mike's, where they found William sitting on the fence, waiting for them. "What luck?" inquired Archie, as they came up. "Only two," answered William; "but you have been more fortunate." "Yes," said Archie, "we've got four; and Frank wounded another so badly that he can't fly far. We are going to look for him in the creek, as we go along." "And I hope we shall get him," said Frank; "for he was the largest of the flock, and I want him for our museum." The boys walked slowly down the creek, keeping a good look-out for the wounded bird among the reeds along the bank; but they reached the cottage without seeing any signs of him. "I'm afraid we've lost him," said Archie. "I'm sorry," said Frank, "for he was a nice, big fellow. Let's go back; perhaps we've overlooked him. I am certain that he could not have flown to the river." At this moment a slight splashing in the water, on the opposite side of the creek, attracted their attention, and they discovered their game swimming slowly about among the reeds, as if trying to find some place of concealment. "Now, Archie," said Frank, dropping the butt of his gun to the ground, "there's a chance for you to retrieve your lost reputation." "And I'll take advantage of it," said Archie, raising his gun to his shoulder. A loud report followed his words, and the goose, after a few slight struggles, lay motionless on the water. Brave immediately sprang into the creek, and, forcing his way among the reeds, seized the bird and brought it to the shore. CHAPTER XVI. Chapter of Incidents. The next day had been set apart by Frank and his cousin for a squirrel-hunt; but the first thing they heard, when they awoke in the morning, was the pattering of the rain against their bedroom window, and the hunt was, to use Archie's expression, "up stump." Although they had been expecting exciting times, bringing down the squirrels (for the woods were fairly alive with them), and were a good deal disappointed at being obliged to postpone their intended excursion, they were not the ones to complain, they knew there would be many pleasant days before the winter set in, and the hunt was put off without ceremony. They were at no loss to know how to pass the day. There was plenty of work to be done: their traps must be overhauled and put in working order; the Speedwell was waiting to be dismasted and put cover; their fishing-tackle must be oiled and packed away, their pets taken care of and provided with winter-quarters; and there was a host of other things to attend to; and they were in no fear that the time would hang heavily on their hands. As soon as the boys were dressed, they went into the shop and set manfully to work. Archie kindled a fire in the stove--for it was a cold, unpleasant day--and Frank pulled from under the work-bench a large chest, filled with spring-traps, "dead-falls," broken reels, scraps of lead, and numberless other things he had collected, and began to pull over the contents. The traps were taken out and subjected to a thorough rubbing and greasing. While thus engaged, their attention was attracted by the peculiar "cawing" of a crow that flew over the shop, and, a moment afterward, a whole chorus of the harsh notes sounded in the direction of the woods. The boys hurried to the door, and saw a multitude of crows pouring from every part of the woods, cawing with all their might, and directing their course toward a large pine-tree, which stood in the meadow back of the orchard, and which was already covered with them. "What's the matter?" inquired Archie. "They act as if they had discovered an owl," answered Frank. "Have they? Let's go and shoot him." "That will, probably, be a harder job than you anticipate," said Frank. "However, we will try." After shutting the dogs up in the shop, the boys ran into the house, drew on their rubber coats, and started through the orchard, loading their guns as they went--putting an extra charge of powder and a couple of buck-shot into each barrel. In a few moments they reached the fence that ran between the orchard and the meadow, and Archie inquired, "What shall we do now?" "We can't go much further," said Frank, drawing a flap of his coat over his gun, to protect it from the rain. "There isn't a stump, or even a tuft of grass, in the meadow large enough to cover us. Besides, if we undertake to climb over the fence, every crow will be out of sight in a moment; then good-by, owl." "He wouldn't fly off, would he?" "I should say he would," answered Frank, with a laugh. "He'd leave like a streak of lightning." "That's news to me. I always thought owls couldn't see in the day-time. Natural history says so." "I know it," said Frank. "But there is one thing certain: they must be able to see a little, or else their sense of smell or hearing is very acute for it is very difficult to get a shot at them, even in the day-time. That one in our museum led me a chase of half a day before I shot him, and I had a rifle, too." "What is to be done now?" inquired Archie. "We don't want to stand here in the rain much longer." "We must wait until he flies into the woods, or somewhere else, so that we can get a shot at him." "I can make him fly. I've killed squirrels further off than that, many a time. Suppose I shoot at him?" "Shoot away; but you must remember that an owl and a squirrel are two different things. The thick feathers of the owl will glance a charge of shot that would blow a squirrel to pieces." Archie made no reply, but crawled up behind a thick cluster of currant-bushes that grew close by the fence, and, thrusting his gun between the branches, was settling himself into a comfortable position, when the owl suddenly leaped from his perch, and flew off toward the woods, as Frank had said he would, "like a streak of lightning," followed by the whole flock of his tormentors, which screamed with all their might. "Now's our time," said Frank. "Come on!" And, clearing the fence at a bound, he started across the meadow at the top of his speed. Archie followed close at his heels, and a few minutes run brought them to the edge of the woods. "Now the hunt begins in earnest," said Frank, "We must separate; we shall make too much noise if we go together." "Where's the owl?" inquired Archie. "As near as I can guess, he must be in that tall hemlock," answered Frank, pointing through the woods toward the tree in question. Archie immediately moved cautiously off in the direction indicated, leaving his cousin to take care if himself. Guided by the noise made by the crows, he soon discovered the owl, not where Frank had supposed him to be, but on a tree that stood to the right, and several rods further off. Placing a large tree between himself and the game, he threw himself on his hands and knees, and crawled along as silently as possible, taking good care to keep out of sight of the crows. He had arrived almost within range of the owl, when he found before him a spot of considerable extent, which was entirely destitute of bushes or large trees, and covered only with saplings, which grew so thinly that he would certainly be discovered if he attempted to pass through them. This brought him to a stand-still. He stood thinking whether he had better risk a shot at the owl or retrace his steps, when one of the crews uttered a cry of warning, which was immediately answered by the others, and the whole flock was out of sight in an instant. The owl gazed around a moment with his great eyes, then spread his wings, leaped into the air, and was flying rapidly away, when there was a sharp report, and he came tumbling to the ground, and the indefatigable Frank rose from the bushes, and ran forward to secure his prize. "Dished again!" said Archie, to himself. "I would have wagered a good deal that Frank was not within gun-shot." "I say, Archie, where are you?" called out Frank. "Here I am. I thought, sure, that owl was mine." And Archie came forward, holding his gun in the hollow of his arm, and looking a little crest-fallen. "You were not far behind," said Frank, laughing. "That's poor consolation. I wanted to be first. Never mind," he added, catching up the owl, and throwing it over his shoulder, "I'll be ahead of you yet." This generous rivalry had existed between the cousins from their earliest boyhood. In all athletic sports--such as running, ball-playing, swimming, and the like--Archie was acknowledged to be the superior; but in hunting Frank generally carried off the palm. Archie, however, perseveringly kept up the contest, and endeavored to accomplish, by bold and rapid movements, what his cousin gained by strategy; and, although he sometimes bore off the prize, he more frequently succeeded in "knocking every thing in the head" by what the boys called his "carelessness." This was the source of a great deal of merriment between the cousins; and, although they sometimes felt a little mortified at their defeat (as did Archie now), they ever afterward spoke of it as a "good joke." After breakfast the boys went into the shop again, and Frank sharpened his knife, and began to remove the skin of the owl, intending to stuff it and place it in the museum, while Archie took his ax and started for a grove of willows, that grew on the banks of the creek, to get some timber to make a dead-fall trap. He had been gone scarcely a moment before he returned in a great hurry, and, throwing down his ax, seized his gun, which stood in the corner behind the door, exclaiming, "Now I've got a chance to make up for losing that owl. A flock of ducks, regular canvas-backs, have just flown over, and I think they lit in the swamp. You'll have to make tracks to get the start of me this time." And he shouldered his gun, and ran out of the shop, banging the door after him. Frank immediately dropped the owl, caught up his gun, and started in hot pursuit. But his cousin had made the most of his time, and, when Frank reached the gate, he saw Archie far up the road, tearing along as fast as his legs could carry him, and spattering the mud in every direction. Under any other circumstances, Frank would have stopped to laugh; but, as it was, he had no time to lose. So he ran down the bank of the creek, and, untying his skiff, pushed out into the stream, and a few strokes of the oars brought him to the opposite shore; then, fastening the skiff to a tree, he started through the woods, toward the swamp. This enabled him to gain on his cousin almost half a mile. But Archie happened to have luck on his side this time; for the ducks, instead of alighting in the swamp, as he had supposed, had come down in the creek; and, as he was hurrying along the road, which ran close to the creek, a slight splashing in the water and a hoarse "quack" attracted his attention, and caused him to proceed with more caution. He listened until the noise was repeated, in order that he might know exactly where the ducks were, and then began to worm his way through the wet bushes, in the direction of the sound. At length he crawled up behind a large log, that lay close to the water's edge, and had the satisfaction of finding the game fairly before him. But the most difficult part of the undertaking was yet to come. The ducks--seven of them in all--were fully twenty rods off; and, although Archie had great confidence in the "shooting qualities" of his gun, he hardly dared to fire--he might only wound the birds; and, as he had no ammunition with him besides the loads in his gun, he was anxious to make every shot tell. "This won't do," he soliloquized. "I must get up nearer." He was about to retrace his steps, when he noticed that the ducks began to move impatiently around, and acted as if about to fly. In an instant Archie's mind was made up; it was now or never; and, taking a quick aim at the nearest of the flock, he blazed away. It was his only chance, and a slim one at that, for the distance was so great that he hardly expected the shot would take effect; but, when the smoke cleared away, he discovered one of the flock lying motionless on the water, and another, too badly wounded to rise, was swimming slowly around him. The rest of the flock were skimming along the surface of the creek, toward the swamp. They were far beyond the range of his gun, and he knew it would do no good to fire at them; so he concluded, to use his own expression, to "make sure of what he had got," and, taking aim at the wounded bird, was about to give it the contents of the other barrel, when he heard the report of a gun some distance further up the creek, and looked up just in time to see one of the birds fall into the water. "Who's that, I wonder," said Archie, to himself. "It can't be Frank, for he wouldn't be on that side of the creek; besides, I had a good long start of him." His soliloquy was cut short by the movements of the flock, which, instead of continuing on their course up the creek, rose higher in the air, and flew about in confusion. This opportunity was not lost by the concealed sportsman, and a second bird came down with a broken wing. The ducks then wheeled and flew back toward the place where Archie was stationed. As soon as they came within range, he fired and brought down another bird, which landed among the bushes on the opposite side of the creek. He now turned his attention to the wounded duck, which was swimming in a circle around his dead companion, as if perfectly bewildered. "I wish I had my powder-flask and shot-bag," said Archie. "How foolish I was not to bring them! I bet that I'll never start out again with only one load in my gun." But there was no time for regrets. The duck seemed to be recovering his strength, and began co flap his wings, as if preparing to fly. Archie began to fear that he should lose him; and, throw down his gun, he gathered up an armful of sticks and branches, and straightway opened fire on the bird. The duck dodged the missiles like a flash, and every now and then renewed his attempts to fly; but, at length, a heavy piece of root struck him, and stretched him out lifeless on the water. "Ha! ha! ha!" laughed a strong, cheery voice. "That's what I call shooting ducks under difficulties." Archie looked up and saw his cousin standing on the opposite side of the creek, with his gun on one shoulder and two of the flock slung over the other. "I came very near getting the start of you, after all--didn't I?" continued Frank. "Was that you shooting up there?" inquired Archie. "Yes; I had almost reached the swamp, when I happened to think that perhaps the ducks might be in the creek, so I turned back." "A lucky circumstance for you. But I beat you, after all. I've got three ducks." "Where are they? I don't see but two." "The other is over there in the bushes, somewhere." Frank immediately commenced looking for it, and Archie procured a long branch, and waded out as far as possible into the creek, and, after considerable exertion and a thorough wetting, succeeded in pulling both of his ducks to the shore. During the three weeks that followed, the boys passed the time in various ways--sometimes hunting in the woods or on the river, but more frequently working in the shop. They also spent considerable time in attending to their pets. The young otter proved to be the most interesting little animal they had ever seen. He grew quite tame, and when the boys entered the room where he was kept, he would come toward them, uttering a faint whine, and, if they seated themselves, he would jump up into their laps, and search through their pockets for something to eat--such as bread or crackers, of which the boys always took especial care to have a good supply. At length they began to long for winter, and many were the speculations as to when the "first fell of snow" would come. Their traps were all in order, and they were impatient for an opportunity to make use of them. Besides, they had agreed with George and Harry to "go fox-hunting the very first time there was snow enough for tracking." A week more passed, and Thanksgiving Day came; and in the evening Frank and his cousin went down to visit George and Harry, intending, as they said, to "stay only a few minutes." But Mr. Butler soon came in, and began to relate some of his "sailor yarns," as he called them (for he was a retired sea-captain), and the boys became so interested in listening to them, that they did not notice how rapidly the time flew by, and it was ten o'clock before they knew it. They then bade the Captain "good-night." George and Harry, as usual, agreed to accompany them part of the way, and, when they reached the door, what was their surprise to find the ground white with snow, and the air filled with the rapidly-falling flakes. "We'll have that fox-hunt to-morrow," exclaimed Harry, in delight. "Of course we will," said Archie, "and I wouldn't take ten dollars for my chance of catching one." "You mean, if the snow doesn't melt," said Frank, quietly. "Oh, that's always the way with you," said Archie. "What makes you try to throw cold water on all our expectations, in that way?" "I didn't intend to," answered Frank, with a laugh; "but, you know, we have been disappointed very often." "Yes," said George, "but I guess we are all right this time. It snows pretty fast, and the air doesn't feel like a thaw or rain." Frank acknowledged this; and they walked along, talking about the exciting times they expected to have on the morrow, until they reached the "big elm"--a large tree that stood leaning over the creek, just half-way between Captain Butler's and where Frank lived. Here George and Harry stopped, and, after promising to be at the cottage early on the following morning, turned their faces homeward. CHAPTER XVII. The Grayhound Outgeneraled. The next morning, at an early hour, George and Harry arrived at the cottage, and, after a light and hastily-eaten breakfast, they set out. Frank and Harry were armed, as usual, with their guns, while the others carried axes. They crossed the meadow at the back of the orchard, passed through the cornfield which had been the scene of the 'coon-hunt, a few weeks before, and struck out through the woods. The dogs were then sent out ahead, and they had not gone more than half a mile, when Sport uttered a long, loud howl, and, when the boys came up with him, he was running impatiently about with his nose close to the ground. "A fox has been along here," said Frank, bending over and examining a track in the snow, "and the trail looks fresh." "Hunt 'em up! hunt 'em up!" shouted Archie, excitedly, waving his hand to the dogs. Sport bounded off on the track like a shot, and Lightfoot followed close after. Brave barked and howled furiously, and acted as if he wished very much to accompany them; but the swift hounds would have distanced him in a moment. It must not be supposed that it was the intention of the boys to follow up the hounds--that would have been worse than useless. Perhaps the chase would continue for several hours. They had once hunted a fox all day, without coming in sight of him. Reynard has ways and habits of his own, which a person who has had experience in hunting him understands. He always runs with the wind, and generally follows a ridge. The hunters take advantage of this, and "run cross-lots" to meet him, sometimes gaining on him several miles in this manner. The moment the hounds had disappeared on the trail, Frank--who knew all the "run-ways" of the game like a book--led the way through the woods toward a ridge that lay about a mile distant, where they expected the fox would pass. A quarter of an hour's run brought them to this ridge, and they began to conceal themselves behind trees and bushes, when Archie suddenly exclaimed, "We're dished, boys. The fox has already passed." "Come on, then," said Frank. "No time to lose. We must try again." And he again led the way, on a keen run, through a strip of woods, across a wide meadow toward another ridge, that lay fully three miles distant. At length the baying of the hounds echoed through the woods, far below them. Louder and louder it grew, and, in a few moments, they swept up the ridge in full cry. The boys hurried on as rapidly as possible, and reached the ridge in about an hour. Although they were accustomed to such sport, they were pretty well tired out. They had run the greater part of the way through thick woods, filled with fallen logs and tangled bushes; but they now felt confident that the hunt was nearly over. They knew they had gained considerably on the fox, and his capture would be an ample reward for their trouble. As soon as they reached the ridge, they threw themselves rapidly across it in all directions, and, to their delight, discovered that the fox had not yet passed. They stationed themselves in such a manner that it would be impossible for him to pass on either side of them without coming within reach of their guns, and patiently awaited his appearance. They had not remained long in this position, when Archie, who was stationed lowest down the ridge, exclaimed in a subdued voice, "There they come, boys! Now, look sharp!" The boys listened intently, and heard, faint and far off, the well-known bay of Sport. It was sharp and short--very different from the note he had uttered when the chase first commenced. Louder and louder grew the noise, as the hounds came rapidly up the ridge toward the place where the boys were stationed, and every one was on the alert, expecting every moment to see the fox break cover. Suddenly a loud howl blended with Sport's baying, and the hounds seemed to turn and sweep down the valley. "The fox has left the ridge, boys," said Frank. "Then we're dished again," exclaimed Archie. "Perhaps not," continued Frank. "He will have to go across the meadow, and will run the risk of being caught by Lightfoot. We must try and cut him off." And he led the way down the ridge, in the direction the chase was tending. In a few moments the hounds broke out into a continuous cry, and, when the boys emerged from the woods, they saw them standing at the foot of a tall stump, which stood near the middle of the meadow. Brave immediately ran to join them, and Harry exclaimed, "I'd like to know what those dogs are doing there?" "Why, they've got the fox treed," said Frank. "A fox treed!" repeated Harry, with a laugh, "Whoever heard of such a thing?" "I have often read," answered Frank, "that when a fox is hard pressed, and finds himself unable to escape, he will take advantage of any place of concealment he can find." While this conversation was going on, the boys had been running toward the stump, and, when they reached it, they found Brave with his head buried in a hole near the ground, now and then giving his tail a jerk, but otherwise remaining as motionless as a statue. "What do you think now of the possibility of seeing a fox?" inquired Frank, turning to Harry. "I don't believe it yet," said the latter. "Then how is it that the dogs are here?" "The fox may have run down here and doubled on his trail, and thus thrown the dogs off the scent." "He didn't have time to do that," said Archie, who had divested himself of his coat, and stood with his ax, ready to cut down the stump. "He's in here, I'm certain. See how Brave acts." "It will not take long to find out," said George, who was a good deal of his brother's opinion that the fox was not in the tree. And he and Archie set to work, with the intention of cutting it down. But it was found to be hollow; and, after taking out a few chips, Archie stooped down to take a survey of the interior, and spied the fox crouched in the darkest corner. "Hand me your gun, Frank," said he; "I'll shoot him." "I wouldn't shoot him," said Frank. "It is a good time to try Lightfoot's speed. Let's get the fox out, and give him a fair start, and if he gets away from the hound, he is entitled to his life." The boys readily agreed to this proposal--not out of any desire to give the fox a chance for his liberty, but in order to witness a fair trial of the grayhound's speed, and to enjoy the excitement of the race. George and Harry provided themselves with long poles, with which to "poke" the fox out of his refuge. Brave and Sport were unceremoniously conducted away from the tree, and ordered to "lie down;" and Frank took hold of the grayhound, intending to restrain him until the fox could get a fair start. "All ready now," said Archie. "Keep a good look-out, Frank, and let the hound go the instant the fox comes out. You know, Lightfoot is young yet, and it won't do to give the game too long a start." "All right," answered Frank. And he tightened his grasp on the strong, impatient animal, which struggled desperately to free himself, while George and Harry began the work of "poking out the fox." They thrust their poles into the holes they had cut in the roots of the stump, and the next moment out popped the fox, and started toward the woods like a streak of light. The meadow was about a mile and a half square, and was laid off in "dead furrows"--deep ditches, which are dug, about four rods apart, to drain off the water. The fox took to the bank of one of these furrows, and followed it at a rate of speed which the boys had never seen equaled. The moment Lightfoot discovered him, he raised himself on his hind-legs, and struggled and fought furiously. But Frank would not release him in that position, for fear the hound would "throw" himself; and he commenced striking him on the head, to compel him, if possible, to place his fore-feet on the ground, but all to no purpose. During the struggle, short as it was, the fox had gained nearly thirty rods. Archie was not slow to notice this, and he shouted to his cousin, "Let him go! let him go! The fox has too long a start already." Frank accordingly released the hound, which made an enormous bound, and, as Frank had expected, he landed, all in a heap, in one of the dead furrows, and, before he could recover himself, the fox had gained two or three rods more. But when the hound was fairly started, his speed was astonishing. He settled down nobly to his work, and moved over the ground as lightly as if he had been furnished with wings. Had he been a well-trained dog, the boys would have felt no concern whatever as to the issue of the race; but, as it was, they looked upon the escape of the fox as a very probable thing. The fox was still following the dead furrow, and Lightfoot, instead of pursuing directly after him, as he ought to have done, took to another furrow which ran parallel to the one the fox was following, and about four rods from it. The fox had a good start, but the enormous bounds of the greyhound rapidly lessened the distance between them; he gained at every step, and finally overtook him, and the two animals were running side by side, and only four rods apart. Suddenly the cunning fox turned, and started off exactly at right angles with the course he had been following. The gray hound, of course, had not been expecting this, and he made a dozen of his long bounds before he could turn himself. During this time the fox gained several rods. As before, the hound pursued a course parallel with that of the fox, instead of following directly after him. In a few moments they were again running side by side, but this time further apart than before. Again and again the fox turned, each time nearing the woods, and gaining considerably; and finally, reaching the end of the meadow, he cleared the fence at a bound, and disappeared in the bushes. "Now, that's provoking!" exclaimed Archie. "Never mind," answered Frank. "I don't think the fox can go much further. He must be pretty well tired out, judging by the way he ran. Here, Sport!" he continued, "hunt 'em up!" Sport was off like a shot, and the boys followed after as fast as their legs could carry them. When they reached the woods, they found Lightfoot beating about in the bushes, as if he expected to find the fox concealed among them. Sport was standing over the trail of the fox, as motionless as if he had been turned into stone. "Hunt 'em up!" shouted Frank, again--"hunt 'em up." The hound uttered a loud bark, and instantly set off on the trail, and Lightfoot, as before, followed close at his heels. "Now," exclaimed Frank, "we must change our tactics." "Yes," said Harry. "A little further on, the ridge branches off, and there is no knowing which one the fox will follow. Come, George, we will go this way." And he turned and ran down into the meadow again. "Run like blazes, now!" shouted Frank. And, suiting the action to the word, he turned off in the opposite direction, and led the way through the woods at a rate which made Archie wonder. They ran along in "Indian file"--Brave bringing up the rear--for almost two miles, through the thickest part of the woods, when they again found themselves on the ridge. After ascertaining that the fox had not yet passed, they took their stations. "I would really like to know which way that fox went," said Archie, panting hard after his long run. "I am almost certain that he took to the other ridge," answered Frank. "I think we should have heard the hound before this time, if he had turned this way." They remained in their places of concealment for almost an hour, without hearing any sounds of the chase, and Frank said, "We might as well start for home." "Dished again, are we?" said Archie, in a deprecating tone. "That's too bad! Well," he continued, "we can't always be the fortunate ones, but I wish I could have had the pleasure of shooting that fox. But which way do we go to get home?" "We must go exactly south," said Frank. "Which way is that?" "I will soon tell you." And Frank drew a small compass from his pocket, and, in a moment, continued, "This is the way. Come on!" And he turned his face, as Archie thought, directly _from_ home, and struck boldly out. Their long run had taxed their endurance to the utmost. If they had "been in practice," they would have looked upon it as merely a "little tramp;" for, during the previous winter, they had often followed a fox all day without experiencing any serious inconvenience; but, as this was the first exercise of the kind they had had for almost a year, they felt the effects of it pretty severely. Archie, who had lived in the city during the summer, was "completely used up," as he expressed it; and his cousin was weary and footsore; and it seemed as though neither of them had sufficient strength left to take another step. They kept on, hour after hour, however, without once stopping to rest; and, about three o'clock in the afternoon, they climbed over the fence that inclosed Uncle Mike's pasture, and came in sight of the cottage. George and Harry were sitting on the piazza, and, as soon as they came within speaking distance, the latter held up the fox, exclaiming, "We were lucky, for once in our lives." "If we had been five minutes later, we should have lost him," said George, as Frank and his cousin came up to where the brothers were sitting. "We reached the ridge just in the 'nick of time,' The fox was just passing, and Harry brought him down by a chance shot. Here, Frank," he continued, "you take the fox; we have no use for him." Frank thanked him; and the boys then went into the house, and, after dinner, the brothers started for home. Frank and his cousin went into the study, and the former selected his favorite book from his library, and settled himself in an easy-chair before the fire; while Archie stretched himself on the bed, and was fast asleep in a moment. And here, reader, we will leave them reposing after their long run; but we hope soon to introduce them again in works entitled, "FRANK IN THE WOODS," and "FRANK ON THE PRAIRIE." THE END. 
60633	----	[Illustration: Cover art] WOLF EAR THE INDIAN A STORY OF THE GREAT UPRISING OF 1890-91 BY EDWARD S. ELLIS Author of "Captured by Indians," "A Hunt on Snow Shoes," "The Mountain Star," etc. etc. WITH FOUR FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS BY ALFRED PEARSE SEVENTEENTH THOUSAND CASSELL AND COMPANY, LIMITED London, New York, Toronto and Melbourne ALL RIGHTS RESERVED CONTENTS CHAPTER I. "The bullet had passed startlingly near him" CHAPTER II. "He's up to some mischief, I'll warrant" CHAPTER III. "There are fifty hostiles" CHAPTER IV. "We are enemies" CHAPTER V. "What will be their next step?" CHAPTER VI. "Ay, where were they?" CHAPTER VII. "It came like one of them Kansan cyclones" CHAPTER VIII. "The bucks were coming up alarmingly fast" CHAPTER IX. "He has made his last scout" CHAPTER X. "Oh, there is Wolf Ear?" CHAPTER XI. "I'm off! Good-bye!" CHAPTER XII. What happened to Wolf Ear LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS "I'm off! Good-bye!" . . . _Frontispiece_ "The figure of a Sioux Buck" "Hurrah!" "Oh, there is Wolf Ear!" [Transcriber's note: the first three illustrations were missing from the source book.] WOLF EAR THE INDIAN CHAPTER I. "THE BULLET HAD PASSED STARTLINGLY NEAR HIM." Before relating to my young friends the incidents which follow, I think a few words of explanation will help them. Perhaps some of you share the general mistake that the American Indians are dying out. This is not the fact. There are to-day more red men in the United States than ever before. In number, they exceed a quarter of a million, and though they do not increase as fast as the whites, still they are increasing. It is true that a great many tribes have disappeared, while others that were once numerous and powerful have dwindled to a few hundreds; but on the other hand, tribes that were hardly known a century ago now include thousands. The many wars between the United States and the Indians have been caused, almost without exception, by gross injustice towards the red men. They have been wronged in every way, until in their rage they turned against their oppressors. The sad fact at such times is that the ones who have used them so ill generally escape harm, while the innocent suffer. The Indian reasons that it is the white race that has wronged him, so he does them all the injury he can, without caring whether the one whom he slays has had a hand in his own persecution. The Indian, like all savages, is very superstitious. He loves to think over the time, hundreds of years ago, when the red men roamed over the whole continent from ocean to ocean. He dreams of those days, and believes they will again return--that the pale faces will be driven into the sea, and the vast land become the hunting ground of the Indians. Some years ago this strange faith took a wonderfully strong hold upon those people. The belief spread that a Messiah was coming in the spring of 1891, who would destroy the pale faces and give all the country back to the red men. They began holding wild dances, at which the dancers took hold of hands and leaped and shouted and circled round and round until they dropped to the ground, senseless and almost dead. These "ghost dances," as they were called, were carried on to please the new Messiah. When the dancers recovered, they told strange stories of having visited the other world. All who listened believed them. The craze spread like wildfire, and before the Government understood what was going on, the Indians were making ready for war. They were well armed, eager to attack the whites. The principal tribe was the Dakota or Sioux, the most powerful on the American continent. The leading chief or medicine man was Sitting Bull. He was a bad man who had made trouble for more than twenty years. He could not endure the white men, and, when not actively engaged against them, was thinking out some scheme of evil. As soon as the new Messiah craze broke out, he turned it to account. He sent his friends among the tribes and urged them to unite in a general war against the whites. The officers and soldiers were very patient, and did their best to soothe the red men, but matters grew worse and worse. Trouble was sure to come if Sitting Bull were allowed to keep up his mischievous work. So it was decided to arrest him. In the attempt several people were killed, among them Sitting Bull himself. Danger still threatened, and many believed that it would require a great battle to subdue the Indians. Now, if you will look at your map of the United States, you will notice that the Missouri River runs across the middle of the new State of South Dakota. On the southern boundary of the State, a large tract of land, reaching one-third of the way westward to Wyoming, and with the White River forming in a general way the northern boundary, makes what is known as an Indian reservation. There are many of these in the West. They belong to the Indians, and the Government has an agency at each, to see that no white people intrude. The Indians are forbidden to leave these reservations without obtaining permission, and at the agencies they receive the annuities or supplies paid to them by the United States Government for the lands elsewhere which they have given up. Half of the reservation directly west of the Missouri is the Rosebud Agency, and the other half the Pine Ridge Agency. It was at the latter that the grave trouble threatened. When the discontent was so general, the danger extended hundreds of miles north and west. That section is thinly settled, and the pioneers were in great peril. Most of them hurried to the nearest forts for safety, while others waited, hoping the cloud would soon pass by. If your map of South Dakota is a complete one, it will show you a small stream to the westward of Pine Ridge, named Raccoon Creek, a tributary of Cherry Creek, itself a branch of the Big Cheyenne River. At the time of the troubles, the Kingsland family, consisting of Hugh, a man in middle life, his wife Molly, his daughter Edith, eight years old, and his son Brinton, a little more than double her age, were living on Raccoon Creek. The family had emigrated thither three years before from Kansas, and all would have gone well in their new home, but for the illness of Mr. Kingsland. Something in the climate disagreed with him, though the rest of the family throve. He was first brought low with chills and fever, which after several months' obstinate fight finally left him weak and dispirited. Then, when he was fairly recovered, the slipping of an axe in his hands so wounded his foot that he was laid up for fully two months more. It looked as if ill-fortune was to follow him so long at least as he stayed in South Dakota, for sickness, accident, and misfortune succeeded each other, until he would have despaired but for those around him. His wife was well fitted to be the helpmate of a pioneer, for she was hopeful, industrious, strong, and brave. She carefully nursed him, making light of their afflictions, and declaring that all would soon come right, and that prosperity would prove the sweeter from having been deferred so long. Edith, bright-eyed, pretty, affectionate and loving, was the comfort of those hours which otherwise would have been intolerably dismal, when confined in his small humble home. He read to and taught her, told her delightful fairy stories, listened to her innocent prattle and exchanged the sweetest of confidences. Sometimes Hugh Kingsland wondered after all whether he was not the most fortunate individual in the world in being thus blessed in his family relations. And there was another from whom the meed of praise must not be withheld. That was Brinton, now close upon seventeen years of age. The ill-fortune to which we have alluded made him in one sense the virtual head of the family. He was strong, cheerful, and resembled his mother in his hopeful disposition. The difficulties in which his father was continually involved brought out the real manhood of his nature. He looked after the cattle and live stock, galloped across the plains to Hermosa, Fairburn, Rapid City, and other points for supplies or on other business, or, fording the Big Cheyenne, White, and smaller streams, crossed the reservation to Pine Ridge. The youth was indispensable, and did his work so well, that the father, in his occasional moments of rallying, remarked that he thought of continuing to play the sick man, since it was proved that he was of no account. "I hope you will soon become well," said the red-cheeked lad one evening, as the group gathered around the fire; "but stay here in the house as long as you wish, for mother and Edith and I can get along without your help." "Yes, husband; don't fret over that. Only become well, and until you do so, be assured that everything is going along as it should." "I have never had a doubt of that; but, ah me," he added with a sigh, "this is tiresome after all, especially when it begins to look as though I shall never be well again." "For my part," said Edith very earnestly, "I don't want you to get well, and I am praying that you will not." "Why, Edith!" exclaimed the mother reproachfully, while her brother did not know whether to laugh or be shocked at the odd expression. As for the father, he laughed more heartily than he had done for weeks. Edith looked wonderingly in their faces, and felt that some explanation was due to them. "I mean to say--that is I don't mean anything bad, but if papa gets well enough to ride out to look after the cattle, and is working all day, why, I won't have anyone to tell me stories and read to me and do so many funny things." "Your explanation is satisfactory," said her father, smiling. "I shall have to stay in the house for some weeks--that is certain, and perhaps longer." "Oh, I am _so_ glad!" But with the first clapping of the chubby hands, Edith realised that she was doing wrong again, and she added in a gentler voice-- "If papa feels bad when he is ill then I am sorry for him, and will pray every night and morning that he may get well." It was winter time, and the Kingslands in their humble home could not be ignorant of the alarming state of affairs around them. They had been urged to come into the agency while it was safe to do so, for the revolt among the Indians was spreading, and there was no saying when escape would be cut off. The family had considered the question with the seriousness due to so important a matter. Naturally, they were reluctant to abandon their home now, for it would be virtually throwing away everything they owned in the world; but when it became a question of life and death, there could be no hesitation. On the very night, however, that the decision to remove to the agency was made, Sergeant Victor Parkhurst, who was out on a scout, with a squad of men from Pine Ridge, called at their home and stated his belief that no trouble would occur. He said it would be better if the family were at Pine Ridge, and he offered to escort them thither. But, he added, that in Mr. Kingsland's feeble condition it would be as well for him to stay where he was, since he must run great risk by exposure in the depth of winter. The next caller at the cabin was Nicholas Jackson, who had been a scout under General Crook, and was now serving General Miles in the same capacity at Pine Ridge. He brought news of Sitting Bull's death, and assured the pioneer that every day spent by him and his family away from the agency increased their peril. "You shouldn't delay your start a single hour," was his remark, as he vaulted upon his pony and skurried away. Before deciding the all-important question, it was agreed that Brinton should gallop down to the reservation and learn the real situation. It was a long ride to Pine Ridge, and involved the crossing of the Cheyenne, White, and several smaller streams, but the youth was confident he could penetrate far enough to ascertain the truth and get back by sunset. If it were necessary to go all the way to the agency, this was impossible, for the days were at their shortest, but he must penetrate that far to find out what he wished to know. When Brinton flung himself into the saddle of Jack, his tough and intelligent pony, just as it was beginning to grow light in the east, after his hasty breakfast and "good-bye," he was sure he would be caught in a snow-storm before his return. The dull heavy sky, and the peculiar penetrating chilliness, left no doubt on that point. But with his usual pluck, he chirruped to his pony, lightly jerked his bridle rein, and the gallant animal was off at a swinging pace, which he was able to maintain for hours without fatigue. He was heading south-east, over the faintly marked trail, with which the youth was familiar and which was so well known to the animal himself that he needed no guidance. Two hours later, the young horseman reached the border line of Custer and Washington counties, that is between the county of his own home and the reservation. This was made by the Big Cheyenne River, which had to be crossed before Pine Ridge was reached. Brinton reined up his horse and sat for some minutes, looking down on the stream, in which huge pieces of ice were floating, though it was not frozen over. "That isn't very inviting, Jack," he said, "but the ford is shallow and it's no use waiting." He was in the act of starting his pony down the bank, when on the heavy chilly air sounded a dull explosive crack. A nipping of his coat sleeve showed that the bullet had passed startlingly near him. He turned his head like a flash, and saw, not more than a hundred feet distant, the figure of a Sioux buck or young warrior bareback on his horse, which was standing motionless, while his rider made ready to let fly with another shot from his Winchester rifle. CHAPTER II. "HE'S UP TO SOME MISCHIEF, I'LL WARRANT." The instant Brinton Kingsland looked around and saw the Indian on his pony, a short distance away, with his rifle at his shoulder and about to fire a second time, he brought his own Winchester to a level and aimed at the one who had attempted thus treacherously to shoot him in the back. The Indian was no older than himself, sitting firmly on the bare back of his horse, with his blanket wrapped about his shoulders, and several stained eagle feathers protruding from his hair, as black and coarse as that of his pony's tail. His dark eyes glittered as they glanced along the barrel of his rifle, and he aimed straight at the breast of the youth, who instead of flinging himself over the side of his horse in the attempt to dodge the deadly missile, sat bolt upright and aimed in turn at the miscreant, who, as if stirred by the same scorn of personal danger, remained firmly in his seat. It all depended on who should fire first, and that which we have related took place, as may be said, in the twinkling of an eye. But with the weapons poised, the eyes of the two glancing along the barrels and the fingers on the triggers, neither gun was discharged. Brinton was on the point of firing, when the Indian abruptly lowered his Winchester, with the exclamation-- "Hoof! Brinton!" The white youth had recognised the other at the same instant when another moment would have been too late. He, too, dropped the stock of his gun from his shoulder and called out with a surprised expression-- "Wolf Ear!" The Indian touched his pony with his heel, and the animal moved forward briskly, until the riders faced each other within arm's length. "How do you do?" asked the Ogalalla, extending his hand, which Brinton took with a smile, and the reproving remark-- "I did not expect such a welcome from you, Wolf Ear." "I did not know it was you, good friend Brinton." "And suppose you did not; are you the sort of warrior that shoots another in the back?" The broad face, with its high cheek bones, coppery skin, low forehead and Roman nose, changed from the pleasant smile which gave a glimpse of the even white teeth, to a scowl, that told the ugly feelings that had been stirred by the questioning remark of the white youth. "Your people have become my enemies: they have killed Sitting Bull, Black Bird, Catch-the-Bear, Little Assiniboine, Spotted Horse Bull, Brave Thunder, and my friend, Crow Foot, who was the favourite son of Sitting Bull. He was as a brother to me." "And your people have killed Bull Head, Shave Head, Little Eagle, Afraid-of-Soldiers, Hawk Man, and others of their own race, who were wise enough to remain friends of our people. I know of that fight when they set out to arrest Sitting Bull." "They had no right to arrest him," said Wolf Ear, with a flash of his black eyes; "he was in his own tepee (or tent), and harming no one." "He was doing more harm to his own people as well as ours, than all the other malcontents together. He was the plotter of mischief; he encouraged this nonsense about the ghost dances and the coming Messiah, and was doing all he could to bring about a great war between my people and yours. His death is the best fortune that could come to the Indians." "It was murder," said Wolf Ear sullenly, and then, before the other could frame a reply, his swarthy face lightened up. "But you and I, Brinton, are friends; I shot at you because I thought you were someone else; it would have grieved my heart had I done you harm; I am glad I did not; I offer you my hand." Young Kingsland could not refuse the proffer, though he was far from feeling comfortable, despite his narrow escape a moment before. "I thought you were a civilised Indian, Wolf Ear," he added, as he relinquished the grasp, and the two once more looked in each other's countenances; "you told me so when I last saw you." Wolf Ear, the Ogalalla, was sent to Carlisle, when only eight years old. Unusually bright, he had made good progress, and won the golden opinions of his teachers by his gentle, studious deportment, and affection for those that had been kind to him. He spoke English as well as the whites, and was a fine scholar. He went back to his people, when sixteen years old, and did what he could to win them from their savagery and barbarism. He and Brinton Kingsland met while hunting at the base of the Black Hills, and became great friends. The young Ogalalla visited the white youth at his home on Raccoon Creek, where he was kindly treated by the Kingslands, and formed a deep affection for little Edith. But nothing had been seen of Wolf Ear for several months. The home of his people was some distance away, but that should not have prevented him from visiting his white friends, who often wondered why he did not show himself among them. Rather curiously, Brinton was thinking of his dusky comrade at the moment he was roused by the shot which nipped his coat sleeve. It was natural that he should be disappointed, and impatient to find that this bright Indian youth, who had lived for several years among civilised people, was carried away by the wave of excitement that was sweeping across the country. He knew that his twin brother and his father were still savages, and it was easy to find excuse for them, but not for Wolf Ear. "You believe in the coming of One to save your people--why should not we place faith in the coming of our Messiah?" was the pertinent question of Wolf Ear. "What is this revelation?" asked Brinton, who had heard many conflicting accounts of the strange craze, and felt a natural desire for an authoritative statement. "The Messiah once descended to save the white race, but they rejected and put him to death. In turn he rejects them, and will come in the spring, when the grass is about two inches high, and save his red children and destroy his white ones. He has enjoined upon all of us who believe in him to wear a certain dress and to practise the ghost dance, as often and as long as we possibly can, as a proof of our faith. If any of us die from exhaustion, while performing this ceremony, we will be taken direct to the Messiah, where we shall meet those who have died, and whence we will come back to tell the living what we have seen and heard. When the Messiah comes in the spring, a new earth will be created, covering the present world, burying all the whites and those red men that have not joined in the dance. The Messiah will again bring with him the departed of our own people, and the earth shall once more be as our forefathers knew it, except there shall be no more death." Brinton Kingsland listened, amazed as this expression fell from the lips of one who had often lamented the superstition of his own race. That he believed the words he uttered was proven by his earnestness of manner and the glow of his countenance. The white youth restrained his impulse to ridicule the strange faith, for that assuredly would have given offence to the fanatic, who had the right to believe whatever he chose. "Well, Wolf Ear, I can only say I am sorry that you should have been carried away by this error----" "By what right do you call it error?" interrupted the other with a flash of his eyes. "We will not discuss it. It will do no good, and is likely to do harm. I need not be told that you belong to the hostiles, and, if trouble comes, will fight against the whites." "Yes, you are right," calmly replied the Ogalalla, compressing his thin lips and nodding his head a single time. "Your father and brother, whom I have never seen, would shoot me and my folk if they had the chance." "Yes, and so would my mother: she is a warrior too." "But suppose you and I or my father meet, or you have the chance to harm my mother and little sister, Edith?" "Wolf Ear can never raise his hand against them, no matter what harm they may seek to do him. I do not have to tell you that you and I will always be friends, whatever may come." This assurance would have had more weight with young Kingsland could he have felt certain that Wolf Ear was truthful in declaring that he did not suspect his identity at the moment of firing at him. "I believe he meant to take my life," was his thought, "and still meant to do so, when he raised his Winchester a second time, but as we looked into each other's face, he weakened. His people are treacherous, and this pretence of goodwill will not last, or, if it be genuine for the present, it will soon change." Brinton said-- "You know where we live, Wolf Ear; I have set out to ride to the reservation to learn whether it is safe to stay where we are: what is your judgment in the matter?" An indefinable expression passed over the broad face before him. The Ogalalla sat gracefully on his horse, even though he had no saddle. A bit was in the pony's mouth, the single rein looping around the neck and resting at the base of the mane, just in front of the rider, who allowed it to lie there, while the two hands idly held the rifle across the back of the animal and his own thighs. "You stayed too long," said he; "you should have left two weeks ago; _it is too late now_." "But you know my father is not well, Wolf Ear," replied Brinton, with a sickening dread in his heart. "What has that to do with this?" "We did not wish to expose him to the severe weather, as we must in the ride to the agency." "Is he better and stronger now?" "There is little improvement in his condition. He has been ailing a long time, as you know." "Then you have gained nothing and will lose all by your delay." Brinton had no further wish to discuss the ghost dance and the coming of the new Messiah with the young Ogalalla. All his thoughts were of those dear ones, miles away, whose dreadful peril he now fully comprehended for the first time. He saw the mistake that had been made by the delay, and a faintness came over him at the declaration of Wolf Ear that this delay was fatal. His horse was facing the north-west, the direction of his home. There was no call for longer tarrying. "Good-bye," he said, giving the Indian a military salute; "I hope we shall meet ha more pleasant circumstances, when you shall see, Wolf Ear, the mistake you are making." Trained in the ways of the white people, the dusky youth raised his hand to his forehead, and sat motionless on his horse, without speaking, as his friend dashed across the plain, over the trail which he had followed to the banks of the Big Cheyenne. It was not yet noon, and Brinton was hopeful of reaching home long before the day drew to a close. The chilliness of the air continued, and a few feathery flakes of snow drifted horizontally on the wind or were whirled about the head of the young horseman. He glanced up at the leaden sky and noted that the temperature was falling. "Like enough we shall have one of those blizzards, when the horses and cattle freeze to death under shelter and we can only huddle and shiver around the fire and wait for the tempest to pass. It will be the death of us all, if we start for the agency and are caught in one of the blizzards, but death awaits us if we stay. Ah me, what will become of father, ill and weak as he is?" The words of Wolf Ear made the youth more circumspect and alert than when riding away from his home. He continually glanced ahead, on his right and left and to the rear. The first look in the last direction showed him the young Ogalalla sitting like a statue on his pony and gazing after him. Some minutes later, when Brinton turned his head again, he saw him riding at a rapid pace towards the north, or rather a little west of north, so that the course of the two slightly diverged. "He's up to some mischief, I'll warrant," was Brinton's conclusion, "and he already recalls his profession of friendship for me. Halloa! I don't like the look of _that_." In the precise direction pursued by the Ogalalla, which was toward Rapid Creek, a tributary of the Big Cheyenne, he discerned several Indian horsemen. They were riding close, and were so mingled together that it was impossible to tell their number. They seemed to be about half a dozen, and were advancing as if to meet Wolf Ear, who must have descried them before Brinton. "They will soon unite, and when they do he will be the fiercest warrior among them. I wonder----" He held his breath a moment, and then only whisper-- "I wonder if they have not already visited our home?" CHAPTER III. "THERE ARE FIFTY HOSTILES." To the westward the Black Hills thrust their vast rugged summits against the wintry sky; to the south, a spur of the same mountains put out toward the frontier town of Buffalo Gap; to the north-east wound the Big Cheyenne, on its way to the Missouri, and marking through a part of its course the southern boundary of the Cheyenne Reservation, while creek, stream, and river crossed the rolling plain that intervened, and over all stretched the sunless sky, from which the snow-flakes were eddying and whirling to the frozen earth below. But Brinton Kingsland had no eye for any of these things, upon which he had looked many a time and oft. His thoughts were with those loved ones in the humble cabin, still miles away, toward the towering mountains, while his immediate anxiety was about the hostiles that had appeared in his front and were now circling to the northward as if to meet Wolf Ear, the young Ogalalla, who was galloping in the face of the biting gale and rapidly drawing toward them. Brinton's expectation that they would lose no time in coming together was not precisely fulfilled, for while the horsemen were yet a long way off, they swerved sharply, as though they identified the youth for the first time. "They intend to give me some attention," was his thought, "without waiting for Wolf Ear to join them. They know that I belong to the white race, and that is enough." The youth did not feel any special alarm for himself, for he was confident that Jack was as fleet-footed as any of the animals bestrode by the hostiles, and would leave them behind in a fair race. He noticed that the Ogalalla was mounted on a superior beast, but he did not believe he could outspeed Jack. But it would never do to meet those half-dozen horsemen that had faced toward him, and were approaching at the same swinging gallop. Brinton diverged more to the left, thus leaving the trail, and they also changed their course, as if to head him off. "If it is to be a race, I am throwing away my chances by helping to shorten the distance between us." The fugitive now headed directly away from the horsemen, so that both parties were pursuing the same line. The youth looked back, at the moment that several blue puffs of smoke showed over the backs of the horses. The thudding reports came through the chilly air, and a peculiar whistling sound overhead left no doubt that the hostiles, great as was the separating space, had fired at the fugitive, who turned to take a look at Wolf Ear. That individual discharged his gun the next moment. Brinton heard nothing of the bullet, but smiled grimly-- "He has changed his mind soon, but they have got to come closer before they hurt me. He is no great marksman anyway, or he would not have missed me a little while ago." It was singular that it did not occur to young Kingsland that it was possible the Ogalalla had not fired at him at all. Not even when the horsemen checked their pursuit, and reining up their animals awaited the coming of the buck, who was riding like a hurricane, could he bring himself to think of Wolf Ear except as a bitter enemy, who for some subtle purpose of his own had declared a temporary truce. "I suppose they think I shall be along this way again pretty soon, and they can afford to wait till I run into their trap," was the conclusion of Brinton, who headed his pony once more toward his home, and put him to his best paces. "Come, Jack, there's no time to throw away; hard work is before you, and you must struggle as never before." The snowfall which seemed for ever impending did not come. The few scattering flakes still circled and eddied through the air, as if reluctant to touch the earth, but no perceptible increase appeared in their number. The nipping air seemed to have become too cold to permit a snow-storm. Brinton had set out fully prepared for such change of temperature. He wore a thick woollen cap, whose flaps were drawn down to his ears, while they were more than met by the heavy coat collar that was turned up, the garment itself being closely buttoned around his body. His rifle rested across the pommel of his saddle in front, and his gloved hands scarcely ever touched the rein which lay loose on his pony's neck. He was a capital horseman, and, with the understanding between him and his intelligent beast, could have got along without any bit at all. Strapped behind him was a substantial lunch, and his keen appetite would have made it enjoyable, but he did not disturb it. It could wait until he learned the truth about the folk at home, which he was now rapidly drawing near. Over a swell in the prairie, across a small creek, whose icy waters hardly came above Jack's fetlocks, up a second rise, and then Brinton Kingsland uttered an exclamation of amazement and sharply checked his animal. "My gracious! what is the meaning of that?" Over another swell, and only a few hundred yards away, two other horses rode to view, coming directly toward him. Each sustained a heavily muffled figure, and they were moving at a rapid walk. Suspecting their identity, he waited a minute, and then started his horse forward again. A few paces, and despite the arctic temperature, he raised his cap from his head and called out-- "Hurrah! thank Heaven, you are alive, and have started for the agency." His father sat on one horse, swathed in heavy clothing, and a blanket which the faithful wife had fastened around his emaciated and weak form, while she, with Edith in front, and both also protected against the severe weather, were on the other animal. He had a rifle across his saddle front, like the son, and they had brought with them nothing but a small amount of food, barely enough to last them until they could reach the agency, provided there was no unexpected delay on the road. The discovery that they were alive and secure for the time, though the shadow of a great peril was over all, so delighted the son that he could not repress the shout of joy, as he rode forward and greeted them, little more than their eyes and noses showing through the thick coverings. "What made you leave before I got back?" was the first inquiry of Brinton, after a few congratulatory words. "We concluded it was high time to do so," replied the father, showing more vigour in his voice than the son expected. "How did you find it out?" "A half-dozen hostiles fired several times at the house, and then, as if they feared they were not strong enough to capture us and burn the cabin, rode off for help." "They are hardly out of sight now; they gave me half a dozen shots, and I had a short chase with them. But you are off the trail." "And so are you," said his father. "Which is a mighty good thing for us both. You had to abandon everything?" "Of course; I have no doubt though," added the father grimly, "that the Indians will look after the live stock for us." "Whom do you suppose I saw?" asked Brinton, turning to his mother and sister. "A big bear?" ventured Edith from the depths of her wrappings. "No; he was an old friend of yours--Wolf Ear, who used to come to our house and have such good times with you." The excited child flung her arms about in the effort to free herself of the encumbering wrappings. "Oh, where is he? Why didn't he come with you? Didn't he want to see me? I am so sorry; isn't he with you?" And she peered around, as if she suspected the young Ogalalla was hiding behind the saddle of her brother. Brinton smiled, and then gravely shook his head. He said, addressing his parents more than the little one-- "I was never more astonished than to find that Wolf Ear, despite the training he has had at Carlisle, has joined the hostiles, and is now an enemy of those who were such good friends of his." The youth did not think it wise to tell, in the presence of his sister, the particulars of their first meeting. "You grieve me more than I can express," replied the father; "are you sure you are not mistaken?" "Not when he told me so himself." "But you must have met as friends." "He said he would not harm any one of us, if the fortunes of war should give him the chance; but he declares himself the enemy of all others of our race. He has a twin brother, and he and his father and mother, as Wolf Ear coolly told me, would be pleased to scalp us. I have no more faith in _him_ than in _them_. We parted as friends, but he has joined that very party which fired on you, and will go back to the house with them." "And finding us gone, what then?" "He will lead them on our trail and be among the foremost to shoot us down, every one of us." "I don't believe it!" called Edith from her wraps, which her mother had put around her again; "I like Wolf Ear and want to see him." Brinton did not think it worth while to discuss the matter with his sister, for a far more important matter pressed upon them. "It won't do to follow the trail," remarked the father, "since they will be on the look-out for us. We will bear to the south, so as to strike the Cheyenne further up stream." "We may not be able to ford it." "We can follow it down till we find a place. It may be frozen over nearer its source. The agency is so far off that we shall have to go into camp before we can get half-way there." "How do you feel, father?" abruptly asked his son, glancing keenly at him. "Are you strong enough to stand this hard ride?" "I am much stronger than you would suppose; you know a crisis like this will rouse any man, even if he is a good deal more unwell than I am." "I am glad to hear you talk that way, but you will be tried hard before we reach Pine Ridge." "Give yourself no uneasiness about me; the only thing we are to think about is how we shall get to the agency without meeting with the hostiles, who seem to be roaming everywhere." While they sat talking, at the base of the swell, on the summit of which the parents had first appeared, all partook of lunch, for it was not likely they would have a more favourable opportunity before the coming of night. It was decided to bear still more to the south, with a view of avoiding the party that was at no great distance. Indeed, less than half an hour had passed since they vanished from the view of the youth, who believed they were waiting in the vicinity of the trail for his return, and would attack the whites the moment they discovered them. The halt lasted little more than a quarter of an hour, when they resumed their journey toward the agency, which they hoped, rather than expected, to reach by the morrow's set of sun. The mother was without any weapon, though she was quite skilful in the use of a rifle. Her husband said that if he found himself compelled to yield to weakness, he would turn over his Winchester to her, believing as he did that she was sure to give a good account of herself. They were plentifully supplied with cartridges, but the reader does not need to be reminded of their almost helpless situation. Kingsland, despite his brave efforts to keep up, was unable to ride his pony at full speed for any length of time, while the wife, burdened with the care of Edith, could not expect to do much better. If the company were attacked by any party of hostiles, however slight in numbers, deplorable consequences were almost certain. Their hope would be in finding some sort of shelter which might be turned to account as a screen or barricade. But their only safety, it may be said, lay in avoiding the Indians altogether, and it was to that task that Brinton, as the strongest one of the party, addressed himself with all the energy and skill of his nature. The course was up and down continually, though none of the swells in the prairie was of much height. The youth rode slightly in advance and never made his way to the top of one of the slight elevations without a quicker throbbing of the heart and a misgiving which made the situation of the most trying nature. It was the dread of the hostiles, with whom Wolf Ear had joined himself, that led him to make a longer bend to the south than even his father had contemplated. True, as he well knew, they were not the sole Indians to be dreaded, but they were the only ones of whom he had positive knowledge. Others were likely to be encountered at any time, and it may be said that as they drew nearer the agency, the peril increased. A half-dozen miles from where the family had been reunited, they approached a higher elevation than any that had yet been crossed. Brinton asked the rest to halt at the base, while he dismounted and carefully went to the top on foot. It was well he took this precaution, for his friends, who were watching his crouching figure as he cautiously went up the incline, saw him abruptly halt and peer over the ridge, in a way which showed he had perceived something. He remained but a minute, when he hurried back, pale and excited. "There are fifty hostiles!" he exclaimed in an undertone, "and they are only a little way off!" CHAPTER IV. "WE ABE ENEMIES." Brinton Kingsland, after peering over the crest of the elevation for a few brief moments, turned and hastily descended to where his pony awaited him. Without touching his bridle, he spoke, and the obedient animal followed him, while the parents and little sister anxiously listened to the report of what he learned. "It's the very party of Indians that we have been trying to get away from," added the youth to his first explanation; "there are seven of them, and Wolf Ear is among them." "Is he?" eagerly asked Edith, from her wrappings on the saddle in front of her mother "oh, let me see him! Tell him I am here." "Keep quiet! Don't speak," said her father sternly. "Wolf Ear is with bad Indians, and is a bad Indian himself" The child would have protested, but for the manner of her father. He could be firm when he chose, and she knew better than to disobey him but she pouted just a little, as she nestled down by her mother, who shared to some extent her faith in the Ogalalla who had spent so many hours under their roof. "What are they doing?" asked Mr. Kingsland of his son. "They act queerly; the party are drawn up together, and looking off in the direction of the trail to the agency, over which they expect us to pass." "They are on the watch for us, of course; how far away do you judge the trail to be?" "Several miles; it seems odd to me that they should ride so far south, instead of staying nearer to it." "It is plain enough to me; they fear that if we caught sight of them, as we should be sure to do, we would hurry back to the house, where they should have less chance against us. By keeping hidden, so that we could not discover our danger until too far away from home, they could ride in behind us and cut off our escape in that direction. But how are we to escape them?" "We passed an arroya a little way back: let us take to that, and there isn't a minute to lose." The youth hastily climbed into the saddle, and turned the nose of Jack about, so that he went back directly over his own hoof-prints. A little distance, and they struck a narrow valley-like depression, which wound further to the south than the course they were pursuing at the moment of the startling interruption. He entered this at once, the others directly at his heels, the animals walking fast, but with a silence that made one suspect they understood the danger that threatened all. The arroya, as it is termed in some parts of the country, was a straight passage, resembling a gully, between banks a dozen feet in height. It looked as if it had been washed out years before, by some violent rush of waters, which soon ran itself dry, leaving the abrupt banks, facing each other, at varying distances of from ten to fifty feet. In some places these banks of clay were perpendicular, so that a horse, once within the gorge, could not leave it at many points, while in others, the dirt had tumbled in to an extent which made it easy for him to climb out. The course of the arroya was devious, and there was no saying when it would terminate by rising to the level of the prairie. At most, it could be but a temporary refuge for the fugitives. The thought occurred to both father and son that the Indians must soon discover this refuge, which would be welcome to them and their animals while the piercing blast was sweeping across the prairie. The eddying snow had almost ceased, but the wind blew fitfully, and whenever it touched the face or bare hand, it was like a needle of ice. The American Indian is one of the toughest of creatures, but he does not disdain shelter for himself and beast from the merciless blizzard, or driving tempest. Many of those gathered about Pine Ridge, during the critical days in '90-'91, found protection in the pockets of earth in the gullies, where they peered out like wild animals on the alert for a chance to spring at the blue-coated sentinel, without risk to themselves. If the arroya should hold its general course southward for several miles, the little party might successfully escape the hostiles, who intruded between them and the agency. The afternoon was wearing away, and the night would be moonless and starless. Our friends hoped, if they escaped until then, to lessen greatly the distance between them and Pine Ridge. A quarter or a third of a mile through the winding gully, and Brinton drew rein, and waited until his parents rode up beside him. "I wonder what has become of them?" was his inquiring remark. "What does it matter," asked his mother in turn, "so long as we cannot see them? We must be a good way from them now." "I wish I could think so, but I can't feel easy while riding in this blind fashion. There may be greater danger in front than we have left behind." "What do you propose to do?" asked the father. "Take a look round and learn, if I can, how things are going." Without explaining further, the youth swung himself down once more from the saddle, and hurried to the edge of the arroya on his left. There was a spot so sloping that after a little work, with the dirt crumbling under his feet, he reached the level above, and was able to peer over a great deal of the surrounding prairie without exposing himself. The result ought to have been gratifying, but it was hardly that. North, south, east, and west the youth bent his keen vision, but not a sign of the dreaded hostiles was to be seen. They were as invisible as though they had never been. Had the distance travelled by the fugitives since their fright been twice or thrice as great, this must have been the best of omens, but the space was not far, and it was almost self-evident that the band was still in the neighbourhood. But where? That was the question on the lips of father and son as they discussed the situation, and in the minds of both trembled the same answer: the hostiles were in the arroya itself, behind the fugitives. "They have ridden down the bank," said the parent, "to shelter their ponies from the icy blast, and are there now." "Will they suspect that we have been this way?" inquired the mother. "They cannot fail to notice the hoof-prints we have left," replied her husband, "and that will tell the story as plainly as if they sat on the bank as we rode by." The alarming declaration caused the wife to cast a terrified glance behind her, as if she expected to see the ferocious redskins burst into view with crack of rifle and ear-splitting shriek. In the circumstances, there was manifestly but one thing to do--push on with no more delay than was inevitable. The ground at the bottom of the arroya was comparatively level, and the horses dropped into an easy swinging gallop, which lasted but a few minutes, when Mr. Kingsland called in a faint voice, as he brought his animal down to a walk-- "Hold on, Brinton!" "What is the matter?" asked the son, looking at him in dismay. "I can't stand it; I am not as strong as I thought." He reeled in his saddle, and the startled son reached out to prevent his falling. "Forgive me, father; I forgot your illness." "There--there--I am all right," he murmured, putting his hand to his face, in the effort to master his weakness. His wife was also at his side, anxious and alarmed. "Hugh, I fear you have undertaken more than you can do," she said, laying her hand affectionately on his arm, and peering into as much of his face as was visible through the thick wrappings. He made no reply, and it was plain that he was nearly fainting. There was nothing his friends could do for him, except to help him out of the saddle, and they were about to propose that, when a slight but alarming accident took place. The Winchester, resting across the saddle-bow and hitherto grasped in the mittened hands of the man, slipped from his relaxed fingers and fell to the earth. The lock struck in such a way that a chamber was discharged, the bullet burying itself in the bank which Brinton had climbed only a few minutes before. The sharp explosion roused Edith, who was sinking into a doze, and imparted to the man himself such a shock that his growing faintness gave instant place to renewed strength. He straightened up and said-- "Gracious! that's too bad; _they_ must have heard it." "We can't tell about that; are you stronger?" "Yes; let's push on; we must lose no time." Brinton longed to force the animals into a gallop, but dared not, after what had just taken place. But they were pushed to a rapid walk, which was kept up some ten or fifteen minutes, when came another sudden halt, for the good reason that they had reached the end of the arroya. That singular formation, after winding about for a long distance, rose to the level of the prairie, and disappeared. To proceed further must be done by exposure to any hostiles in the neighbourhood. Brinton stopped and looked inquiringly at his father. "As near as I can judge," said the latter, "we are close to the Big Cheyenne; we ought to cross that early this evening and keep on to the White, which should be reached by daylight; then the ride is not far to Pine Ridge." "Night is near; we will wait awhile; the rest will do you good, and I will take a look over our own trail." Leaving his friends to themselves, Brinton headed back and struck Jack into a moderate gallop through the arroya. He was uneasy over that accident with his father's Winchester. If heard by the keen-eared hostiles they would start an investigation, which could have but one result. "They must have heard it," was his belief, "and if so, they knew where it came from. It won't take them long to learn its meaning--halloa! what's the matter, Jack?" More than once, the sagacity of his animal had warned the youth of the approach of danger. The pony dropped into a walk so quickly that the rider was thrown slightly forward in the saddle. Then the animal pricked up his ears, took a few more stops and halted. "That means something," thought Brinton, bringing his rifle round to the front and making ready to use it on the instant if needed. He softly drew the mitten from his right hand. The gully turned sharply to the left, just ahead, and he knew that Jack had scented danger. But, if so, minute after minute passed and it did not appear. The youth became perplexed, and was in sore doubt whether to push on a little further or turn back. He gently twitched the rein and touched his heels against the ribs of his pony. He advanced a couple of paces, and stopped as abruptly as before, his head still up, his ears erect, while the snuffing nostrils showed that he was wiser than his rider. "I'll be hanged if I don't learn the meaning of this," muttered Brinton Kingsland, who, with less discretion than he generally showed, swung himself out of the saddle and moved stealthily forward, with the resolution to learn the cause of Jack's alarm. And he learned it soon enough. He had barely time to pass part way round the curve in the arroya, which was unusually winding at that portion, when he came face to face with an Indian horseman. The animal of the latter, quite as sagacious as Jack's, had detected the presence of a stranger beyond the turn, and halted until the latter revealed himself, or his master decided upon the line to pursue. Brinton's great blunder was in moving so impatiently through the gully that he was revealed too soon to draw back. Thus it was that it may be said he almost precipitated himself upon the buck before he saw him. It would be hard to describe Brinton's emotions when on the first startled glance at the solitary Indian he recognised him as Wolf Ear, whom he had encountered but a little while before. The Indian looked fixedly at him, and something like a smile lit up his broad coppery face. "Thus we meet, Brinton," he said in his low voice; "will you come forward and shake hands?" "Why should I shake hands?" asked the youth, thoroughly distrustful of the Ogalalla; "we are enemies." "That is for you to decide," was the cool remark of the Indian youth. He made as if to ride away, when Brinton interposed. "Your actions do not agree with your words." "And why not?" "After parting from me, you rode away and joined my enemies." To the amazement of the youth, the young Ogalalla without a word wheeled about and galloped out of sight up the arroya. CHAPTER V. "WHAT WILL BE THEIR NEXT STEP?" Brinton Kingsland was in the saddle again on the instant, and his pony dashed down the arroya at full speed. "Wolf Ear has hurried back to tell the rest that he has seen us, and they will be here in a few minutes," was the belief that lent wings to his speed. It was a comparatively short ride to where his friends awaited him. A minute sufficed for them to learn the alarming tidings. "It won't do to delay another second; come on!" The next moment the two horses followed the youth out of the gully upon the plain. "Can you stand it, father?" he asked, holding his pony back and looking inquiringly at him. "Yes, my son; don't think of me," was the brave response, as the parent struck his animal into a gallop. The mother was a capital horsewoman, and little Edith, who was now fully awake, once more accommodated herself to her position, so as to save all embarrassment so far as she was concerned. Child-like, she wanted to ask innumerable questions, but she was intelligent enough to understand that silence was expected of her, and she held her peace, wondering, perplexed, and frightened. The wintry afternoon was wearing to a close. The sky maintained its heavy leaden hue, the wind blew fitfully and was of piercing keenness, and the occasional snow-flakes, whirling about the heads of the fugitives, were more like hailstones than the soft downy particles which had appeared earlier in the afternoon. The view was shortened in the gathering gloom, and the anxious eyes glancing around the different points of the compass, and especially to the rear, failed to reveal the dreaded horsemen from whom they were fleeing. The hope of the little party lay in keeping beyond sight of their enemies until night. With no moon and stars to guide them, the hostiles could not keep their trail, which our friends were sure to make as winding as possible. As the night approached, their hopes increased. Darkness was closing in when they reached the bank of the Big Cheyenne, and, for the first time since leaving the arroya, they drew rein. "This is better than I dared expect," said the father in high spirits, and seemingly strengthened by his sharp ride through the cutting cold; "I can hardly understand it." "I suspect that Wolf Ear made a blunder." "In what way?" "He did not think we should leave the gully before night; he went back and told the rest. They dared not attack us where we had some show to defend ourselves; they will not discover our flight until it is too late." While there seemed reason in this belief, it did not fully satisfy the father. It was not in keeping with the subtlety of the American Indian that they should allow a party of whites to ride directly away from them, when they were at their mercy. Any one of the hostiles, by climbing the side of the arroya, was sure to see the little company of fugitives emerge therefrom, and it was inconceivable that they should not take that simple precaution. "There is something beyond all this which has not yet appeared," he said; "neither Wolf Ear nor his companions are fools." The river swept by in the gathering darkness at their feet. The current was not swift, but pieces of ice lay against the shores, and floated past in the middle of the stream. The opposite bank could hardly be seen in the gloom. "Must we cross that?" asked Mrs. Kingsland, as the horses halted on the margin of the icy waters. "Yes," replied her husband, "and twenty miles further we must cross the White, to say nothing of smaller streams, which may be as deep and more difficult. Pine Ridge lies fifty miles away, and there's no going round any of the water." "It will be the death of us to swim our horses," she said with a shudder; "we shall freeze to death." "That is not to be thought of," Brinton hastened to explain; "while the Cheyenne has many deep places at this season, there are others where a horse can wade across without wetting one's stirrups." "But how are we to know such fords?" "By trying, and there's no better place than this; wait till I make the attempt." With commendable promptness he urged Jack forward, and the animal, understanding what was required of him, stepped among the pieces of ice along the bank. He slipped on one, and Edith uttered a cry of alarm. "Look out, Brint! You will fall into the water." "Don't fret about me," he called back. A few reassuring words to his pony, who hesitated and sniffed, as if about to draw back, and he continued his cautious advance into the stream, the others anxiously watching his progress. Should the water prove deep enough to force the steed to swim, it would never do, for that would necessitate the saturation of the garments of all, which meant freezing to death. As long as the ponies maintained a sure footing, even though the water crept well up their sides, the riders could guard themselves against the dreaded wetting. Brinton, therefore, ventured into the stream with the utmost care, his animal feeling every step of the way. Ten steps from the bank, and the water touched Brinton's stirrups. He withdrew his feet and held them out of reach. He was so excellent a horseman that, by the pressure of his knees, he sat almost as firmly in the saddle as if with the support for his feet. "Be careful, Jack; slowly--slowly--slowly!" Jack was sniffing, with his neck outstretched and his nose almost on the surface of the water, The breath issued like steam through his thin silken nostrils, and he paid no heed to a triangular piece of jagged ice which struck his hind legs with a sharp thrust, and then swung clear. He knew his duty, and was doing his "level best." The rider turned his head and looked back. The forms of his parents on their motionless horses were dim, and growing more indistinct in the approaching night. Seeing him turn his head, his father called something in a guarded undertone, which the son did not catch, but, believing it was simply a request for him to be careful, he replied, "All right," and went on with the work in hand. Several steps further and the water had not perceptibly deepened. Brinton, indeed, was inclined to think it had slightly shallowed. "We are pretty near the middle, and it begins to look as if I had struck the right spot after all Halloa! what's up now?" Jack had stopped, just as he did in the arroya, and with the same appearance of alarm. "Can it be that you have scented a deep place in front and want to save me from a bath?" Brinton Kingsland checked the light question on his lips, for at the moment of uttering it his own vision answered the query in a manner that fairly lifted his cap from his head. A horseman was advancing through the water from the other side of the Cheyenne. He was several rods away, but near enough for the youth to recognise him as an Indian warrior. He had entered the icy stream, as if to meet the other, who in the same glance that identified him dimly discerned more horsemen on the bank beyond. As in the former instance, Jack had discovered the peril before his master and halted, not through fear of a chilling bath, but because of a tenfold greater danger stealing upon them. It looked as if the hostiles, from whom they were fleeing, had come towards the river from beyond, and were again between them and safety. If so, the question might well be asked what was meant by this extraordinary behaviour of the red men? Why did they not conceal themselves until the fugitives rode directly into their arms? Why take this risk of sending one of their number to meet an enemy in mid-stream, where, despite whatever advantage the savage possessed, he could not help yielding a portion of it to his foe? But it was a moment for action and not for conjecture and speculation. In the same moment that Brinton recognised the horseman immediately in his front as a foe, he observed that his pony had also halted and the rider was in the act of bringing his weapon to his shoulder. The mitten was snatched from the youth's right hand and thrust in the pocket of his coat. He had no time to slip the other off, nor was it necessary, since that only supported the rifle. He hastily brought his Winchester to a level, and, knowing that everything depended upon who was the quicker, he took instant aim at the centre of the dark figure and let fly. With a wild cry the Indian rolled from his pony, and disappeared in the dark waters. His animal, with a snort of alarm, whirled about and dashed to shore, sending the spray flying in all directions. "Quick, Jack! back with you!" Brinton flung himself on the neck of his pony, who seemed to spin about on his hind feet as he galloped furiously through the water for the shore he had just left. Nothing but this precaution and the deepening gloom saved the daring youth from death. It required a few precious seconds for the hostiles on the other bank to comprehend what had taken place, and when they began firing the form of the horse and his rider were fast vanishing from sight. But the bullets were whistling perilously near his friends, who did not quite comprehend what had taken place. "Move further down the bank!" called Brinton in a guarded undertone; "quick! don't stop to ask why, but do as I say!" The parents obeyed, and a minute or two was sufficient to take them out of range. "Follow them, Jack, and move lively!" The pony obeyed, and he too passed beyond danger for the time. The darkness was too deep for the persons on either bank to discern the others across the stream. The hostiles kept up their firing, in a blind way, hoping that some of their shots might reach the fugitives. Brinton had lain down on the shore, so as to decrease the danger of being struck by any of the stray bullets. He could tell where the others were by the flash of their guns, but deemed it best not to fire for the present, through fear of betraying his own position. The dropping shots continued for a few minutes, and then suddenly stopped. It was impossible to tell in the gloom what his enemies were doing, but he suspected the truth: they were preparing to ford the river, with a view of bringing the combatants to close quarters. Peering intently into the night, he made out the faint outline of a horseman feeling his way across, and did not doubt that others were close behind him. This must be a particularly favourable ford, else the hostiles would try some other, if they knew of any in the immediate vicinity. It was necessary to check this advance, if he expected to save the dear ones with him. The moment, therefore, he made sure of the object approaching, he sighted as best he could and blazed away, instantly shifting his own position, to escape the return shot which he knew would be quick in coming. It was well he did so, for the flash and report of several rifles and the whistling of the bullets told of the peril escaped by a very narrow chance. There was no reason to believe that his own shot had been fatal, for there was no outcry, nor did the listening ear detect any splash in the water, such as marked his first essays when in mid-stream; but he had accomplished that which he sought--he had checked the advance, which otherwise must have been fatal to him and his companions. The form of the horseman disappeared in the gloom. He had returned to the shore whence he came, and it was safe to conclude that he would not soon repeat the attempt. "What will be their next step?" was the question that presented itself to the young defender of the ford. It was not to be expected that they would try to cross in the face of the certain reception that awaited them. "They know more of the Cheyenne than we do," Brinton Kingsland thought, "and must be aware of some place where they can reach this side without danger. If they do succeed in coming over, there will be trouble." He dared not wait long, for nothing was to be gained, while he ran the risk of losing everything. Only the sound of the rushing water, the crunching of the ice, reached his ear. Rising to his feet and peering into the gloom, he could discern nothing of his foes. "There's no need of my staying here," he decided, starting along the stream in quest of his parents. When he had passed a hundred yards without seeing them, he was astonished. Another hundred, and still they were invisible, and the cautious signals he made remained unanswered. CHAPTER VI. "AY, WHERE WERE THEY?" By the unaccountable disappearance of his parents and the horses, Brinton was left in a state rather of perplexity than alarm. The time was so brief since they left him, that he could not understand how they had gone far, nor why they did not answer the guarded calls he made. He noticed that when in obedience to his urgent entreaties the couple rode away, followed by his own pony, they went down stream, that is, in the direction of the current. Surely they could not have passed any distance, and he believed they heard his voice when, making a funnel with his mittened hands, he pronounced the words-- "Father! Mother! where are you?" If they did not reply, it was because of the danger involved in doing so. It was incautious on his part to shout, even in a suppressed voice, at such a time. The bank on his left was a little higher than his head, and so sloping that the horses could climb out with little effort; but, as will be recalled, the night was unusually dark, and he might pass over the plainest trail without knowing it. He ran some distance further, keeping close to the water, but still failed to find them. "They have climbed out of the bed of the stream; something unexpected has occurred, or they would not leave me in this manner." He felt his way to the bank, and easily placed himself upon the level ground above. There he strove to pierce the gloom, but nothing rewarded the effort. "Well, I'll be hanged!" he muttered, "if this isn't the greatest surprise I ever knew. It looks as if the ground had opened and swallowed them." In the northern sky the heavy gloom was relieved by a faint glow, which at first he took for the aurora borealis, but a few minutes' scrutiny convinced him that it was the light of some burning building, the dwelling evidently of some ranchman, whose family had probably paid with their lives the penalty of tarrying too long. "A few hours more, and father, mother, and Edith would have shared the same fate. It may still be theirs to do so." The sound of a whinny from behind caused him to turn his head. He could see nothing, but he was sure that it was one of his father's ponies that thus made known his presence. It would have been the height of imprudence, however, had he acted upon such a belief, after what had so recently occurred, and when a safe and certain test was at his command. He emitted a low tremulous whistle of such a musical tone that it reached a goodly distance in spite of the gale. "That can be heard further than the neigh, and, if it finds the ear of Jack, no one can restrain him from coming to me." But though the call was repeated there was no response. The alarming conclusion was unavoidable: the sound had been made by an Indian pony near at hand. Aware that his own situation, despite the darkness, was perilous, the youth sat down on the frosty earth, near the edge of the bank, until he could gain some idea of his bearings. Within the next ten seconds the whinny was repeated, and this time seemingly within a dozen feet, but below the bank, and consequently between him and the water. He knew what it meant: the hostiles had crossed the stream lower down, and were ascending it in the search for the fugitives. But for the fact that one of their ponies showed a strange lack of training, the youth would have run right into them. It might be that the reckless horse was a captured one! They were so close, however, that Brinton did not dare to flee, especially as he did not know in which direction safety lay. He lay flat on the earth, with his head just above the edge of the bank, so that had there been any light he could have seen what was going on below. It is rare that a night is totally devoid of the least ray of illumination. Brinton, therefore, could never believe he was mistaken when, peering down into the gloom, he fancied he discerned the shadowy outlines of a horseman move slowly in front of him, like the figure of the magic lantern. It melted in the gloom, and then came another and another, until he counted six. The sounds of the hoofs on the hard ground removed the doubt which otherwise he might have felt. "The same party," was his thought; "one is missing, and, if I am not mistaken, I had something to do with his disappearance." A different noise came to his ears. One of the bucks was making his pony climb the bank where the slope was abrupt. The labour was hard, but after a strenuous effort he stood on the earth above. He was followed by the others in Indian file, the ascent taking but a few minutes. The disturbing feature about this business was that the whole party had climbed the bank within a dozen feet of where Brinton was lying, and they halted when so near that he was half afraid some of the horses might step on him. Had there been any light in the sky he would have felt they were trifling with him, as a cat plays with a mouse. But, if the hostiles could not see or detect his presence, their horses were sure to discover that a stranger was near. "It's too bad!" thought Brinton, who, believing that his own people were safe, was able to give more thought to himself; "it looks as if there's no getting rid of them. I think this is a good time for me to leave." For a single moment he was certain he was discovered. One of the warriors uttered an exclamation, and a slight sound showed that he had dropped from his horse to the ground. The youth was on the point of rolling over the edge of the bank and taking to his heels, in the hope that the darkness would allow him to escape, when, to his dismay, a tiny point of light flashed out of the gloom. One of the hostiles had dismounted to light a cigarette, placing himself so that his horse's body kept off the wind. Brinton's position gave him a good view of the operation. The savage drew the match along a portion of his blanket. The youth saw the slight streak of light and heard the tiny sharp explosion followed by the bursting into flame. The buck shielded it with his curving hands, which were raised to meet the stooping head, as it bent forward with the cigarette between the lips. The glare of the diminutive flame gave a peculiar tint to the fingers, which caused them to glow as if with heat. Then the reflection showed the arched nose, the broad face, the serpent-like eyes, and a few straggling hairs on the upper lip, with a glimpse of the dangling locks, thrown forward by the stoop of the head. The glimpse was momentary, but it was clear enough for Brinton to recognise the young Indian as Wolf Ear, who he knew was fond of cigarette smoking, that being one of the habits he had acquired among civilised folk. "I am sorry it wasn't _you_ I shot from his horse in mid-stream," was the resentful reflection of him who had once been a devoted friend of the Ogalalla. The cigarette being lighted, the buck vaulted upon the back of his pony, where he could be seen by the fiery tip in the dense darkness. Brinton wondered why the group of horsemen remained where they were, instead of riding away. That, like many other actions of theirs, was incomprehensible to him. But while he lay flat on the ground, debating what he should next do, if indeed he could do anything, he was frightened by the discovery that gradually but surely the figures of the Indians and their ponies were coming into view. The explanation was that the sky, which had been overcast all day and a portion of the night, was slightly clearing--not to any extent, but enough to increase the peril of his own situation to an alarming extent. "It won't do to stay here any longer; I wonder why they have not discovered me before; they will do it in five minutes, if I remain." His position was an awkward one for the movement necessary, but he had no choice, and he began stealthily working himself to the edge of the bank, with the purpose of letting himself noiselessly over to where he would be concealed from sight. All might have gone well had he not forgotten a simple thing. The edge of the bank gave under his weight, and he slid downwards, as if taking a plunge into the river, with the dirt rattling after him. The noise, slight as it was, was certain to attract the notice of the Indians, a few feet away. Brinton knew this, and he did not wait to see the results. With the nimbleness of a cat, he turned at the moment of striking the bottom of the low cliff, and bounding to his feet, ran along below the bank at his utmost speed. Had he continued his flight, quick disaster must have followed; but with a thoughtfulness and self-possession hardly to be expected, he abruptly stopped after running a hundred feet and again threw himself on his face, at the bottom of the bank, and as close to its base as it was possible for him to lie. He knew that he could reach this point before the hostiles would comprehend what had taken place, and consequently before they would attempt to pursue him. Since he had no chance against their fleet ponies, he would have been speedily run down had he continued his flight down the river bed, for he heard the sound of their hoofs as they dashed after him. The pursuers were cunning. Their ears had told them the course he had taken. Several forced their animals down the bank, to prevent his turning back over his own trail, while the others galloped close to the edge above, all the party taking the same direction. Thus it would seem that but one desperate hope remained to him, which was to dash into the river and struggle to the other side. But the splash would betray him. The water was probably deep enough to force him to swim. With the thermometer below zero, and encumbered by his clothing, he must perish with cold, if he did not drown. Where then was the hope of eluding the hostiles, who were clinging so persistently to his track? There was none excepting in the trick to which he had resorted, and Brinton knew it. He was no more than fairly nestled in his hiding-place, when the clatter of hoofs showed that one of the horsemen was almost upon him. He could only hug the base of the bank, and pray for the danger to pass. It did pass, but it was sure speedily to return. It was this belief which led the youth to resort to another artifice, that would have done credit to an experienced ranger of the plains. Instead of turning about and running upstream under the bank, he waited until the horsemen above had also passed, and were invisible in the gloom. Then he hastily clambered up the slight bluff, rattling down the dirt again in a way that sent a shiver through him. Had they been as near as before, they must have certainly discovered him; but if the noise or the crumbling dirt reached the ears of any, they supposed it was caused by some of their companions, for no effort at investigation was made. Upon solid ground once more, Brinton sped straight out over the plain, and directly away from the river, until he dared to pause, look around and listen. He saw and heard nothing to renew his fear. "Can it be that I have shaken them off at last?" he asked himself; "it begins to look like it. Where under heaven can the folk be? I hope they have pushed toward the Agency, and nothing will happen to them." Now it was that he detected something, so faint and indistinct that at first he could not identify it; but, while he wondered and listened, it resolved itself into the sounds of a horse's hoofs. They were not such as are made by an animal galloping or trotting, but by walking. Furthermore, he heard but the one series of footfalls. A sudden impulse led Brinton to repeat the whistle which he had vainly emitted some time before, when groping along the bank of the Big Cheyenne. Instantly a faint neigh answered, and a pony assumed shape in the darkness as he approached on a joyous trot. "My own Jack!" exclaimed the overjoyed youth, flinging his arms about the neck of his favourite and kissing his silken nose; "Heaven be thanked that you are restored to me at last. But where are the folk?" Ay, where were they? CHAPTER VII. "IT CAME LIKE ONE OF THEM KANSAN CYCLONES." As he was on the point of giving up all hope of ever seeing him again, Brinton Kingsland was naturally overjoyed at meeting his favourite pony. The situation of the young man would have proved a sad one, had he been compelled to wander over the prairie on foot, for he would have been liable to encounter hostiles at any moment. With the coming of daylight, he could hardly expect to avoid detection by some of the numerous bands galloping hither and thither, ready to pounce upon any defenceless settlers, or to cut off the squads of scouts and soldiers whenever there was a chance of doing so with little peril to themselves. And Jack showed as much delight as his master. He thrust his nose forward, and whinnied softly in response to the endearments of Brinton. Doubtless he had been searching for him for some time. "I tell you, old boy, there are only three persons whom I would rather see just now than you; I won't mention their names, for you know them as well as I do. Where are they? Surely they can't be far off." An examination of the horse disclosed that his saddle and bridle were intact, thus proving that he had not been in the hands of any enemies, who indeed would not have allowed him to stray off in this fashion. Brinton placed his foot in the stirrup, and swung himself astride of the intelligent beast, who capered with pleasure at feeling his master once more in the saddle. Now that such good fortune had come to the youth, he grew anxious about the dear ones from whom he had been so strangely separated. There was something in the way in which they had drifted apart that perplexed him. The interval in which it occurred was so brief that he could not believe they were far asunder. The arrival of Jack strengthened this belief, and now that he was in the saddle again, he peered around in the gloom, half expecting their forms to take shape and come forward to greet him. The partial clearing of the sky continued. No snow-flakes drifted against him, but the moaning wind was as biting and frigid as ever. The straining gaze, however, could see nothing of horse or person, though he clung to the belief that they were not far away. But with that conviction came the other of the nearness of the dreaded red men. He had left them on the bank of the Big Cheyenne, which was not distant; and, failing to find him there, it was natural for them to suspect the trick by which he had escaped. But nothing was to be done by sitting motionless on his horse. He ventured to pronounce the name of his father, and then his mother, increasing the loudness of the tone to an imprudent degree. This was done repeatedly, but no answering call was borne back to him. Sound could not travel far against the wind on such a blustery night, and they might be within a hundred yards without his being able to hear them or they to hear him. He had absolutely no guide or clue, and despair began to creep into his heart. He asked himself what the result was to be if the aimless wandering should continue through the night. With the rise of the sun, Pine Ridge would be still a good day's ride away, and it was too much to hope that they would be permitted to gallop unchallenged through the reservation. "Jack," said he, addressing his pony in the odd familiar way to which he was accustomed, "I can do nothing; you will have to help us out. So now show what you can do." Whether the sagacious animal understood what was asked of him can only be conjectured, but he acted as if he did. He threw up his head, sniffed the air, pricked his ears, and started off at an easy swinging gallop. Brinton's heart rose with hope. "He must know where he came from; a horse can teach the best hunter at such a time, and Jack understands what he is doing." The pony cantered but a comparatively short way, when he dropped to a rapid walk, which grew slower every moment. It was interesting to see him turn his head and look from side to side, for all the world as if searching for something which he was surprised he did not find. "You must be near the spot," said his master; "don't make any mistake now, my boy." He came to a standstill, still turning his head from side to side, as if examining every point in sight. There could be no doubt that he was disappointed, as naturally was his rider also. "I know this is the spot where you left them to join me, but they are gone. I can do nothing: everything depends on you, Jack, and you must not fail me." He resumed his deliberate walk, which was continued for only a short distance. When he halted finally, his actions said as plainly as words-- "I give it up! I've done my best, and, like you, am at my wits' end." For a second time Brinton pronounced the names of the loved ones, and while doing so, Jack took three or four additional steps, then halted, threw up his head, snorted, and trembled. These signs were unmistakable: he had discovered something. His master urged him forward. He obeyed to the extent of a couple of steps, and then refused to go further. Not only that, but he shied to the left, and trembled more than before. Brinton soothed him, and then leaned over the saddle and looked into the gloom; and, as he did so, he almost fell from his seat, because of the shock and faintness from what he saw. The first glance told him that _something_ was stretched on the frozen earth but a short distance away. Further scrutiny revealed that it was a man, lying motionless at full length. "It is father!" was the thought of the son, who was out of the saddle in a twinkling, and running forward. It was not the body of Hugh Kingsland, but of a stranger. He had been a powerful man, who had made a brave fight, and had only yielded to superior numbers. Brinton did not attempt any examination in the darkness, for there was no need to do so. He uttered a prayer for the unfortunate one, and for those whom he must have left behind him, and added-- "Thank Heaven, it is not father! But who can say how soon he, too, shall not be thus cut down with mother and little Edith?" He remembered that although this tragedy had taken place so near him, and within the last hour or two, he had heard no reports of guns nor any sounds of conflict. That, however, was accounted for by the direction of the wind, as already explained. Really nothing seemed left for him to do. He had done everything in his power to find his friends and failed. As long as night continued the faculty of vision was useless to him. "Well, Jack," he said despairingly, "do as you choose; I am helpless." As if in sympathy with his young master, the pony moved off on a slow walk, which he continued until, by some means, which Brinton hardly understood, he clambered down into a gully, similar to the arroya in which they had taken shelter that afternoon. In doing this, it is probable that the animal was guided by that instinct which prompts his kind to seek shelter from the severity of the weather, for the refuge was a welcome one to the rider as well as himself. On the way thither and after arriving there, Brinton signalled and called repeatedly to his parents. The continued failure to bring a reply led him to decide that nothing more could be done before morning. He flung himself off his pony, and made ready to remain where he was until then. The gully was narrow, and the banks at the point where he drew rein were high enough to shut out the gale. Food for himself and horse was out of the question, and neither was suffering for want of it. The Big Cheyenne had given to them all the water they wanted; and physically, therefore, nothing in their condition was specially unpleasant. It would have been a great comfort to have had a fire by which to nestle down, but two causes rendered this impossible: no material was within reach, and, if there had been, he would not have dared to kindle it. Jack's saddle was removed, and, in obedience to the command of his master, he lay down on the flinty earth, while Brinton disposed himself so as to receive a part of the warmth of his body. Thus, with the help of his own thick clothing, his situation was more comfortable than would be supposed. Despite his worry and anxiety, he soon fell asleep, and did not open his eyes again until the grey light of the wintry morning was stealing through the gully. He was chilled and cramped by his exposure, but leaping to his feet, he soon restored his benumbed circulation. Jack, seeing his master astir, sprang up, and looked at him as if to announce that he was ready for any work that was before them. "Well, my boy, we shall have to go without our breakfast, but you and I can stand that, I reckon, for this thing must end before we are many hours older----" "Well, I'll be shot!" The exclamation was uttered by a horseman, who at that moment rode into sight in the gully and checked his animal only a couple of rods distant, adding-- "I didn't expect to meet you here, Brint; where are the rest of the folk?" "That's what I would like to know; I am worried to death, Nick; can't you help us?" "I'll do anything I can, my lad, but what is it?" The newcomer was Nicholas Jackson, serving as a scout for General Miles. It will be remembered that it was he who stopped at the home of the Kingslands a short time before and warned them of their danger. Had his advice been heeded, they would not have been in such sore straits at this time. Brinton quickly told of his strange experience of the night before and his perplexity as to what he should do. "I don't think anything has happened to them," was the reassuring response of Jackson, "for the darkness was in their favour. They are hiding somewhere in these gullies, just as you did, and dare not show themselves." "But how are we to find them?" "There's only one way I know of--look for them." "What are you doing here, Nick?" "We learned at Wounded Knee that a company with supplies was to come from Rapid City, and I have been sent out on a scout; an escort is coming to bring them into camp. You have heard of the battle at Wounded Knee Creek, I suppose?" "Not a word." The old scout compressed his lips and shook his head. "I have been in a good many scrimmages under Generals Crook and Miles, but that was the hottest half-hour I ever spent." "How was it, Nick?" "You know that the hostiles have been gathering in the Bad Lands ever since this trouble began. We have them pretty well surrounded, but there must be a big fight before we wind up this serious business. Two days before Christmas word reached us that three thousand Indians, including six hundred bucks, were there. You can understand how much relief it was, therefore, to learn that Big Foot, with a lot of Sitting Bull's fugitives on Cherry Creek Reservation, had surrendered to Colonel Sumner. "That was all well enough, but while conducting the band of two hundred to the Missouri, the next day, the whole lot escaped and hurried south to join Kicking Bear and the rest of the hostiles. _Then_ the trouble began. "Four days later Little Bat, one of our Indian scouts, discovered Big Foot and his band eight miles north of Major Whiteside's camp on Wounded Knee Creek, and four troops of the Seventh Cavalry started for them, with me among 'em. "As the hostiles spied us they formed a long battle line, all with guns and knives, the knives being in their cartridge belts outside their blankets. "I tell you, Brint, things looked squally. We could see the gleam of their black eyes, and the way they scowled and glared at us showed that nothing would suit 'em better than to drive their knives to the hilts into every one of us. "But Major Whiteside meant business. He drew us up, too, in battle line. Just then Big Foot was seen coming forward on foot. The major dropped down from his saddle and went forward to meet him. "'Me ill,' said Big Foot, 'me want peace--my people want peace----' "The major was impatient. "'I won't talk or parley with you,' he broke in; 'it is surrender or fight; I await your answer.' "'We surrender--we done so before, but could not find you,' said Big Foot. "I had my eye on the chief, who just then turned and motioned with his arm to his own battle line. They seemed to be looking for the signal, 'cause the white flag was shown at once. We rode forward quick like and surrounded them, and a courier was sent off post haste for four troops of the Seventh, and Leftenant Taylor's scouts to help guard and disarm the party. They arrived the same day. Big Foot had one hundred and fifty warriors fully armed, with two hundred and fifty squaws and many children. Despite the surrender, we all knowed trouble was coming, and it was not long before it came, like one of them Kansan cyclones." CHAPTER VIII. "THE BUCKS WERE COMING UP ALARMINGLY FAST." "When General Forsyth arrived," continued the scout, in his description of the battle of Wounded Knee Creek, "he ordered the male Indians to come for a talk. They come out, scowling and sullen, and gathered in a half-circle in front of Big Foot's tent. The chief was inside, ill with pneumonia. "The general told them they must surrender their arms in groups of twenty. By this time they were thoroughly enraged, but most of our boys thought they were so cowed they would obey without much trouble. I didn't like their looks, and told Jenkins at my side to hold himself ready, for I believed them fellows meant mischief, and a fight was sure. "'I guess not,' he answered; 'they're obeying orders.' "The first score slunk back without a word. We waited a long while, and by-and-by they came out agin, and how many guns do you 'spose they brought with 'em. Just two miserable pieces, worth so much old iron. "The major was impatient because of the delay, and, when he saw this, he too was angry. He turned and talked a few minutes with General Forsyth, both speaking so low that I couldn't catch what they said, though I seen the general was as angry as the major, but he kept cool. You see, the major was managing the business, but he made sure that everything was done as General Forsyth wanted. "The cavalry was now ordered to dismount, and they done so, forming a square about fifty feet back and closed in, standing within a half-dozen yards of the Indians that was in the centre. "It was plain that the latter didn't mean to obey orders, though they pretended to. Accordingly a body of cavalry was sent to make the search themselves. When they came out, which they did in a few minutes, they brought sixty good rifles with 'em. That was doing the business up in style; but the general and the major didn't intend there should be any half-way work about it. The soldiers were directed to search the bucks themselves, for there was no doubt that all of 'em had their guns hid under their blankets. "The Sioux stood scowling, ugly and savage. When about a dozen had been searched and their rifles brought out, they couldn't stand it. They were furious. Like a flash, the rest of 'em whipped out their guns from under their blankets and let fly at us. It was so sudden that before we knew what it meant, a hundred guns had been fired, and the reports sounded like one volley. "It was all done in a twinkling. There we were, close enough almost to touch the redskins, and the flash of their rifles was right in our faces. I remember that I was looking into the muzzle of one of 'em, when the gun went off, and I felt the bullet nip my ear; but others weren't so fortunate, and the poor boys dropped as though so many thunderbolts had fallen among 'em. "It didn't take us long, howsumever, to get in _our_ work. "I can tell you," added Scout Jackson, "there were lively times for twenty minutes or half an hour. During the battle we stood off some distance when firing at each other, but it was like you and me standing near enough almost to shake hands, and blazing away. Them redskins fought hard. It was bang, bang, with the soldiers dropping all around, and no saying when your own turn was to come. "But the hostiles got the worst of it. Some of 'em, seeing how it was going, broke through our lines and dashed for the hills to the south-west. We followed 'em, and the fighting kept up as bad as ever, though the shots wasn't so rapid. We lost about thirty, and more than that wounded, and of them some are likely to die." "Where were the squaws and children during the fight?" asked Brinton. An expression of scorn passed over the face of the scout as he made answer-- "Where was they? Fighting like so many wild cats. You'll be told that we chased and shot down women and children. There's no question that a big lot of 'em was killed, and how was it to be helped? Them squaws was dressed so much like the bucks that you couldn't be certain which was which. From the way they fought, you might have believed each one was ten bucks rolled into one. "But of course we cleaned 'em out, for that's what the Seventh always does, when it undertakes that sort of thing; from what I've told you, you'll know there was hot work for a time. A youngster about like yourself had charge of a Hotchkiss gun. and the way he handled that all through the fight made us feel like cheering, even when we didn't dare to stop shooting long enough to do so. "When the Sioux fled, this youngster dragged his gun from the knoll where he had been stationed. Leftenant Hawthorne was at his side, and the fighting had become skirmishing on the crests of the ravines, where Big Foot's band had taken refuge. The bullets were singing and whistling through the air, but that boy wheeled his Hotchkiss to the mouth of the gulch, where the firing was the heaviest. The minute he done that, he and the men attached to the gun become the targets of the Indians, who was determined to shoot 'em down. The bullets splintered the wheels of the gun, and sent the dirt flying right and left and in the air. A ball struck Leftenant Hawthorne's watch, glanced off, and wounded him; but the youngster pushed the gun forward and shelled the pockets in the ravines. "That boy kept it up, pushing steadily on and sending the shells wherever they could do the most harm. When the battle was over, he was found wounded, leaning against the shattered wheel of his gun, too weak to stand erect. Big Foot was among the killed." Brinton Kingsland was so interested in the story of his companion, who was too modest to dwell upon his own exploits, that he forgot for a few minutes his own situation and the absence of his friends. With only a brief comment on what had been told him, he said, starting up-- "But, Nick, of what have I been thinking? Here the morning is fully come, and I have not learned anything of father, mother, and Edith. How could I forget them so long?" "It was my fault more than yours," replied Jackson; "there's nothing to be made by staying here; let's ride out of the gully and look around; I've had a bite, and have something left over; will you have it?" "Not just now," replied Brinton, as he rode side by side with him out of the depression where he had spent the night. Reaching the higher ground, they looked over the surrounding country. The youth gave his chief attention to the rear--that is, in the direction of the Big Cheyenne, for he believed that Wolf Ear and the other hostiles were not far off. But, if so, they were not in sight. The scout, however, had discovered something in front, and at a considerable distance, which interested him. Shading his eyes with one hand, he gazed intently toward the north. "By gracious!" he exclaimed, "I believe that's them." "Where?" eagerly asked his companion. "I don't mean your folk, but that waggon train with supplies from Rapid City." Brinton's heart sank, for his hopes had been high; but he found some consolation, after all, in the declaration of the scout. A mile away, across the prairie, a party seemed to be preparing to leave camp. At that distance it was impossible to identify them, but Jackson was positive that they were the train in search of which he had left the camp at Wounded Knee. Brinton's hope was that his parents were with them. It would have been hard for him to explain just why his hope was so strong in this respect, but it seemed reasonable to suspect that the light of the camp had attracted their notice during the darkness, and that they had gone thither, after finding it impossible to rejoin him. The real, but slight, ground on which he based this fancy was that his pony Jack had been found while he, his owner, was travelling in a direct line from the Big Cheyenne toward the camp. Since the animal must have kept company for a time with the other two, the Kingslands had continued the same course, and might have descried the twinkle of the camp fire. "I myself would have seen it, had I not ridden the other way and gone into the gully, where I couldn't detect anything a dozen feet away." "Yes, I'm almost sure it's them," added Jackson, after further studying the camp; "let's find out." The proposition suited Brinton, and the two headed their ponies toward the camp. Although at the moment of starting there was no danger in sight, and the supply train did not seem to have been disturbed, Nicholas Jackson was too experienced to forget every precaution, and while he studied the scene in front, he kept glancing toward the other parts of the compass. And it was well he did so, for a few hundred yards only were passed when he said in a low voice, in which no excitement could be noted-- "It looks as if them bucks would like to j'in our company." Brinton glanced back, and saw the half-dozen hostiles with whom he had had his stirring experiences the night before dashing towards them from the direction of the Cheyenne. There was no need to engage them in a fight: indeed, it would have been the height of imprudence to do so. Jackson and Brinton were well mounted, and they instantly struck their horses into a run. The Indians shouted on perceiving that they were discovered, and they also urged on their animals. Several shots were fired, but the distance was too great to do execution. The race had continued but a little while when it became apparent that the pursuers were gaining, Jackson's horse was doing his best, but Brinton's was not. He could draw away from the Indian ponies, but his rider held him back to keep the scout company. The chase could not last long, for the camp was comparatively near at hand, but the bucks were coming up alarmingly fast. "There's no use of both of us being overhauled," said Jackson; "ride ahead and save yourself." "But I can't desert you." "Faugh! don't be foolish; you can't help me, and you're sure to be shot if you stay; off with you!" "But what will become of you?" "That's nothing to you; it looks as if I must bid you good-bye; Billberry has gone lame, but I'll make the best fight I can, and if I go down, some of 'em have got to go with me." Brinton was much perplexed what to do, but he knew that the question of life and death must be decided within the next few seconds. CHAPTER IX. "HE HAS MADE HIS LAST SCOUT." The perplexing question was settled by Brinton Kingsland's pony taking his bit in his mouth and speeding towards the camp of the supply train, as if driven by a hurricane. The youth could not but feel conscience-smitten at this apparent desertion of a comrade in dire extremity, but there was no help for it. Besides, Jackson was right when he urged Brinton to lose no time in saving himself, since it was out of his power to help the imperilled scout. The pursuing hostiles had now approached near enough to make their shots effective. The whistling bullets warned Brinton of his danger, so he threw himself forward on the neck of his pony, who rushed ahead with arrowy swiftness. The clatter of hoofs made young Kingsland glance to his left: there was Billberry, the scout's steed, with neck outstretched, going madly on. He had been touched by one of the flying bullets, and in his panic forgot the weak leg that already had delayed him to a fatal extent. His desperate burst of speed brought him alongside of Jack, whose rider, to his amazement, saw him shoot ahead at a pace which none of his kind could surpass, and none there could equal. But his bridle-reins and stirrup-straps were flying in the gale caused by his own tremendous swiftness. Brave Nick Jackson had been shot from the back, and was fighting his last fight. Brinton Kingsland tugged at the rein of Jack, and shouted a savage command in the same breath, The pony would not stop, but, slackening his speed, described a circle, which brought him round with his head toward the pursuers. Pierced by one of the balls of the bucks, the scout fell from his saddle, but, recovering himself with wonderful dexterity, turned about, and with levelled Winchester bravely faced his foes. The shots were rapid on both sides, and those of Jackson did much execution. But his fate was sealed from the first, and none knew it better than he. "I can't stand that!" muttered young Kingsland, the moment he succeeded in facing Jack the other way; "I have already played the coward, though, heaven knows, I couldn't help it." Something of his daring seemed to tingle in the veins of his pony; for, now that he was urged to return, he headed straight for the group of combatants, and shot forward at full speed. Meanwhile the members of the supply train were not idle. They had descried the coming of two horsemen from afar, and were quick to recognise them as friends. Had there been any doubt, it vanished at sight of the pursuing Indians behind them. Three were in the saddle in an instant, and scurrying away to the relief of the solitary man fighting for his life. Brinton was not aware they were at his heels. He mistook the sound of their horses' hoofs for that of Jackson's animal, who, he supposed, had turned, and was rushing into the heart of the peril, as his kind will do when forced out of a burning building. The first warning the youth received of the true state of affairs was when the approaching horsemen fired from behind him at the group crowding around and pressing the scout so sorely. But the hostiles were quicker than he to see their peril. They wheeled hastily, and, flinging themselves over the necks of their ponies, skurried in the direction of the Cheyenne. It is the custom of the American Indians to carry off their dead and wounded. The latter probably looked after themselves in this instance, but in their haste the two that had fallen by the hand of Nick Jackson were left stretched on the ground. An extraordinary incident now took place. In the furious struggle one of the hostiles had become dismounted. Disregarding the fate of his companions, or probably seeing that the brave scout had become so weakened that the peril no longer existed, he leaped from the back of his pony and dashed forward to give the white man his finishing-stroke. Before he could do this, the relief party were so close that he did not dare to tarry. He turned to remount his pony, but the animal had become panic-stricken in the flurry--it may have been that he was struck by a bullet--and was galloping off, as if for his own life. Furthermore, he made straight for the camp of the supply train, so that his capture was impossible. But there were two other animals that had lost their riders, and, if he could secure one of these, he might yet save himself. They, however, were galloping among the others riding for life toward the Big Cheyenne. The bucks, with less chivalry than the youth had shown in similar circumstances, gave no heed to the peril of their dismounted comrade, but sped across the prairie at the utmost speed of which they were capable. Among them was possibly one who, seeing that the whites, instead of keeping up the pursuit, had halted around the fallen scout, gave a little thought to their comrade. This friend would not turn back himself, nor did any of the others do so, but with the palm of his hand the former smote one of the riderless ponies across the eyes and shouted a command in his ear. The horse checked himself with a cry of pain, reared, shook his head, and then, dropping out of the group running close together, wheeled and trotted toward the dismounted Indian. The latter gave a thrilling exhibition of running. He saw that his only hope lay in reaching one of the ponies of his comrades that had basely deserted him, since to undertake to recapture his own animal must take him into the camp of his enemies. He therefore exerted himself to the utmost to overtake the party before the whites could overtake him. Had there been none interested besides the three members of the supply train, all would have gone well with the buck, for, as we have said, they gathered around the fallen scout and gave their whole attention to him. But there was another, who resolved that this miscreant should pay for his unpardonable barbarity to a brave and fallen enemy. That one was Brinton Kingsland. Quick to grasp the situation, after finding himself too late to help poor Jackson, he noted the solitary Indian, and believing him to be the one who had laid the scout low (though if he had not struck the actual blow, he was equally guilty), he compressed his lips and muttered-- "I'll teach you a lesson, you assassin!" The redskin, as he ran, grasped his Winchester in his right hand in a trailing position. The heavy blanket was secured at the throat by some fastening that held it in place. The lower portion streamed out over his back, as did his long black hair, in the wind created by his own fleetness, while his leggings doubled and twinkled so fast that they resembled the spokes of a swiftly-revolving wheel He was, indeed, running with astonishing speed. "Now, Jack, do your best! There isn't any time to lose, and you are not going to let a miserable redskin outspeed you." The pony flung up his head, snuffed the air, stretched out his neck, and away he went with arrowy swiftness. He knew what was wanted of him, and was not the one to shirk his duty. It was at this juncture that the fugitive, going like a whirlwind, turned his head for an instant and glanced back Brinton was watching him, and saw the scowling face glaring like a wild beast through the thicket of flying hair. "Great heavens! it's Wolf Ear!" During these exciting minutes the youth had forgotten about the young Ogalalla, until this glimpse of the well-remembered features told him the startling truth. The shock caused him involuntarily to tighten the rein of Jack, and the animal, obedient as he generally was, instantly slackened his pace. But the hesitation was for a few seconds only. Brinton felt that he ought not to have been surprised after the events of the preceding day and night. "He deserves death more than any of the rest, for his knowledge has been greater than theirs, and his excuse is less. I'll run him down and make him prisoner." Again he spoke sharply to Jack and twitched the rein. The noble animal stretched away with the same graceful swiftness he had shown from the first. But the Ogalalla was cunning. He had seen the Indian pony as it withdrew from the rest and came trotting toward him in a bewildered way, as though not quite understanding what it meant; but if the animal was perplexed, Wolf Ear was not. He read the meaning aright, and saw that one desperate chance remained. If he could hurl himself upon the back of that same steed before the white youth overhauled him, the prospect was good for his ultimate escape. Brinton comprehended everything as vividly as he, and did not spare Jack. He aimed to interpose himself between Wolf Ear and his pony, and thus prevent their meeting. Every nerve and muscle was strained to accomplish that end. Young Kingsland was already close enough to shoot down the fugitive, and he felt he deserved to be laid low, but, as we have shown, such was not his purpose. An indefinable dislike to slay a foe, even though ferocious and guilty, prevented his firing the shot that would speedily have ended it all. The rest of the hostiles had disappeared over a swell of the plain and were out of reach. Why did not Wolf Ear, when he saw he could not reach his pony in time, halt and bring his gun to bear on his fierce pursuer? He did. The cunning fellow, almost within reach of the pony, and at the moment when his heart was beating high with hope, saw everything frustrated by the action of the animal. The sight of a person coming toward him at such terrific speed, even though belonging to the race to which he was accustomed, was too disturbing to be accepted with serenity. He raised his head as he came to a halt, surveyed the bounding figure, and then, with a snort of affright, wheeled and trotted toward the river. His speed was much less than that of the Ogalalla, but of necessity it compelled the latter to run farther than he would have done had the beast remained stationary, and it was just that brief interval of enforced stay on the ground that told the Ogalalla the white youth must reach him before he could overtake the pony. "Surrender, Wolf Ear!" called Brinton; "you can't help yourself." Evidently Wolf Ear held a different opinion, for he wheeled like lightning, and levelled his rifle with the reply-- "That's the way _I_ surrender! Do you surrender!" The action was so sudden that Brinton could not forestall him. He was fairly caught. It was, however, far from Brinton's thoughts to yield to this startling command. He flung himself over the other side of the saddle, so as to offer as little of his body as possible to the aim of the miscreant. He was certain he would fire and shoot down his horse, if not himself. He waited with an intensity of emotion which cannot be described. One minute, two minutes passed, but no report came. Then Brinton heard the suspicious clatter of a horse's hoofs, and peeped over the spine of Jack. He was in time to see Wolf Ear galloping off on the hack of the pony. With inimitable dexterity he had secured the animal during the brief interval at his command, and was now going like the wind over the prairie, after his departed comrades. The Ogalalla, however, was not too far away to shout back a taunt and the words-- "Wise young man, my gun was not loaded, but it served me as well." Then he whisked over the elevation and vanished. There was no help for it, and the chagrined Brinton wheeled and galloped toward the group whom he had left some distance behind on the prairie. They were riding slowly to the camp, supporting a form between them. Dreading the truth, Brinton held back until the others reached the camp. Then he rode forward and asked-- "Was Nick badly hurt?" "He is dead; he did not speak after we reached him. He was a brave fellow, but he has made his last scout." Brinton sighed, for he respected and loved the man who had thus died for his country. But another question was on his lips. He looked around the camp, and his heart sank at his failure to see any of the loved ones whom he was so hopeful of finding there. In a trembling voice he put the query. The answer was what he dreaded: they had neither seen nor did they know anything of them. CHAPTER X "OH, THERE IS WOLF EAR!" It will be remembered that when Brinton Kingsland dropped to the ground in the gathering darkness to check the crossing of the Big Cheyenne by the Sioux, whose leader had met him in mid-stream, he called in an undertone to his parents to hasten out of the range of the flying bullets; he repeated the command to his pony Jack, who obediently trotted after them. The father and mother, at this time, had no more thought of separating themselves for any distance from their brave son than he had; but two causes brought about the singular accident already referred to. The excited words of Brinton and the reports of the guns led the couple to think the danger more imminent than it was. As a consequence, they rode farther than was necessary, but still not to a point that ought to have caused any difficulty in their coming together when prudent to do so. Mr. Kingsland's pony travelled faster than that of his wife, thus placing him a few yards in advance. The gloom had not yet become deep enough to prevent their seeing each other; but at a moment when the wife was about to ask her husband to stop, she was surprised to see him turn to the left, his pony struggling up the bank to the level ground above. "Why do you do that, Hugh?" she called in a guarded voice, but at once following him. He did not answer, but narrowly missed falling out of the saddle. His animal continued moving away from the river-bank, and presently struck into an easy gallop, which rapidly increased the distance from the stream. Mrs. Kingsland now suspected the meaning of the strange action, and urged her pony beside that of her husband, which was going so fast that she was obliged to travel farther than she supposed before coming up with him. Then, laying hold of the bridle, she brought her husband's pony to a halt. "What is the matter, Hugh?" she asked; "are you ill?" "Gracious! what have I been doing?" he exclaimed, in turn bewildered, and looking about in the darkness. "Why, you have been trying to run away from us," said Edith, with a laugh, believing the whole thing to be a joke on her father's part. "You have come a good way from the riverbank," replied the disturbed wife; "I tried to check you, but could not." "I understand it now," said he, passing his hand across his forehead, in the effort to collect his thoughts. "Just after we started a faintness seized me, and I knew nothing until this minute. I don't understand why I did not fell out of the saddle." "I saw you reel, and you must have come near doing so. How do you feel now?" "Much better. Strange that I should have been attacked in that manner; but I am sure it will not occur again. What will Brinton think?" "I have heard the report of guns, but all is quiet now." "I feel little alarm, for they will not dare to cross while he is guarding the ford." "Is he not in danger?" "No; he is lying on the ground, and they cannot see him; he will hold them at bay as long as he wishes." "But they may come over at some other point and get behind him." "I did not think of that," said the husband more thoughtfully; "but I am sure he will not stay any longer than he ought. It won't do for us to go back, for, if the Indians do cross the river, we shall be in their path. It may be well to go part of the way over our own track, so as to make it easier for him to find us. Come on, and make no noise." "But you are not taking the right course," protested his wife: "you should turn more to the left." "I feel almost sure you are wrong; but you have had your senses about you all the time, which is more than I have had, and I bow to your decision." "But, mother, you are not right," interposed Edith, now fully awake; "you should go that way"; and she indicated a route widely different from that of either--so different, indeed, that her mother could not accept it. "No, dear, you are wrong," she calmly replied. "I will lead." And yet there is reason to believe the child was nearer right than either, and had her suggestion been adopted, much of what followed might have been averted. While they were riding, as they believed, in the direction of the Big Cheyenne, Mr. Kingsland noticed that the pony of his son was not with them. His wife said that he did not come up the river-bank, and was probably waiting for Brinton to go to him. It will thus be seen that the youth was wrong in his supposition about the movements of Jack. By-and-by the time came when Mrs. Kingsland saw she had committed a sad blunder, and, instead of approaching the river, had gone still farther from it; they could hear nothing of its flow, and were lost on the prairie. Husband and wife now debated what was best to do. It was found that when each, including Edith, named the supposed direction to the stream, they were as widely apart as before. "The wisest course is to stop trying to find the river," remarked the husband, "for every effort only takes us farther away; we might as well go into camp right here." "And freeze to death." "No; we will ride round until we find some shelter from this cutting wind, and then make ourselves as comfortable as we can until morning. Do you see that light away to the south?" That which the ranchman observed was the glow already referred to as attracting the notice of Brinton. The latter saw it in its true direction--that is, in the northern horizon, from which the bewilderment of his parents will be evident. In the hope of finding their way to the river the couple acted upon what might be considered a compromise. It is not necessary to say that every yard thus traversed increased the space between them and the youth who, at that moment, was groping blindly in quest of them. The wanderings of the stray ones, however, were fortunately not long continued, when the ponies of their own accord descended a depression in the prairie. It was not deep or well protected, and was not reached until after they had passed over several elevations, but they accepted the shelter thankfully, and dismounted. The three were cramped from their long constraint, and Edith ran around and here and there for some minutes before she was willing to be tucked away for the night. Their abundant clothing enabled them to get along much better than might be supposed; the little one lay between father and mother, the ponies being allowed to stay by themselves. As in the case of Brinton, the long wintry night passed without disturbance or incident. With the coming of daylight Mr. Kingsland roused himself. Seeing his wife and child were still sleeping, he did not awake them, and took the best survey he could of their surroundings. The weather was still intensely cold and the sky overcast. A look at his watch showed it was near eight o'clock when he clambered out of the depression and looked about him. The first discovery to cause surprise was the shelter that they had enjoyed during the night. Instead of being a ravine, like that where Brinton had slept, this was a rough irregular excavation, some forty or fifty feet in diameter. The sides sloped gently, the whole appearance being that of an immense hole left by some great explosion of gunpowder, to which a providential chance had guided their horses. The husband saw no sign of any living being besides those with him, nor could he form any surmise as to the course to be taken to effect a meeting with his son. "What will Brinton think? After doing so bravely the work I ought to have done, we left him in the lurch. We are as much lost to each other as if in the depths of an African jungle with miles intervening. I can't help feeling that the top of that ridge yonder would give me a view that would disclose something important." He debated with himself whether it was prudent to walk thither and obtain the coveted survey. It was little more than a hundred yards distant, and it did not seem that any harm could come to the loved ones whom he would leave but a few minutes. "I must manage to get my bearings in some way before I can do anything. The sun seems to be off yonder behind the clouds, but really it appears to me as if it were in the wrong place!" He ended the doubt by striding to the elevation, rifle in hand. Since his faintness of the night before, he felt better and stronger than he had for weeks, and this fact doubtless had much to do with the feeling of self-confidence which now nerved him. Reaching the crest of the ridge or swell in the prairie, Kingsland was disappointed. The same kind of view confronted him on every hand, and he experienced a repetition of that sensation which often comes to one in his situation: if he could only pass to the top of the next elevation, he would obtain the view he wanted. But Hugh Kingsland was too wise to yield to the prompting. One precious member of his family was already gone he knew not where, and he would incur no risk of its being further broken up. He was roused from his meditations in the most startling manner conceivable, the cause being a rifle-shot, undoubtedly aimed at himself. On the summit of the ridge at which he was gazing, and almost at the very point, two Indian bucks suddenly walked up from the other side in plain sight. While they were still ascending, and when only their heads and waists showed, one of them brought his rifle to his shoulder and tried his skill on the white man across the valley-like depression. Mr. Kingsland did not tarry long enough to reply, but hurried back to the hollow where he had left his wife and child. They had awakened, but were not alarmed at his absence, the wife suspecting the cause. She had brought out what was left of the lunch, and she and Edith were calmly eating when he reappeared, his looks and manner showing that he had made some terrifying discovery. He quickly explained what had taken place, adding-- "I am in doubt whether to mount the ponies and start to flee, or to stay where we are and try to fight them off." "You saw only two, and they were on foot." "But they are sure to have ponies near, and more than likely more of the hostiles are within call." "Let us stay here until something is learned," said the wife, showing admirable coolness and courage. Whether or not this was the wiser course remains to be seen, but it was followed. Mr. Kingsland crept to near the top of the hollow, and lying extended at full length against the sloping bank, peered over, with his rifle ready to fire at the first appearance of danger. His position was such that he could detect the approach of anyone from that side, while his wife guarded the other in a similar manner. The ponies having been quieted, Edith was cautioned to remain near them, and to avoid exposing herself to any stray shots that might be fired. As long as she kept at the bottom of the hollow with the animals, she and they were safe. A full hour passed without the least sign of the hostiles. A less experienced person might have accepted this evidence that the danger had passed them by; but when a second hour had worn away with the same quietness everywhere, the husband and wife still maintained their watchfulness. The forenoon was half gone before this vigilance was rewarded. Mrs. Kingsland called to her husband that there was something suspicious in front of her; and pausing only long enough to make sure that nothing of the kind was immediately before him, he slipped down the hollow and up the opposite slope to her side. "Where is it?" he asked in an undertone. "Just over that first swell, and a little to the left." "I see him; keep down out of sight!" He placed the muzzle of his repeating Winchester over the side of the hollow, took careful aim at the rough head that had risen a few inches above the slight swell in the prairie, and let fly. The aim was a perfect one, as was shown by the instant disappearance of the crown and the cry, which from behind the elevation sounded as if much farther off. Instantly three or four replies came from other points along the swell, and the bullets chipped the dirt about the face of Kingsland, who ducked his head out of range. Knowing, however, how much depended on his concealing his weakness from the hostiles, he fired four shots quickly, without special aim, and with no expectation of accomplishing anything except that named. "If I can make them think there are half a dozen rifles here on the watch, they will be careful about attacking. But they mustn't know how weak we are." "I don't admit that we are so weak in this hollow and with that repeating gun, and you feeling so strong and well." At this juncture a cry was heard from Edith. She had forgotten the command of her father, and crept up the opposite slope. "Oh, there is Wolf Ear!" And before anyone could interpose she sprang up the bank and ran toward the ridge where her father had first seen the two hostiles. The horrified parents at the same moment saw three other Indians dash toward the innocent child, who never dreamed of her awful peril. [Illustration: "'Oh, there is Wolf-Ear!'"] CHAPTER XI. "I'M OFF; GOOD-BYE!" Though his brave companion had fallen almost at his side, Brinton Kingsland had reached the camp of the supply train without receiving so much as a scratch. He mourned him, for he was a worthy man; but he was heart-broken at his failure to gain tidings of his loved parents and little sister. He did not know what to do, and could only fear the worst. When he had told his story to his new friends, none of them were able to offer any encouragement or hope. The supply train consisted of a dozen waggons, in charge of sixteen teamsters. As a matter of course, all were armed, and had come thus far without trouble. They were making ready to resume their journey to Wounded Knee when the affray already described took place. This caused an hour's delay, and now, when about to start again, the signs of danger became so threatening, they held back for consultation. The Indians whom they had driven from the prostrate form of Scout Jackson reappeared on the crest of the hill over which they had skurried, and it was noticed that their number was increased to fully a dozen. While the teamsters were watching them another band came into sight, in the opposite direction. To the dismay of the spectators, this party was more numerous than the first. Not only that, but both bands advanced at a slow trot, and met at a point a couple of hundred yards distant, and in a place over which the train would have to pass if it pushed on toward the camp at Wounded Knee. "Boys," said Captain Wadsworth, who was in charge of the train, "there's going to be a fight." "We ought to be able to keep them off," replied one of his men. "So we shall if no more appear; but the Sioux are as thick as berries, and by-and-by we shall have a hundred or more of them popping away at us. We may as well get ready for what's certain to come." "Jackson said something to me," observed Brinton, "about an escort having been sent out from Wounded Knee to bring you in." "They can't come any too soon," responded the captain, who fully comprehended the peril; "but I'm afraid they will be too late. Those Indians don't let the grass grow under their feet." The leader did not content himself with talking, but began to prepare for the attack, which might come at any moment. The waggons were drawn up in a circle, in the middle of which were placed the horses. Bags of grain, boxes and bundles, were piled on the ground underneath the waggons. These served as an additional protection for the animals, and screened the men, when kneeling behind and firing at their assailants. The hostiles were quick to detect what was going on, and did not allow the work to be completed without interference. They began circling back and forth, riding entirely around the camp and discharging their guns at it. The exhibition of horsemanship was a fine one; but they kept at such a distance that their shots did little damage. In some way, one got through the entrenchments, as they might be called, and slightly wounded a horse in the shoulder. He made more fuss than if it had gone through his head, rearing, snorting, and plunging, and throwing the rest into a panic, which would have ended in a stampede, had they not been guarded with unusual care. The teamsters did not accept these unwelcome attentions meekly, but fired at their circling assailants; the cause named, however, prevented much success. It looked as if one or two of the shots inflicted damage, but not to the extent of disabling any pony or his rider. Standing at the rear of one of the waggons, where he could see everything that was going on, Captain Wadsworth watched the exciting incidents. At his elbow was Brinton Kingsland, who did not think it worth while to try his hand with his Winchester, though the others were continually cracking around him. "What is to be feared," said the captain, "is that the hostiles will soon increase to such an extent that they will overwhelm us." "How many do you think are out there now?" inquired Brinton. "I should say between twenty and thirty--that is, there were a few minutes ago, but there are five or six less now." "What is the meaning of that?" The leader turned his bronzed face toward the youth and smiled significantly. "Don't you catch on? They have sent after reinforcements: a slight number now means a big number pretty soon." "Have you noticed those bucks on the top of the ridge yonder?" Captain Wadsworth looked in the direction named. Three Indians had dismounted, and were standing close together, or rather two of them were, while the third seemed to be stooping and busy with something on the ground. "How long have they been there?" asked the leader. "They rode up the slope within the last five minutes. They were off their ponies before they stopped. I can't guess what they are doing." "I don't know; but we shall soon learn." Although the cracking of rifles continued, and the teamsters, kneeling behind the fortifications, were doing their utmost to pick off some of the dusky riders, who in turn sent in their dropping shots, Captain Wadsworth gave them little heed. The position of himself and Brinton was exposed, and, had their assailants come closer, they would not have dared to maintain it; but with the combatants so widely separated, it cannot be said they were in much real danger. The three Indians in whom our friends were so much interested just then were beyond and apart from the others. Their horses were cropping the few blades of withered grass that had survived the winter's tempests; but not one was a dozen yards from his master, all of whom were so grouped together that their movements could not be identified. Rather curiously there was not a spy-glass among the teamsters. Such an article would have been valuable just then; but they had to depend upon their unaided vision. The captain and Brinton, however, agreed that two of the bucks were bent over and busy with something on the ground, while the third, standing on the crest of the ridge, appeared to be awaiting the action of his companions before carrying out some plan he had in mind. "Look!" whispered the youth; "isn't that smoke?" The captain was silent a moment before answering-- "Yes; the Indian is like the Chinaman: he can start a fire where you and I couldn't kindle a spark. I believe they will make a bundle of water-soaked leaves crackle and burn like tinder wood. Those fellows have got some of the dried grass together and have managed to touch it off. You understand what _that_ means, of course?" "I cannot say that I do." "It is a signal fire." "Kindled for what purpose?" "To call all the other hostiles in sight here, to take a hand in the fun of massacring us and plundering our train. Such a signal can be seen a long way and will do all that is intended. Look at it now!" From between the two, who now rose from their stooping posture, a thin finger of vapour arose, going straight upward as if it were a shadowy arrow aimed at the clouds. "One of the bucks is waving his blanket," observed Brinton; "he must mean something by that. I suppose he is fanning the blaze to keep it from going out." "No; look at that thin line of smoke; don't you see something peculiar?" "Ah! I notice it now." The vapour showed a striking change of appearance; instead of climbing in a straight line, it now waved gracefully from side to side. It was something which never can occur unless with the help of some person. "That is the signal," said Captain Wadsworth; "it can be seen for miles in all directions, and every Indian eye that catches sight of it will read its meaning as plainly as our soldiers do the looking-glass signals. It's a bad thing for us." The captain was an old campaigner, and knew what he was talking about; his impressive manner was not lost upon Brinton Kingsland. "How far are we from Wounded Knee?" he asked. "Anywhere from a dozen to twenty miles; it depends on the course we take--that is," he added, with a shake of his head, "whether we ever take any course at all." "I cannot recall just what Jackson said about an escort from that camp, but I think he told me such an escort had been sent." The captain shook his head. "You must be mistaken; for, if that were the case, why did he ride out here alone? Was it not more likely that he came to learn whether we needed protection? and if that is so, they will wait for his return and report before sending out the escort which is the only thing that can save us." This view was so reasonable that Brinton could not combat it. "I see one chance," ventured the youth, after a moment's silence, during which he watched the actions of the signal corps on the ridge. The officer turned wonderingly toward him. "I shall be glad to hear what it is." "If a messenger can get through to Wounded Knee with word of your extremity, they will send you help without delay." "True; but how can such a thing succeed? If it were night it might be done; but in what possible way can a horseman dash through the lines when the bucks would see him start, and they have us surrounded?" "It will be taking big risks, but I would like to try it." Captain Wadsworth, who had been leaning against the hind wheel of one of the waggons, with his arms folded, abruptly straightened up and stared at the youth, as if uncertain whether he had heard him aright; then he repeated-- "_You_ would like to try it, did you say?" "Yes, sir; and I believe I can get through." The officer looked off toward the ridge and shook his head. "Don't think of such a thing; we must stay here and fight it out, and trust to Providence to open the way, if any is to be opened." But Brinton was in earnest, and his eagerness was increased by the discouraging manner of the captain. "I understand your feelings, and I am not blind to what is in the path of the one who attempts to do what I have proposed; but, captain, bear two things in mind: there isn't a fleeter horse in the whole West than my Jack. When I gave him rein he pulled away from those Indians as though their animals were walking. So all I have to secure is a fair start." "Exactly," replied the leader with a grim smile, "and therein you sum up the whole business. All that you need to succeed is to succeed. But what is the other point you wish me to hold in mind?" "The fair start can be secured." "How?" "Pretend to ride out against the hostiles. They will gather in front of the threatened point; I will be on the watch, and, when the way opens, will scoot for Wounded Knee." Brinton saw that Captain Wadsworth was interested. Once more he came to the erect position, and looking kindly in his face, said-- "Your plan has something in it." The heart of the youth leaped with hope. "I am sure of it; but there's not a minute to lose." This was self-evident, and the captain, having made up his mind, passed among his men and hurriedly explained what he had decided to do. It was for eight or ten of them to mount their horses and move cautiously toward the ridge, as if with the intention of attacking the little signal party there and stamping out their tiny fire. This would cause a concentration (or, more properly, it was hoped that it would) of the hostiles on that side of the camp, of which Brinton Kingsland would take advantage by dashing out on the other side and riding at full speed to Wounded Knee. It was the only thing that offered hope, and, therefore, was eagerly accepted by all. The firing was so scattered that no fear was felt in moving about within the circle of waggons, for, as we have shown, Captain Wadsworth and Brinton had been exposed all the time without harm. The Sioux kept so far away that it was evident they were waiting for the arrival of reinforcements before making a real attack. The preparations on the part of the teamsters had hardly begun when Brinton, who had led his pony forth and stood ready to leap into the saddle, called out-- "You needn't do it! Here's my chance!" The majority of the Indians were near the ridge at that moment, but some of them were quite a distance off, and, in fact, alarmingly close to the opposite side of the camp. The impatient youth was confident that he could dash through the opening before they could stop him. "It won't do!" protested Captain Wadsworth; "don't try it! wait till we get them nearer the ridge they will cut you off----" "I'm off! Good-bye!" Brinton Kingsland was in the saddle, and shot out from among the waggons like a thunderbolt. CHAPTER XII. WHAT HAPPENED TO WOLF EAR. Good fortune attended the daring attempt of Brinton Kingsland. By a providential occurrence, most of the hostiles were on the side of the supply camp, in the direction of the ridge from whose crest the signal smoke was ascending, when the youth, dexterously guiding his pony through the waggons that surrounded him, quickly cleared himself of all obstacles. "Now, Jack, old boy, do your best! Never was there greater need of it." The intelligent creature thrust his nose forward, and was off like a shot. He knew what was wanted, and nobly responded to the call upon his fleetness. The teamsters forgot all about the Indians, and fixed their gaze upon the youth. He was fully a hundred yards from camp before the Sioux comprehended what was done. Then, when they saw the messenger dashing over the plain, fully a dozen of the best mounted were after him in a flash, discharging several of their guns at the moment of starting. Brinton was seen to thunder up the incline of the first swell, sitting firmly in his saddle, and instantly disappeared over the crest. A minute later, the foremost two of the pursuers skimmed up the same incline, just as the lad shot into sight on the summit of the next elevation, instantly whisking out of view over that, while his superb horse continued his arrowy flight toward Wounded Knee. Then the excited and hopeful teamsters could see no more, and all but the foremost two of the pursuers gave up the chase and came straggling back to join their comrades in the attack on the camp. They knew that the result of that flight of the messenger would be to bring help, and, if anything was to be accomplished, it must be before it could arrive. And so the attack on the camp was begun at once, and with a fierceness that speedily brought a crisis. Meanwhile, Brinton Kingsland was going with undiminished speed over the prairie, skimming up the inclines and down the slopes at a break-neck pace, with every nerve of his splendid steed strained to the highest. The rider heard the dull report of the rifles that were fired at him, but the distance was too great to cause alarm, and he did not even hear the singing of the bullets, so wide went they of the mark; but the glance cast over his shoulder showed that he had only two pursuers to fear. It was easy to compare their speed with his, and less than a half-mile was passed, when all doubt vanished. They had been thrown a hundred paces to the rear and were losing ground every minute. At the instant of shooting up one of the slopes and disappearing over the crest, Brinton snatched off his cap and swung it over his head, with a joyous shout. "Hurrah, Jack! they're not in it with you; you can take it more easily now." Nevertheless, the speed of the pony was maintained for a brief while, until it became certain that his two pursuers had given up the attempt to overtake him, and had gone to wreak their fury on the imperilled teamsters before help could reach them. Then Brinton made Jack drop to a pace which he could continue for hours without fatigue. The youth knew the course to follow to reach the camp at Wounded Knee Creek, and he calculated that he could readily cover the ground in the course of an hour or so. He was too sensible, however, to imagine that an open and uninterrupted course lay before him. At that time, as the reader well knows, the country in the neighbourhood of the Bad Lands, the reservations and the space between, was overrun with hostiles, as eager as so many jungle tigers to slay settlers, small squads of soldiers, and all white people whom it was safe to attack. He was liable to encounter some of these bands at any moment, and only by continual vigilance could he avoid running into the cunningly laid traps which proved fatal to scores of others. Now that the burst of excitement was over, and he was riding at a less killing pace, his thoughts went back to the loved ones from whom he had been so strangely separated. His heart became as lead as he reflected that they could hardly have escaped, considering the condition of his father, from the environing perils which covered miles of territory in every direction. "If I only knew where they were, if alive, I would guide this escort from Wounded Knee to their help----" What was that? Surely he heard the report of guns from some point in advance. Jack pricked his ears and increased his pace. "It can have but one meaning," muttered Brinton, with a throbbing heart; "someone is in peril: can it be _they_?" He reined up his pony and stood still on the crest of the first elevation he reached, after the ominous sounds fell on his ears. At that moment he descried coming over another ridge, a furlong away, a troop of thirty or forty cavalry, riding at a gallop toward him. "That's the escort from Wounded Knee," was his instant conclusion; "I was right when I told Captain Wadsworth that Nick Jackson said the escort was on the way, though I wasn't certain of it." But evidently the firing had not come from the cavalry. It was from some point between, and, instead of being directly in front, as it first seemed, was off to the right, where he observed a depression, with several dismounted Indians crouching around it. "Great heavens! it's father fighting them off," he gasped; "he is in that hollow and they have attacked him!" He struck his heels against the ribs of Jack, fiercely jerked the bridle-rein, and shouted to him to run at his best straight for the spot. But the approaching cavalry had descried the same thing, and were nearer the hollow than was the youth. They turned the heads of the horses and struck off at full speed. The assailing Indians, too, had discovered their danger and were seen skurrying for their ponies, waiting near. The obedient animals turned until their masters sprang upon their backs, when they dashed off at full speed, with a single exception. One of them, forgetful of his danger or determined upon revenge, even at the cost of his life, was observed to have something in his arms as he held his ground. "It is Edith that he is about to slay; maybe he has already killed her! O heaven!" the brother groaned, "is it too late to save her?" Jack was tearing over the ground at a killing pace, but he could not reach them in time. He could carry his rider there in time to shoot down the Indian, but not soon enough to prevent his burying his knife in the innocent heart. But there was a wonderful sharpshooter among the cavalry. He saw the awful peril, and throwing his horse on his haunches, brought his gun to his shoulder. During the instant it was at a level, Hugh Kingsland dashed out of the hollow, bare-headed, and, with hair streaming, ran toward the Indian and his little girl. One pace behind him sped his wife; she was seen to make quick, earnest gestures to the approaching horsemen, and they thought it an appeal to them not to lose a second if they would save her child. At that instant the sharpshooter pressed the trigger of his weapon; the Indian dropped the little one, threw up his arms in an aimless way, staggered back and sank to the ground. The next minute the troop thundered up, Brinton almost among them. "Are you hurt, my darling Edith?" he called, leaping out of the saddle, catching her in his arms, pressing her to his heart and kissing her; "speak! did he hurt you?" The child was bewildered by the great confusion, and, without answering her brother, looked him affrightedly in the face. "Why, Brint, is that you?" "Yes, yes; heaven be praised, you are not harmed! Oh, how can I be thankful enough? And you, father and mother! what a blessed sight!" The mother gave him one grateful glance and then knelt by the fallen Indian, just as Edith, slipping from the grasp of her brother, ran to the prostrate figure and bent over it, asking in a voice of inexpressible tenderness-- "What is the matter, Wolf Ear?" The young Ogalalla lay on his back, but at the moment the child spoke he managed, by a great effort, to raise his head and rest it on his hand. He had not spoken, but now, fixing his dark eyes on Edith, said in a faint voice-- "Wolf Ear is hurt!" The troopers sat silent on their horses, looking down on the strange scene. Hugh Kingsland, with no trace of his illness, stood back a few paces with folded arms, gazing at the moving sight and trying in vain to restrain his emotions. His wife placed her arm under the head of the Ogalalla, and, resting it on her knee, smoothed the black hair from his forehead, murmuring words of sympathy; Edith covered her face with her hands, and sobbed with a breaking heart. Brinton was affected at the sight of his former friend, but he could not help saying-- "Mother, we can all pity him, but he was our enemy; and had he not been shot at that moment Edith would not be living now." "You are wrong, my son," she replied gently. "Wolf Ear came forward to save Edith." "What are you saying?" "He was with the party that attacked us; he did what he could to restrain them; he could not do so, and he ran forward to join and help us defend ourselves against them. Edith saw him first and hurried out to meet him; he caught her up, and, when his companions would have harmed her, he would not let them touch her. He shouted to us to have no fear, that he was our friend. At that moment the soldiers came in sight and the other Indians made off. Wolf Ear knew we were saved, and so he stood still, with Edith's arms around his neck. I saw one of the soldiers aiming at them with his gun; husband and I ran out to shield him. I shouted and motioned to the soldier not to shoot, but he did not understand me, and--this is the sad result of the dreadful mistake." Wolf Ear fixed his eyes upon the wondering Brinton, who, walking forward and stooping down, asked in a choking voice-- "Is all this true, Wolf Ear?" "The words of your mother are true." "But what meant your course toward me yesterday? I cannot reconcile that with what I have just heard." "We parted friends, though I told you I was the enemy of the rest of your race. From the time we separated I have done all I could to find your people and save them before it was too late. Until now, I have not met you." "You forget; we met in the gorge last night, and only this morning, when you sought the life of Nick Jackson, I chased you over the ridge in the effort to make you prisoner." A smile overspread the dark face, and the head swayed a single time to one side. "Brinton, you are mistaken; the Ogalalla whom you met, as you say, in the gully, and whom you sought to make prisoner, was not I--he was my twin brother, Young Bear; our mother can hardly tell us apart, and I taught him to speak English as well as I." "Oh, what have I done!" wailed Brinton, breaking down utterly, and covering his face with his hands. "I never dreamed of this; can you forgive this dreadful mistake?" "Yes," said Wolf Ear faintly, "I forgive you; I forgive the soldier who shot me, for he did it to save _her_ life." He wearily closed his eyes, but opened them again when he felt the chubby arms of Edith clasped round his neck, and her lips pressed against his. "Oh, Wolf Ear!" she sobbed, in tones that brought tears to more than one eye among the bronzed troopers, "do not die! I love you, next to Brint and papa and mamma----" Among the silent troopers touched by the scene was the sharpshooter who had brought Wolf Ear low. He was a brave, rugged soldier, but, like most men, had a tender heart. He had not spoken for some minutes, and his eyes were moist as he swung his foot from his stirrup and over the haunch of his horse to the ground. "Jim Budworth don't often make a miss," he said in a broken voice, "and I didn't miss this fellow; but then I didn't aim to kill him, and I don't believe I did. I know a little about surgery myself--so let me take a look at Wolf Ear, as you call him." Wondering at the words of the sharpshooter, and hardly daring to hope he was right, all watched him as he made what may be called a medical examination of the sufferer. The bullet had struck him in the side, and evidently had inflicted the wound intended. "Injins are tough," remarked Budworth, "and this one is as tough as the rest. He isn't going to die. Here, Wolf Ear, try this." As he spoke, the trooper held a flask of spirits to the lips of the young Indian and forced him to swallow some of it. It produced an immediate effect; and, to the astonishment of everyone, Wolf Ear assumed a sitting position and looked round with a smile. "I feel better--much better, thank you," he said, with a grateful look at Budworth. "Of course you do. It was a narrow chance for you, no mistake; but all you want is careful nursing, and I reckon Mrs. Kingsland here will be glad to give it you." "Indeed I will," said the delighted woman; "there is nothing that I will not do for Wolf Ear. Can it be possible that he is going to get well after all?" "Of course it is; I know all about Injins." "Oh, I am so glad!" exclaimed the happy Edith, throwing her arms again about his neck. "Easy now, easy now," said Budworth; "don't go to rolling and tumbling him about until he gets a little stronger. After that you can handle him as you choose." Wolf Ear rallied with amazing quickness, and showed all the heroism of his race, when he was helped upon his horse and the party moved back to the supply camp, where the teamsters had succeeded in driving off the hostiles. The Indian was given an easy, comfortable couch in one of the waggons, and some hours later the party arrived at Wounded Knee. There the sufferer received the best of medical attention, and was soon able to move about with scarcely any pain or trouble. His recovery was rapid; and to-day only a slight scar remains to tell how nearly he met death in his efforts to save his friends from the warriors of his own race. And within the following few weeks the threatening cloud that had overspread the Western sky, behind which the blood-red lightning gleamed and played, dissolved, and gave place to the sweet sunshine of peace, which, let us pray, may continue for ever. PRINTED BY CASSELL AND COMPANY, LIMITED, LA BELLE SAUVAGE. LONDON, E.C. 30,313 
61334	----	WHEN WHIRLYBIRDS CALL by Frank Banta Five-Gun DeCrabbe was the terror of every planet--especially to his friends! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, January 1963. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Those of the city of Featherton, on Grimes Planet, were with him to a man. Feathertonians cheered and waved from their windows that morning, not daring to come out for fear of the whirlybirds, and admiring Five-gun Charles DeCrabbe all the more for riding down the main stem of the town with the bubble of his convertible space coupe slid back--ignoring the menace from the skies. Five-gun Charles DeCrabbe rode down the exact center of the street, looking neither to right or left, not acknowledging the screams of adulation that poured from the windows. His bare head was up, his mouth was pressed into firm, haughty lines of self-confidence and even his battle dress of dark green seemed to exude the aura of a competent killer. Five-gun Charles DeCrabbe had come to clean up the town. Of whirlybirds. He stopped his space convertible in front of the white stone building titled City Hall on its facade. The two men waiting to greet him stayed safely under the bullet-shaped marquee as he alighted. He jumped over the side, checked his two holstered needle pistols, slung his explosive pellet rifle over one shoulder, his N-ray flashburn gun over the other shoulder and picked up his rocket-powered stun-gas spray gun in his hands. He strode over to the waiting men. "I'm Alson Prince, Mayor of Featherton," said the older man shaking hands with the one DeCrabbe stuck out from under the spray gun. "And you are Five-gun Charles DeCrabbe?" "Yes yes yes!" exclaimed DeCrabbe impatiently in his clipped speech. "I'm the mayor's son," introduced the younger man with admiration shining in his eyes. "You sure look like you're ready to whip those whirlybirds." "Yes yes yes!" exclaimed DeCrabbe haughtily. "Always dislike long conversations you know. Supposing you tell me what you know so can exterminate them without further delay. No doubt solution before dusk." "Before dusk?" asked the mayor, dumfounded. "Oh, no, not today, I'm afraid. They've been around too many years to whip in one day." "Perhaps shall require two days then," said Five-gun Charles DeCrabbe graciously. "But doubt it. Tell me what you know of them." * * * * * "Very well," assented the older man. "Perhaps the best place to begin is with their name. When we first occupied this planet, a bare twenty years ago, we called them wolfhawk-whirlybirds and tigerhawk-whirlybirds because they preyed on vicious animals. The whirlybirds were our best friends in those days. The only trouble is that they ran out of tigers and wolves to eat." "Presumed they are now called peoplehawk-whirlybirds?" DeCrabbe frowningly asked in his clipped speech. "Exactly!" answered the older man. "Although that isn't their full name. From the way they attack--" "Most important," interrupted Five-gun. "Give to me in detail." "They prefer to attack strollers, although they have attacked on city streets when there is little traffic. They fly with amazing speed, considering they are an untidy ball forty feet in diameter, and they are on top of their victims before the unlucky ones are aware of the menace. Blowing their victims down with a rush of air from their feathers, they grab them up by the heels, carry them high aloft and drop them on piles of rock outside of town." "They are _downdraft_-peoplehawk-whirlybirds then?" asked DeCrabbe. "That's almost it," agreed the mayor. "I have not yet told you of their cries. As they rise in the air with the victim dangling from their talons by his heels, they utter a pleased 'Coo! Coo!' like a gentle dove. That is why they are called Coocoo-downdraft-peoplehawk-whirlybirds." "Approve of adequate names," nodded Five-gun, unbending a trifle. "First step toward efficiency. Only one thing haven't made clear. Presumably have shotguns and rifles. Why unable drive off these predators yourselves?" The mayor laughed bitterly. "It would be easy to tell you'd just arrived on this planet--although the birds are not well known in the other cities either; they are all concentrated in this area. Yes, our sportsmen tried to shoot down the whirlybirds. No luck, of course. Imagine the problems you have when one of these forty-foot balls of commotion comes at you: You try to aim but you can't hold your arm still because of the swirling wind they raise; and then the dust clouds thicken and you're firing wildly, and you can't begin to tell which is body and which is feathers anyway." "Very well," accepted Charles DeCrabbe mercifully. "You've made attempt. My first step therefore the attachment of high explosives to boobytrapped mannequins. Brought these with me." * * * * * "Great winds of catastrophe. I'm glad you mentioned it before you did it!" exclaimed the mayor. "We tried that once. The city was six weeks digging out from under the feathers--and it didn't kill the whirlybird!" "Aren't you exaggerating difficulties encountered in picking up few feathers?" loftily inquired DeCrabbe. "How do you think we got the name of Featherton? Before the deluge we were called West Applebury!" "Then why haven't you attempted lure them into boobytraps outside town? Could detonate them there without even slight inconvenience of picking up feathers." "Believe me, if there were only a _few_ feathers," insisted Mayor Prince, "few enough for you to pick up by yourself, we wouldn't mind you blowing up a whirlybird." "Wasn't considering picking up _any_ feathers," replied Five-gun with dignity. "Had supposed a menial or two could be supplied for that." The mayor shook his head. "It would take everybody in town to clean up. And as for blowing one up outside the city, one of our orchardists tried it. He blew it to bits all right, but eighty acres of his apple trees were smothered under the debris!" "Now anticipate that the extermination of the whirlybirds will almost certainly take me up to two days," conceded Five-gun DeCrabbe calmly. "However will be all the more interesting to defeat them without recourse large explosives." "Gee, what a man!" admired the mayor's son. "Only two days!" "If you will now lead me to your city park will begin campaign of extermination at once." "It's down that way," said the mayor, pointing. Plainly he had no intention of leaving the shelter of the marquee. "You can't miss it." As Five-gun Charles DeCrabbe leaped back into his craft and started off, the mayor's son called after him, "Aren't you scared, going out exposed like that?" DeCrabbe turned. "Am armed, young man," he retorted severely. "Yeah, but those whirlybirds don't pay any attention to guns." "Soon will," DeCrabbe replied, unruffled. Slowly he drove down the center of the empty street, receiving more cheers from heads thrust out of windows. He arrived at the city park and turned in. He unloaded most of his equipment under the roof of the bandstand. A few minutes later one of his robot mannequins moved slowly around the clearing before the bandstand, its control set for slow walking to conserve its atomic battery. The predator hunter unlimbered all his guns as he sat under the bandstand roof waiting. It was an hour before the first whirlybird attacked. His first warning was the rising wind. His gaze moved around the sky until he found the rapidly growing black spot. A few seconds later it became a universe-engulfing blackness as it spotted the mannequin and came down for it. As soon as the wind-screaming blackness reached the mannequin, the needle guns in his hands emptied their hundreds of anesthetizing needles into the turbulence. But it was as the mayor had said. Where did the bird's body end and the feathers begin? When the needle pistols were empty he dropped them and snatched up the rocket powered stun-gas weapon; its immense flare poured into the blackness without visible result. He dropped it and grabbed the N-ray flashburn gun. The forty-foot ball of fury was beginning to rise high with its prey now, as the gun stuttered fifty bolts of burning lethal radiation into it. He smelled feathers that time. Finally as the giant bird, without faltering, rose above the range of the N-ray gun, he took to the explosive pellet rifle. It had only ten shots; all of these went into the center of the blackness well before the whirlybird had flown beyond range. And as it neared the horizon with its mannequin prey, he heard its sweet song: "Coo! Coo!" "How _dare_ it coo after all I did to it?" muttered DeCrabbe grimly. "Shall not coo next time!" * * * * * Half an hour later a new mannequin stood out in front of the bandstand. Its arms waved ceaselessly but it stood still. Nestled against its back was a ten gallon drum of gas, which would be exploded--blanketing most of the park in fumes--as soon as the mannequin was moved. Charles DeCrabbe waited, his mask ready, his potent weapons all reloaded. Ninety minutes later the huge black menace arrived--either the first whirlybird or another forty-foot wind-screaming fury. Slipping his gas mask on, the man waited for the right moment to begin firing. The whirlybird swooped down, the tank exploded in a fog, and the giant wobbled! DeCrabbe emptied all his weapons again. The bird arose, wobbling, its speed greatly impaired, but making its getaway despite all he could do. "Damn well didn't coo that time," he said when the monster had reached the horizon. "Next time won't fly either." But just then the monstrous bird mocked him in the distance with a loud, sweet, "Coo! Coo!" Shortly after lunch he had it all set up. A new mannequin stood out in front of the bandstand, its arms waving and a pair of slim, gleaming, ten-gallon drums of stun gas nearby. It was one o'clock before the third whirlybird struck. Down it sank until it became a huge, ebony blot in the afternoon sky. Underneath the bandstand roof DeCrabbe got ready for his supreme effort. He slipped on his gas mask and made sure his N-ray flashburn gun was ready for instant action, its safety off. He was determined that if he got the bird prostrate he would climb aboard and fire N-ray bolts into it until something _gave_! The huge black, wind-screaming monster plummeted the last few yards down and grabbed the mannequin. Both tanks of stun gas exploded. The giant whirlybird slumped unconscious--and DeCrabbe scrambled aboard! The feverishly hurrying hunter was not long discovering why he had not--and never would--penetrate the bird's feathers with any of his weapons: He burrowed down into the feathers the length of his arm and there were yet more feathers beyond! A feather pillow would stop a rifle bullet, he knew, and this monster had the probable equivalent of a thousand feather pillows protecting it, invulnerable as a battleship. And just then the maneater awoke, wobbled into the air, and flew away before DeCrabbe could get off! * * * * * The following afternoon, as Five-gun Charles DeCrabbe made his farewell of the city of Featherton, he once more drove down the center of the street with the bubble of his space convertible slid back. Yet there was a difference this time. The mayor and his son rode beside him on the seat, and all of the people were now out of doors standing along the curb, cheering their deliverer wildly as he passed. "I can't tell you how much I personally appreciate what you've done for us," said the mayor humbly. "Quite quite quite!" returned Five-gun haughtily in his clipped speech, hoping to shut off the man's tendency toward windyness. With awe in his voice the mayor's son admired, "So instead of being scared to death you were all ready for action when you and the whirlybird landed at their rocky, mountain lair?" "Yes yes yes! Slid off its back, hid between two boulders, waited for the appropriate moment. After bagging that one, waited for other monsters as they landed, one by one. Bagged them." "Just like that!" said the youngster. "You just get up close enough for those peoplehawks to grab you and then you bagged them." "Only possible way is my way," clipped DeCrabbe immovably. "Its eyes couldn't be buried deeply in feathers if they were to be of use." "So?" "So eye is proximate to beak--and brain," said the hunter with dignity. "Where one of its _coo-coos_ came out, one of my N-ray bolts went in, and that was that!" 
34495	----	Rob Nixon, by W.H.G. Kingston. ________________________________________________________________________ ________________________________________________________________________ ROB NIXON, BY W.H.G. KINGSTON. CHAPTER ONE. Picture a wide, gently undulating expanse of land covered with tall grass, over which, as it bends to the breeze, a gleam of light ever and anon flashes brightly. It is a rolling prairie in North America, midway between the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans. On either hand the earth and sky seem to unite, without an object to break the line of the horizon, except in the far distance, where some tall trees, by a river's side, shoot up out of the plain, but appear no higher than a garden hedge-row. It is truly a wilderness, which no wise man would attempt to traverse without a guide. That man has wandered there, the remnants of mortality which lie scattered about--a skull and the bare ribs seen as the wind blows the grass aside,--afford melancholy evidence. A nearer inspection shows a rifle, now covered with rust, a powder-flask, a sheath-knife, a flint and steel, and a few other metal articles of hunter's gear. Those of more destructible materials have disappeared before the ravenous jaws of the hosts of locusts which have swept over the plain. Few portions of the earth's surface give a more complete idea of boundless extent than the American prairie. Not a sound is heard. The silence itself is awe-inspiring. The snows of winter have lain thickly on that plain, storms have swept over it, the rain has fallen, the lightning flashed, the thunder roared, since it has been trodden by the foot of man. Perhaps the last human being who has attempted to cross it was he whose bones lie blanching in the summer sun--that sun which now, having some time passed its meridian height, is sinking towards the west. Southward appear, coming as it were from below the horizon, some dark specks, scattered widely from east to west, and moving slowly. On they come, each instant increasing in numbers, till they form one dark line. They are animals with huge heads and dark shaggy manes, browsing as they advance, clearing the herbage before them. They are a herd of bison, known by the wild hunters of the west as buffaloes--countless apparently in numbers--powerful and ferocious in appearance, with their short thick horns and long heads. Now they halt, as the richer pasturage entices; now again advance. A large number lie down to rest, while others, moving out of the midst, seem to be acting as scouts to give notice of the approach of danger. They go on as before, darkening the whole southern horizon. The wind is from the west; the scouts lift up their shaggy heads and sniff the air, but discover no danger. From the east another dark line rises quickly above the horizon: the ground shakes with the tramp of horses. It is a troop of huntsmen--savage warriors of the desert. What clothing they wear is of leather gaily adorned. Some have feathers in their heads, and their dark red skins painted curiously. Some carry bows richly ornamented: a few only are armed with rifles. A few, who, by their dress, the feathers and adornments of the head, appear to be chiefs, ride a-head and keep the line in order. Every man holds his weapon ready for instant use. They advance steadily, keeping an even line. Their leader waves his rifle. Instantly the steeds spring forward. Like a whirlwind they dash on: no want of energy now. The huntsmen are among the bewildered herd before their approach has been perceived. Arrows fly in quick succession from every bow--bullets from the rifles. The huntsmen have filled their mouths with the leaden messengers of death, and drop them into their rifles as they gallop on, firing right and left--singling out the fattest beasts at a glance--and never erring in their aim. In a few minutes the plain is thickly strewn with the huge carcasses of the shaggy buffaloes, each huntsman, as he passes on, dropping some article of his property by which he may know the beast he has killed. Now the herd begin to seek for safety in flight, still keeping in the direction they had before been taking, some scattering, however, on each side. The eager hunters pursue till the whole prairie, from right to left, is covered with flying buffaloes and wild horsemen; the crack of the rifles sounding distinctly through the calm summer air, in which the tiny wreath of smoke ascends unbroken and marks the hunter's progress. Among the huntsmen rides one distinguished from the rest by his more complete, yet less ornamented clothing; by a leather cap without feathers, and by the perfect order of his rifle and hunting accoutrements. On a nearer inspection his skin--though tanned, and wrinkled, and furrowed, by long exposure to the weather, and by age and toil--might be discovered to have been of a much lighter hue originally than that of his companions. Old as he was, no one was more eager in the chase, and no one's rifle brought down so great a number of buffaloes as did his. To all appearance he was as active and strong as the youngest huntsman of the band. In the course of the hunt he had reached the extreme left of the line. A superb bull appeared before him. "I'll have you for your robe, if not for your meat, old fellow," exclaimed the hunter, galloping on towards the animal's right flank, so as to turn him yet further from the herd, and to obtain a more direct shot at his head or at his shoulders. There are occasions when the most practised of shots will find himself at fault--the firmest nerves will fail. The old hunter had reached a satisfactory position--he raised his rifle, and fired. At that instant, while still at full speed, his horse's front feet sunk into a hole made by a badger, or some other of the smaller creatures inhabiting the prairie; and the animal, unable to recover itself, threw the hunter violently forward over its head, where he lay without moving, and apparently dead. The horse struggled to free itself; and then, as it fell forward, gave utterance to one of those piercing cries of agony not often heard, and, when heard, not to be forgotten. Both fore legs were broken. Its fate was certain. It must become the prey of the ravenous wolves, who speedily scent out the spots where the hunters have overtaken a herd of buffaloes. Meantime the buffalo, who had been struck by the hunter's bullet, but not so wounded as to bring him instantly to the ground, galloped on for some distance in the direction he was before going, when, feeling the pain of his wound, or hearing the cry of the horse, he turned round to face his enemies. Seeing both steed and rider prostrate, he tossed his head, and then, lowering his horns close to the ground, prepared to charge. The last moments of the old hunter seemed approaching. The cry of agony uttered by his favourite steed roused him. He looked up and saw the buffalo about to make its charge. His hand had never relaxed its grasp of his rifle. To feel for his powder-flask and to load was the work of an instant; and, without an attempt to rise, he brought the muzzle of his piece to bear on the furious animal as it was within a few paces of him. "Rob Nixon never feared man nor beast, and will not this time; let an old bull bellow as loud as he may," he muttered, as he raised his rifle and fired. The bullet took effect, but did not stop the headlong career of the enraged monster, which came on, ploughing up the ground, towards him. The hunter saw his danger and tried to rise, but in vain. He then made a desperate endeavour to drag himself out of the way of the creature. He but partially succeeded, when the buffalo, sinking down, rolled over and over, crushing, with his huge carcase, the already injured legs and lower extremities of the unfortunate hunter. In spite of the pain he was enduring, the old man, raising himself on his elbow, grimly, surveyed his conquered foe--"You've the worst of it, though you nearly did for me, I own," he exclaimed, nodding his head; "but a miss is as good as a mile, and when I'm free of you, maybe I'll sup off your hump." To liberate himself from the monster's carcase was, however, no easy task, injured as he was already by his fall, and by the weight of the buffalo pressing on him. He made several attempts, but the pain was very great, and he found that his strength was failing him. While resting, before making another attempt to move, he perceived his poor horse, whose convulsive struggles showed how much he had been injured. On looking round, also, he discovered that the accident had taken place in a slight hollow, which, shallow as it was, shut him out from the view of his companions, who were now pursuing the remainder of the herd at a considerable distance from where he lay. Again and again he tried to drag his injured limbs from beneath the buffalo. He had never given in while consciousness remained, and many were the accidents which had happened to him during his long hunter's life. Would he give in now? "No, not I," he muttered; "Rob Nixon is not the boy for that." At length, however, his spirit succumbed to bodily suffering, and he sank back exhausted and fainting, scarcely conscious of what had happened, or where he was. Had he retained sufficient strength to fire his rifle he might have done so, and summoned some of the hunters to his assistance; but he was unable even to load it, so it lay useless by his side. Thus he remained; time passed by--no one approached him--the sun sank in the horizon--darkness came on. It appeared too probable that the fate of many a hunter in that vast prairie would be his. How long he had remained in a state of stupor he could not tell; consciousness returned at length, and, revived by the cool air of night, he sat up and gazed about him. The stars had come out and were shining brilliantly overhead, enabling him to see to the extent of his limited horizon. The dead buffalo still pressed on his legs--a hideous nightmare; his horse lay near giving vent to his agony in piteous groans, and every now and then making an attempt to rise to his feet. "My poor mustang, you are in a bad way I fear," said the hunter, in a tone of commiseration, forgetting his own sufferings; "I would put an end to thy misery, and so render thee the only service in my power, but that I cannot turn myself to load my rifle. Alack! alack! we shall both of us ere long be food for the wolves; but, though I must meet my fate as becomes a man, I would save you--poor, dumb brute that you are--from being torn by their ravenous fangs while life remains in you." Such were the thoughts which passed through the hunter's mind, for it can scarcely be said that he spoke them aloud. He would probably again have relapsed into a state of stupor, but that a hideous howl, borne by the night breeze, reached his ears. "Wolves!" he exclaimed; "ah! I know you, you brutes." The howl was repeated again and again, its increased loudness showing that the creatures were approaching. The well-known terrible sounds roused up the old hunter to make renewed exertions to extricate himself. This time, by dint of dragging himself out with his arms, he succeeded in getting his feet from under the buffalo; but he then discovered, to his dismay, that his thigh had either been broken, or so severely sprained by his fall, that to walk would be impossible. He managed, however, to load his rifle. Scarcely had he done so when the struggles of his horse reminded him of the pain the poor animal was suffering. Although he knew that every charge of powder in his flask would be required for his own defence, he did not hesitate in performing the act of mercy which the case required. He uttered no sentimental speech, though a pang of grief passed through his heart as he pointed the weapon at the horse's head. His aim was true, and the noble animal fell dead. "He's gone; not long before me, I guess," he muttered, as he reloaded his piece. "Those brutes will find me out, there is no doubt about that; but I'll have a fight first--Rob Nixon will die game." The old hunter drew a long knife from a sheath at his side, and, deliberately examining its point, placed it on the ground near him while he reloaded his rifle. Thus did the old man prepare for an inevitable and dreadful death, as he believed; yet not a prayer did he offer up, not a thought did he cast at the future. Eternity, heaven, and hell, were matters unknown; or, if once known, long since forgotten. Yet forgetfulness of a fact will not do away with it. They are awful realities, and will assuredly be found such, however much men may strive to banish them from their thoughts. The young especially are surprised to hear that old men have forgotten what they learned in their youth, that they neglect to pray, to read the Bible, to think about God and their own souls; but let them be assured that if once they give up the habit of praying, of studying God's holy Word, of obeying His commands, there is one ever ready to persuade them that there is no harm in this neglect; that it will save them much trouble; and that it is far more manly to neglect prayers, to be irreligious and profane, than to love, serve, and obey their Maker. A downward course is sadly easy; let them beware of taking the first step. Each step they take in the wrong direction they will find it more and more difficult to recover, till, like the old huntsman, they will cease to care about the matter, and God will no longer be in their thoughts. There lay that old man on the wild prairie, a melancholy spectacle,--not so much that he was surrounded by dangers--that he was wounded and crippled--that wild beasts were near him--that, if he escaped their fangs, starvation threatened him,--but that he had no hope for the future--that he had no trust in God--that he had not laid hold of the means of salvation. As Rob Nixon lay on the ground supporting his head on his arm, he turned his gaze round and round, peering into the darkness to watch for any thing moving near him. He knew that before the sun set his Indian comrades would have carried off the flesh from the buffaloes they had killed, and that after that they, would move their camp to a distance, no one being likely to return. He probably would not be missed for some time, and when missed, it would be supposed that he had fallen into the hands of the Salteux, or Ojibways, the hereditary enemies of their nation, and that already his scalp had been carried off as a trophy by those hated foes. "They'll revenge me; that's one comfort, and the Ojibways will get paid for what the wolves have done." These were nearly the last thoughts which passed through the brain of the old hunter, as the howls and yelps of the wolves, which had formed a dreadful concert at a distance around him, approached still nearer. "I guessed the vermin wouldn't be long in finding me out," he muttered; and, on looking up, he saw through the darkness, glaring fiercely down on him from the edge of the hollow in which he lay, the eyes of a pack of wolves. "I'll stop the howling of some of you," he exclaimed, lifting his rifle. There was no cry; but a gap in the circle of eyes showed that a wolf had fallen, and instantly afterwards the loud barking and yelping proved that the savage creatures were tearing their companion to pieces. This gave time to the old man to re-load and to pick off another wolf. In this manner he killed several, and though he did not drive them away, they were prevented from approaching nearer. On finding that such was the case, his hopes of escaping their fangs rose slightly, at the same time that the lightness of his powder-flask and bullet bag, told him that his ammunition would soon fail, and that then he would have his hunting knife alone on which to depend. He accordingly waited, without again firing, watching his foes, who continued howling and wrangling over the bodies of their fellows. Now and then one would descend a short way into the hollow, attracted by the scent of the dead horse and buffalo, but a sudden shout from the old hunter kept the intruders at a respectful distance. He was well aware, however, that should exhausted nature for one instant compel him to drop asleep, the brutes would be upon him, and tear him limb from limb. Thus the hours of the night passed slowly along. Many men would have succumbed; but, hardened by a long life of danger and activity, Robert Nixon held out bravely, in spite of the pain, and thirst, and hunger, from which he was suffering. Never for one moment was his eye off his enemies, while his fingers were on the trigger ready to shoot the first which might venture to approach. More than once he muttered to himself, "It must be near morning, and then these vermin will take themselves off, and let me have some rest. Ah, rest! that's the very thing I have been wanting," he continued; "it's little enough I've ever had of it. I've been working away all my life, and where's the good I've got out of it? There's been something wrong, I suppose; but I can't make it out. Best! Yes, that's it. I should just like to find myself sitting in my lodge among a people who don't care, like these Dakotahs, to be always fighting or hunting: but they are not a bad people, and they've been good friends to me, and I've no fault to find with their ways, though I'll own they're more suited to young men than to an old one like me. But there's little use my thinking this. Maybe, I shall never see them or any other of my fellow-creatures again." It was only now and then that his mind framed any thoughts as coherent as these; generally he remained in a dreamy condition, only awake to the external objects immediately surrounding him. Gradually, too, his strength began to fail, though he was not aware of the fact. The howls, and barks, and snarling, and other hideous sounds made by the wolves, increased. He could see them moving about in numbers, around the edge of the basin, their red fiery eyes ever and anon glaring down on him. At last they seemed to be holding a consultation, and to have settled their disputes, probably from not having longer a bone of contention unpicked among them. They were evidently, once more, about to make an attack on him. A large brute, who had long been prowling round, first crept on, gnashing his teeth. The old man lifted his rifle and the creature, with a loud cry, fell dead. Another and another came on, and before he could load, the foremost had got close up to him. He fired at the animal's head. It rolled over, and, the flash of his rifle scaring the rest, with hideous yelps, they took to flight, the old man firing after them directly he could re-load. He could scarcely believe that he was to remain unmolested, and once more loading his rifle, he rested as before on his arm, watching for their re-appearance. Gradually, however, exhausted nature gave way, and he sank down unconscious on the ground, to sleep, it might be, the sleep of death. CHAPTER TWO. The sun rose and shone forth brightly on the earth. There was the sound of winged creatures in Robert Nixon's ears as he once more awoke and gazed languidly around. His first impulse was to attempt to rise, but the anguish he suffered the instant he moved reminded him of the injuries he had received. Vain were his efforts; to stand up was impossible. Although the wolves for the time were gone, they, to a certainty, would return at night, and thus, without ammunition, how could he defend himself against them? He might subsist on the meat of the buffalo for a day or two, but that would soon become uneatable, and as he could scarcely hope to recover from his hurt for many days, even if he escaped the wolves, he must die of starvation. Again he sank into a state of mental stupor, though his eye still remained cognisant of external objects. As the old hunter thus lay on the ground his eye fell on a horseman riding rapidly by. He was a Salteux, or Ojibway Indian, a people having a deadly feud with his friends, the Sioux. The sight roused him. To kill the man and capture his horse was the idea which at once occurred to him. Rousing himself by a violent exertion he levelled his rifle and fired. Not for an instant did he hesitate about taking the life of a fellow-creature. That fellow-creature was a foe of his friends, whose badge he wore, and would, he believed, kill him if he was discovered. He had miscalculated his powers--his eye had grown dim, his arm had lost its nerve; the bullet which once would have proved a sure messenger of death flew wide of its mark, and the Indian sat his horse unharmed. He turned, however, immediately, and galloped towards the spot whence the shot came. The old hunter had expended his last bullet. With grim satisfaction he awaited the Indian's approach, and the expected flourish of the scalping-knife, or the kinder blow of the tomahawk, which would deprive him at once of life. "Better so than be torn by the fangs of those vermin the wolves," he muttered, for though he clutched his knife to strike back, he well knew that he was at the mercy of his adversary. The Indian, though a rifle hung at his back, rode steadily up without unslinging it. "A friend!" he shouted in the Salteux, or Ojibway dialect,--"A friend! fire not again." "A friend! How so?" exclaimed the old hunter. "Your people and mine are mortal foes." "I would be a friend to all the suffering and distressed," was the unexpected answer. "I see what has happened--you have fought bravely for your life; the remains of the wolves tell me that, but before another sun has risen you would have been torn limb from limb by their fellows. Truly I am thankful that I was sent to save you from death." "Sent! Who sent you?" cried the old hunter, gazing up at the strange Indian. The other having just dismounted from his horse stood looking compassionately down on him. "He who watches over the fatherless and widows, and all who are distressed," answered the Indian. "A generous kind person I doubt not, but I know of none such in this land; he must live far away from here," said the old hunter. "He lives in Heaven, and His eye is everywhere," said the Indian solemnly. "He loves all mankind; without His will not a sparrow falls to the ground; and I am sure, therefore, that it was His will that I should come to you." "Truly you speak strange words for a redskin!" exclaimed the hunter. "I have heard long ago white men talk as you, but never an Indian. You are one I see; there is no deceiving me. I cannot understand the matter." "I will tell you as we go along," said the Indian; "but we must no longer delay, father; we have many miles to travel before we can reach my people, and I know not how I can restore you to your friends. It would be dangerous for me to approach them, for they could not understand how I can only wish them good." "I will go with you, friend," said the old man. "I would gladly dwell with your people, and hear more of those strange matters of which you have been speaking." Without further exchange of words the Indian, having examined the old man's hurts, gave him some dried meat and a draught from his water-flask, and lifted him with the utmost care on his horse; he then took the hunter's rifle and horse's trappings before moving off. He also secured the tongue and hump, and some slices from the buffalo's back, which he hung to his saddle-bow. "We may require more provision than our own rifles can supply before we reach our journey's end," he observed; as he did so, pointing to the north-east. Robert Nixon without hesitation yielded to all his suggestions. The day was already considerably advanced, and the Indian seemed anxious to push on. Keeping up a rapid pace, he walked by the side of his companion, who, overcome by weakness and want of sleep would have fallen off, had not his strong arm held him on. Thus they journeyed hour after hour across the prairie. The Indian from the first employed various devices for rendering his trail invisible. On starting he moved for some distance westward, till he reached the bed of a small stream, on which even the sharp eye of a native could scarcely perceive a trace; then circling round, he commenced his intended course. Many miles were passed over; and the bank of a rapid river was reached, when the setting sun warned him that it was time to encamp. Instead, however, of doing so, he at once led his horse into the stream, and keeping close to the shore waded against the current, often having the water up to his waist, for a considerable distance, then coming to a ford he crossed over and continued along in the same direction till he once more returned to dry ground. The bank was fringed on each side by a belt of trees, which in the warm weather of summer afforded ample shelter from the dew, and concealment from any passing enemy. The chief trees were poplar, willow, and alder; but there were also spruce and birch. Bound the latter lay large sheets of the bark. A quantity of these the Indian at once collected, and with some thin poles which he cut with his hatchet he rapidly constructed a small hut or wigwam, strewing the floor with the young shoots of the spruce-fir. On this couch he placed his injured companion, putting his saddle under his head as a pillow. He then brought the old man some food and water, and next proceeded to examine his hurts with more attention than he had before been able to bestow. Bringing water from the river he fomented his bruises for a long time, and then searching for some leaves of a plant possessed of healing qualities, he bound them with strips of soft leather round his swollen limbs. More than once the old hunter expressed his surprise that a stranger should care so much for him, and should actually feed and tend him before he had himself partaken of food and rested. "I serve a loving Master, and I am but obeying His wishes," was the laconic answer. "Very strange! very strange!" again and again muttered the old man; "you must tell me something about that Master of yours. I cannot understand who he can be." "I will not disappoint you, father, for I love to speak of Him," said the Indian; "I will come anon and sit by your side and tell you what I know. It will interest you, I doubt not, and maybe you will wish to know more about Him." Some time passed, however, before the Indian was able to fulfil his promise. He had to tend his horse and to set some traps to catch any small game which might pass, and to search for certain roots and berries for food. He showed, too, by all his movements that he considered himself in an enemy's country, or in the neighbourhood of an enemy from whom it was necessary to keep concealed. When he came back the old man had fallen asleep. "Let him sleep on," said the Indian to himself: "our Father in Heaven will watch over and protect us both. I would that I could watch, but my body requires rest." Having tethered his horse close at hand, strewed the ground with a few spruce-fir tops, and placed his rifle by his side, he knelt down and prayed, not as once to Manitou, to the Great Spirit, the unknown God, but to the true God,--a God no longer feared as a worker of evil, but beloved as the source of all good, of all blessings, spiritual and temporal. His prayer finished, he stretched himself on his couch, and was in an instant asleep. The silvery streaks of early dawn were just appearing in the eastern sky--seen amid the foliage of the wood, when the Indian, impulsively grasping his rifle, started to his feet. His quick ear had caught, even in his sleep, the sound of a distant shot. It might be fired by a friend, but very likely by a foe, and it behoved him to be on the alert. The old hunter heard it also, but it did not awake him. "Ah! they are on us. No matter, we'll fight for our lives," he muttered in his sleep. "Hurrah, lads! Rob Nixon will not yield--never while he's an arm to strike." He spoke in English, which the Indian seemed to understand, though the observation he made was in his own language. "Our own arms will do little for us, father, unless we trust in Him who is all-powerful to save." His voice awoke the old man, who sat up and looked around from out of his hut. Seeing the Indian in the attitude of listening, he at once comprehended the state of matters. "Few or many I'll stand by you, friend Redskin," he exclaimed, apparently forgetting his helpless condition; "load my rifle, and hand it to me. If foes are coming, they shall learn that Rob Nixon has not lost the use of his arms and eyes, whatever he may have of his legs." "I doubt not your readiness to fight, father," said the Indian, addressing the old man thus to show his respect for age; "but we may hope to avoid the necessity of having to defend ourselves. Friends and not foes may be near us, or we may escape discovery; or, what is better still, we may overcome the enmity of those who approach us with bad intent." "Your talk is again strange, as it was yesterday," answered the hunter; "I know not what you mean by overcoming enmity. There is only one way that I have ever found answer both with pale-faces and redskins, and that is by killing your enemy." "Try what kindness will do, father. Love is the law of the true God," said the Indian; "but we will anon talk of these things. I will go forth and learn what the shot we heard just now means." "Load my rifle, and give it me first, I pray you," said the white hunter; "I have great faith in my old way of doing things, and am not likely to change." The Indian loaded the rifle and handed it to him, and without saying a word more set off through the wood, and was soon out of sight. Rob Nixon lay still, with his rifle resting across his body, ready to fire should an enemy appear. Over and over again he muttered: "Strange! strange! that a redskin should talk so. I cannot make it out." Several minutes passed by, and the Indian did not return. The old man grew more anxious than he would have acknowledged to himself. He had some natural feeling on his own account should his new friend have been cut off, but he was also anxious for that new friend, to whom he could not but be grateful for the service he had rendered him. At length he saw the bushes move, and the Indian appeared and crept close up to him. "There are foes, and many of them," he said in a low voice; "they are near at hand, but they are not seeking for us; and thus, if they do not cross our trail, we may yet escape discovery." The Indian had already concealed his horse in a thicket, and, by carefully surrounding the spot where they lay with boughs, their little camp was completely hidden from the sight of any casual passer-by. The boughs he had cut from the interior part of a thicket, for, had they been taken from the outer side, the eye of an Indian would at once have observed the white stumps which were left. Again, by crossing the river in the mode they had done, there was no trail to lead to their camp. For these reasons the Indian and the white hunter had good cause to believe that they might escape discovery. As their enemies were as yet at some distance it was not deemed necessary to keep altogether silent. The old hunter was the most loquacious. "I would, friend Redskin," said he, "that I had the use of my legs and half a dozen of my old companions at my back, and I wouldn't fear as to holding my own against three-score or more of Crees, or Ojibways; no offence to you, friend; for there are not many like you, I guess." "Your people fight bravely but foolishly, according to Indian notions," answered the Indian; "for, instead of advancing on their foes under shelter and trying to take them unawares, they dress themselves in fine clothes, make a great noise when going forth to battle, and expose their bodies to be shot at. I was once esteemed a mighty warrior, and was a man of blood; I have engaged in much fighting, but would now wish to bury the hatchet of war with all the world. I thank you for what you say of me; but things of which I once boasted, I boast of no longer. I am a chief of many people; but instead, as at one time, of wishing to lead them to war, I now desire to lead them to a knowledge of the Lord and Master whom I serve--the Saviour of the world." "Every man to his taste, friend Redskin," said the old hunter; "when I was a young man like you I could not have fighting or hunting enough. Now, I own, I am growing somewhat weary of the work; and, if we get to the end of this journey with our scalps on, maybe I'll settle down with your people." It may seem strange that the old man could not comprehend what was the meaning of the Indian when he spoke thus. If he had a glimmering of the truth, he turned away from it. Many do the same. Felix has numberless imitators. Both the Indian and Rob Nixon were silent for some minutes, attentively listening for the approach of the strangers. Not a sound, however, being heard, they began to hope that their enemies had gone a different way. "There'll be no fighting this time, I guess, friend Redskin," said the old man. "It's all the better, too, considering that you don't seem much inclined for it; and I'm not in the best trim for work of that sort, or any work, truth to say." Rob Nixon had remarked that the Indian had winced more than once when addressed as Redskin, which was certainly not a respectful or complimentary mode of addressing him. The reason of this became still more evident when he spoke of himself as a chief. Chiefs in general would not for an instant have suffered such familiarity. Rob Nixon saw that it was time to apologise. He did so in his own way. "I say, friend, I've just a thing to ask you. You've a name, I doubt not, showing forth some of the brave deeds you have done, the enemies you have slain, the miles you have run, the rivers you have swam across, the bears you have captured, or the beavers you have trapped. Tell me, what is it? for I've a notion the one I've been giving you is not altogether the right or a pleasant one." The Indian smiled as he answered quietly, "The name I bear, and the only one by which I desire to be called, is Peter. It was given me, not for killing men or slaughtering beasts, but at my baptism, when I was received into the Church of Christ, and undertook to love, honour, serve, and obey Him in all things as my Lord and Master." "Peter! Peter! that's a strange name for an Injun," said the white hunter half to himself. "Why, that's such a name as they give in the old country to a Christian." "And I, too, am a Christian, though an unworthy one, father," answered the Indian humbly. "Never heard before of a Christian Injun!" exclaimed the old man bluntly; "but strange things happen I'll allow. I don't doubt your word; mind that, friend. It was strange that when you saw I was a friend of the Dakotahs you didn't scalp me, without asking questions, and leave me to be eaten by wolves. That's the true Injun way. It was strange that you should take me up, put me on your horse, walk yourself all these miles, with some hundreds more before you, and risk your own life to save mine. All that is strange, I say; and so, friend, I don't know what other strange things may happen. Well, if so you wish, I'll call you Peter; but I'd rather by far call you by your Injun name. It was a good one, I'll warrant. Come, tell it now. You need not be ashamed of it." "In the sight of man I am not ashamed of it, for by most of my people I am called by it still; but in the sight of God I am ashamed of it, and still more am I ashamed of the deeds which gained it for me. How, think you, blood-stained and guilty as I was, could I stand in the presence of One pure, holy, loving, and merciful? I tell you, aged friend, neither you nor I, nor any man, could appear before God without fear and trembling, if it were not that He is a God of love, and that through His great love for us, His creatures, whom He has placed on the world, He sent His only Son, that all who believe in Him should not perish, but have eternal life." The young Christian Indian warmed as he went on in his discourse, which was intermingled with many beautiful illustrations and figures of speech, which it would be vain to attempt to translate. Gradually he thus unfolded the fundamental truths of the Gospel. The old white hunter listened, and even listened attentively, but, far from warming, seemed scarcely to comprehend what was said. "Strange! very strange!" he muttered frequently; "and that an Injun should talk thus. Forty years have I lived among the redskins, and never believed that they knew more than their fathers." Peter,--as he desired to be called, though his heathen name was Aronhiakeura, or otherwise the Fiery Arrow, from the rapidity of his onslaught and the devastation he caused,--now stated his belief that they might venture to proceed without the likelihood of being molested. Scarcely, however, had he emerged from their leafy cover when another shot was fired close to them; and, before he could again seek concealment, three fully armed Dakotahs appeared directly in front of him. The Dakotahs instantly rushed behind the trees, to serve as shields should he fire, but he held up his hands to show that he was unarmed, and in a low voice entreated his companion to remain quiet. That resistance would be hopeless was evident by the appearance directly afterwards of a dozen or more Indians, who were seen flitting amidst the wood, each man obtaining the best shelter in his power. Peter stood fully exposed to view, without flinching or even contemplating concealing himself. Fearless behaviour is sure to obtain the admiration of Indians. Naturally suspicious they possibly supposed that he had a strong force concealed somewhere near at hand, and that they had themselves fallen into an ambush. Had they found and followed up his trail they would have discovered exactly the state of the case. That he had a wounded companion would not have escaped their notice, and that he had but one horse, and travelled slowly would also have been known to them. By his having crossed the stream, however, and come along its bed for some distance they were at fault in this respect. Peter kept his post without flinching; he well knew that the Dakotahs were watching him; indeed, here and there he could distinguish the eye of a red-skinned warrior glimmering, or the top of a plume waving among the trunks of the trees or brushwood. All the time Rob Nixon on his part was watching his preserver with intense anxiety. He had conceived a warm regard for him, and, knowing the treachery so often exhibited by the natives, trembled for his safety. Peter at length waved his hand to show that he was about to speak; "What seek you, friends?" he said in a calm tone; "I am a man of peace, I desire to be friends with all men, and to injure no one; moreover, I would that you and all men had the wisdom and enjoyed the happiness which I possess. See, I cannot harm you;" as he spoke he raised up both his hands high in the air. The Dakotahs, totally unaccustomed to an address of this description, were greatly astonished. Their chief, not to be undone in fearlessness, stepped from behind his covert, completely exposing himself to view. "Who are you, friend? and whence do you come?" he asked; "you cannot be what you seem?" "I am a man like yourself, friend, and I am truly what I seem--a native of this land, and of a tribe unhappily constantly at enmity with yours," answered Peter firmly; "but know, O chief, that I differ from many of my people; that I love you and your people, and all mankind. Will you listen to the reason of this? Let your people appear, there is no treachery intended them; I am in your power--why doubt my word?" One by one the Dakotahs crept from behind the trees which had concealed them, and a considerable number assembled in front of the Indian, who spoke to them of the Gospel of love, and of the glorious scheme of redemption. They listened attentively; most of them with mute astonishment. Now and then one of the chief men would give way to his feelings by a sound signifying either approbation or dissent, but not a remark was uttered till the speaker ceased. For a time all were silent, then with gravity and deliberation one of the chiefs waved his hand and observed, "These are strange words the man speaks--he must be a great medicine man." "Truly he has the wisdom of the white-faces," said a second; "has he their treachery? Can he be trusted?" "The things he says may be true, but they concern not us," remarked a third. "Wisdom is wisdom whoever speaks it," said a grave old warrior who had shown himself as active in his movements as the youngest of his companions. "What the stranger tells us of must be good for one man, as for another. Rest is good for the weary; who among my brothers, too, would not rather serve a powerful and kind chief than an inferior and merciless one. He tells us of rest for the weary; of a great and good chief, who can give us all things to make us happy,--I like his discourse, my brothers." The last speaker seemed to be carrying several with him, when another started up exclaiming, "What the stranger says comes from the pale-faces--it may be false; there must be some treacherous design in it. Let us rather dance this night the scalp-dance round his scalp than listen to his crafty tales. See, I fear him not." The savage as he spoke lifted his rifle and was about to fire it at Peter, when the rest drew him back, crying out, "He is a medicine man--a great medicine man, and may work us ill; interfere not with him; though we do not listen to his counsel, let him go free. Even now, while we are speaking, we know not what injury he may be preparing to do us!" Thus the discussion went on for a considerable time, Peter waiting patiently for its result. Although the speakers had retired rather too far off for him to hear all that was said, he gathered sufficient to know the tenor of the discussion; still, no fear entered his bosom, he knew that his life was in the hand of One mighty to save. While he stood waiting the result he prayed for himself certainly, but yet more earnestly that the truth might be brought home to the dark hearts of his countrymen. North American Indians are deliberate in their councils. Peter knew that his fate would not be decided quickly; but neither by word, look, nor action, did he show the slightest impatience. The old white hunter, meantime, had made up his mind to risk everything rather than allow any injury, which he could avert, to happen to his new friend. That they would recognise him he had no doubt; and the fact that he was found in company with a member of a hostile tribe would be considered so suspicious, that they would possibly put him to death without stopping to ask questions. However, should Peter be killed or made prisoner by the Dakotahs, he would be left to perish; so that he felt, indeed, that his fate depended on that of his friend. From where he lay he could see amid the branches the Indians holding their council. His trusty rifle was by his side, and noiselessly he brought it to cover their principal chief. His purpose was to fire at the first hostile movement, hoping that on the fall of their leader the Indians, fancying that they had got into a trap, would take to flight. At length the Dakotahs' leader advanced a few steps. He little thought that the lifting his hand with a menacing gesture might cost him his life. "Stranger, with you we would gladly smoke the pipe of peace," he began; "but your ways are not our ways, or your notions our notions--we have nothing in common. Go as you came, we wish to have no communication with you. We desire not to desert our fathers' ways as you have done; yet, undoubtedly, the Spirit you serve will protect you--go--go--go." In vain Peter entreated the savages to hear him once again, assuring them that he would tell them only what was for their good. One by one they quitted the spot where the council had been held; the first walked off with becoming dignity, but as more departed, the pace of each in succession increased, till the last scampered off almost as fast as his legs would carry him, fearful lest he should be overtaken by the strange medicine man, whose supposed incantations he dreaded. Peter was less astonished than a white man would have been at the behaviour of his countrymen. Still, he had gained an unexpected triumph. The Dakotahs did not stop, even to look behind them, but continued their course towards the west, through the wood and across the prairie, till they were lost to sight in the distance. The old hunter, to his surprise, saw Peter fall on his knees, on the spot where he had been standing, to return thanks to Heaven for his deliverance from a danger, far greater than it might appear to those unacquainted with Indian customs; for seldom or never do two parties of the Dakotahs and Ojibways encounter each other, without the stronger endeavouring to destroy the weaker with the most remorseless cruelty. Mercy is never asked for nor expected. The scalping-knife is employed on the yet living victim, should the tomahawk have left its work unfinished. CHAPTER THREE. "Well, you are a wonderful man, friend Peter," exclaimed Robert Nixon, when the Indian returned to him and narrated what had occurred; "I never yet have seen the like of it." "The reason is simply this, father, most men trust to their own strength and wisdom, and fail. I go forth in the strength of One all-powerful, and seek for guidance from One all-wise," answered the Indian humbly. "It is thus I succeed." "That's curious what you say, friend Redskin," answered the old man in a puzzled tone; "it's beyond my understanding, that's a fact." "The time will come shortly, I hope, father, when you will see the truth of what I say. But we must no longer delay here, we should be moving on." The mustang was caught and saddled, the old hunter placed on it, and once more the two travellers were on their way eastward, or rather to the north-east, for that was the general direction of their course. They were compelled, however, to diverge considerably, in order to keep along the course of streams, where many important advantages could be obtained: water, wood for firing, shelter, and a greater supply of game. On the open prairie there was no want of deer of several descriptions, and of small animals, like rabbits or hares; but, unless by leaving the horse with his burthen, the Indian could seldom get near enough to shoot them. For some distance the open country was of a sterile and arid description, but as they got farther away from the United States border it greatly improved, and a well-watered region, with rich grass and vetches, was entered, which extended north, and east, and west, in every direction, capable of supporting hundreds and thousands of flocks and herds, for the use of man, although now roamed over only by a comparatively few wild buffalo, deer, and wolves, and bears. Although they were in British territory, the arm of British law did not extend over this wild region, and Peter, therefore, kept a constant look-out to ascertain that no lurking enemies were near at hand. When he camped at night, also, he selected the most sheltered spot he could find, and concealed his companion and himself amid some thicket or rock, where any casual passer-by would not be likely to discover them. "At first, as Peter watched his companion, he thought that he would scarcely reach a place of safety where he might die in peace among civilised men, but gradually the old hunter's strength returned, and each day, as he travelled on, his health seemed to improve. He also became more inclined to talk; not only to ask questions, but to speak of himself. Religious subjects, however, he avoided as much as possible; indeed, to human judgment, his mind appeared too darkened, and his heart too hardened, to enable him to comprehend even the simplest truths. "You'd like to know something about me, friend Redskin, I've no doubt," said the old man to Peter, when one day he had got into a more than usually loquacious mood. "It's strange, but it's a fact, I've a desire to talk about my early days, and yet, for forty years or more, maybe, I've never thought of them, much less spoken about them. I was raised in the old country--that's where most of the pale-faces you see hereabouts came from. My father employed a great many men, and so I may say he was a chief; he was a farmer of the old style, and hated anything new. He didn't hold education in any great esteem, and so he took no pains to give me any, and one thing I may say, I took no pains to obtain it. My mother, of that I am certain, was a kind, good woman, and did her best to instruct me. She taught me to sing little songs, and night and morning made me kneel down, with my hands put together, and say over some words which I then though! very good--and I am sure they were, as she taught me them; but I have long, long ago forgotten what they were. She also used to take me with her to a large, large house, where there were a great number of people singing and often talking together; and then there was one man in a black dress, who got up in a high place in the middle, and had all the talk to himself for a long time, I used to think; but I didn't mind that, as I used generally to go to sleep when he began, and only woke up when he had done. "I was very happy whenever I was with my mother, but I didn't see her for some days, and then they took me into the room where she slept, and there I saw her lying on a bed; but she didn't speak me, she didn't even look at me, for her eyes were closed, and her cheek was cold--very cold. I didn't know then what had happened, though I cried very much. I never saw her again. From that time I began to be very miserable; I don't know why; I think it was not having my mother to go to and talk to. After that I don't know exactly what happened to me; for some time I got scolded, and kicked, and beaten, and then I was sent to a place where there were a good many other boys; and, thinks I to myself, I shall be happier here; but instead of that I was much more beaten and scolded, till I got a feeling that I didn't care what I did, or what became of me. That feeling never left me. I was always ready to do anything proposed by other boys, such as robbing orchards, or playing all sorts of pranks. I now and then went home to see my father; but I remember very little about him, except that he was a stout man, with a ruddy countenance. If he did not scold me and beat me, he certainly did not say much to me; I never felt towards him as I had done towards my mother. I must have been a biggish boy, though I was still nearly at the bottom of the school, when another lad and I got into some scrape, and were to be flogged. He proposed that we should run away, and I at once agreed, without considering where we should run to, or what we should gain by our run. There is a saying among the pale-faces, `out of the frying pan into the fire.' We soon found that we had got into a very hot fire. After many days' running, sleeping under hedges and in barns, and living on turnips and crusts of bread, which we bought with the few pence we had in our pockets, we reached a sea-port town. Seeing a large ship about to sail, we agreed that we would be sailors, if any one would take us. We were very hungry and hadn't a coin left to buy food, so aboard we went. The ship was just sailing,--the cook's boy had run away and the captain's cabin boy had just died,--and so we were shipped, without a question being asked, to take their places. They didn't inquire our names, but called us Bill and Tom, which were the names of the other boys. The captain took me into his service, and called me Bill, and my companion, who fell to the cook, was called Tom. I don't know which was the most miserable. Tom had the dirtiest and hardest work, and was not only the cook's but everybody else's servant. I received the most kicks and thrashings, and had the largest amount of oaths and curses showered down on my head. We were both of us very ill, but our masters didn't care for that, and kicked us up to work whenever they found us lying down. Away we sailed; we thought that we should never come to land again. I didn't know where we were going, but I found we were steering towards the south and west. Week after week I saw a wild, high headland on our right hand, and then we had mist, and snow, and heavy weather, and were well nigh driven back; but at last we were steering north, and the weather became fine and pleasant. The ship put into many strange ports; some were in this big country of America, and some were in islands, so we heard; but neither Tom nor I was ever for one moment allowed to set foot on shore. "Often and often did we bitterly repent our folly, and wish ourselves back home; but wishing was of no use. We found that we were slaves without the possibility of escape. Tom, who had more learning by a great deal than I had, said one day that he would go and appeal to the Consul,--I think he was called, a British officer at the port where we lay,--when the mate, who heard him, laughed, and told him, with an oath, that he might go and complain to whomsoever he liked; but that both he and Bill had signed papers, and had no power to get away. By this Tom knew that if we complained the captain would produce the papers signed by the other boys, and that we should be supposed to be them, and have no remedy. Tom then proposed that we should play all sorts of pranks, and behave as badly as we could. We tried the experiment, but we soon found that we had made a mistake; for our masters beat and starved us till we were glad to promise not again to do the same. Our only hope was that we should some day get a chance of running away; and, if it hadn't been for that, we should, I believe, have jumped overboard and drowned ourselves. Month after month passed by, the ship continued trading from port to port in the Pacific Ocean,--as the big lake you've heard speak of, friend Redskin, is called,--over to the west there; but the chance we looked for never came. We then hoped that the ship would be cast away, and that so we might be free of our tyrants. If all had been drowned but ourselves we shouldn't have cared. At last, after we'd been away three years or more, we heard that the ship was going home. We didn't conceal our pleasure. It didn't last long. Another captain came on board one day. I heard our captain observe to him, `You shall have them both a bargain. Thrash them well, and I'll warrant you'll get work out of them.' I didn't know what he meant at the time. In the evening, when the strange captain's boat was called away, Tom and I were ordered to get up our bags and jump in. We refused, and said we wanted to go home. We had better have kept silence. Down came a shower of blows on our shoulders, and, amid the jeers and laughter of our shipmates, we were forced into the boat. We found ourselves aboard a whaler just come out, with the prospect of remaining in those parts three years at least. You've heard speak, Peter, of the mighty fish of the big lake. The largest sturgeon you ever set eyes on is nothing to them--just a chipmunk to a buffalo. We had harder and dirtier work now than before--catching, cutting out, and boiling down the huge whales-- and our masters were still more cruel and brutal. We were beaten and knocked about worse than ever, and often well nigh starved by having our rations taken from us. How we managed to live through that time I don't know. I scarcely like to think of it. The ship sailed about in every direction; sometimes where the sun was so hot that we could scarce bear our clothes on our backs, and sometimes amid floating mountains of ice, with snow and sleet beating down on us. At last, when we had got our ship nearly full of oil, and it was said that we should soon go home, we put into a port, on the west coast of this continent, to obtain fresh provisions. There were a few white people settled there, but most of the inhabitants were redskins. The white men had farms, ranchos they were called, and the natives worked for them. "Tom and I agreed that, as the ship was soon going home, the captain would probably try to play off the same trick on us that our first captain had done, and so we determined to be beforehand with him. We were now big, strongish fellows; not as strong as we might have been if we had been better fed and less knocked about; but still we thought that we could take good care of ourselves. We hadn't much sense though, or knowledge of what people on shore do; for how should we, when you see that since the day we left our native country, when we were little ignorant chaps, we hadn't once set our feet on dry land. Tom swore, and so did I, that if we once did reach the shore, we'd get away as far from the ocean as we could, and never again smell a breath of it as long as we lived. How to get there was the difficulty. We had always before been watched; and so, to throw our shipmates off their guard, we pretended to think of nothing but about going home, and our talk was all of what we would do when we got back to old England. We said that we were very much afraid of the savages on shore, and wondered any one could like to go among them. After a time, we found that we were no longer watched as we used to be. This gave us confidence. The next thing was to arrange how we were to get on shore. We neither of us could swim; and, besides, the distance was considerable, and there were sharks--fish which can bite a man's leg off as easily as a white fish bites a worm in two. We observed that, in the cool of the evening, some boats and canoes used to pull round the ship, and sometimes came alongside to offer things for sale to the men. Tom and I agreed that if we could jump into one of them while the owner was on board, we might get off without being discovered. Night after night we waited, till our hearts sunk within us, thinking we should never succeed; but, the very night before the ship was to sail, several people came below, and, while they were chaffering with the men, Tom and I slipped up on deck. My heart seemed ready to jump out of my skin with anxiety as I looked over the side. There, under the fore-chains, was a canoe with a few things in her, but no person. I glanced round. The second mate was the only man on deck besides Tom, who had gone over to the other side. I beckoned to Tom. The mate had his back to us, being busily engaged in some work or other, over which he was bending. Tom sprang over to me, and together we slid down into the canoe. The ship swung with her head towards the shore, or the mate would have seen us. We pulled as for our lives; not, however, for the usual landing-place, but for a little bay on one side, where it appeared that we could easily get on shore. Every moment we expected to see a boat put off from the ship to pursue us, or a gun fired; but the sun had set, and it was growing darker and darker, and that gave us some hope. Still we could be seen clearly enough from the ship if anybody was looking for us. The mate had a pair of sharp eyes. `He'll flay us alive if he catches us,' said I. `Never,' answered Tom, in a low tone; `I'll jump overboard and be drowned whenever I see a boat make chase after us.' `Don't do that, Tom,' said I; `hold on to the last. They can but kill us in the end, and we don't know what may happen to give us a chance of escape.' You see, friend Peter, that has been my maxim ever since, and I've learned to know for certain that that is the right thing. "Well, before long we did see a boat leave the ship. It was too dark to learn who had gone over the side into her. We pulled for dear life for a few seconds, when Tom cried out that he knew we should be taken. I told him to lie down in the bottom of the canoe, and that if the ship's boat came near us I would strip off my shirt and pretend to be an Injun. At first he wouldn't consent; but, as the boat came on, some muskets were fired, and suddenly he said he'd do as I proposed, and he lay down, and I stripped off my shirt and smoothed down, my hair, which was as long as an Injun's. On came the boat; I pulled coolly on as if in no way concerned. The boat came on--she neared us. Now or never, I thought; so I sang out, in a feigned voice, and pointed with my paddle towards the other side of the harbour. I don't think I ever felt as I did at that moment. Did they know me? or should I deceive them? If the mate was there I knew that we should have no chance. The people in the boat ceased pulling. I didn't move either, though the canoe, with the last stroke I had given, slid on. Again I pointed with my paddle, gave a flourish with it, and away I went as if I had no business with them. I could not understand how I had so easily deceived my shipmates, and every instant I expected them to be after us. At last we lost sight of them in the gloom; but Tom, even then, was unwilling to get up and take his paddle. I told him that, if he didn't, we should have a greater chance of being caught. The moment I said that, up he jumped, and paddled away so hard that I could scarcely keep the canoe in the right course for the place where we wanted to land. The stars helped us with their light; and, as we got close in with the shore, we found the mouth of a stream. "Though we had so longed to get on shore we felt afraid to land, not knowing what we should do with ourselves. The shore looked so strange, and we expected to see all sorts of wild animals and snakes which we had heard talk of. Tom was the most timid, `It was bad aboard, Bill,' said he, `but if we was to meet a bear or a buffalo what what should we do?' I couldn't just answer him; but when we found the river we agreed that we would pull up it as far as we could go, and it would carry us some way into the country at all events. We little knew the size of this mighty land, or of the big, long, long rivers running for hundreds of miles through it. This America of yours is a wonderful country, friend Redskin, if you did but know it. Well, up the river we pulled for some miles; it was but a mere brook, you'll understand, but we thought it a great river. It was silent enough, for there were no habitations except a few native wigwams. We had all the night before us, that was one thing in our favour. As on we went we heard a roaring, splashing noise, which increased. `Hillo! here's a heavy sea got up; I see it right-a-head,' cried Tom. `We must go through it, however,' said I; and so I tried to paddle the canoe through it. We very nearly got swamped; it was, you see, a waterfall and rapid, and higher up even our canoe could not have floated. We now agreed that go on shore we must, like it or not; I stepped out first, and then helped Tom, or in his fright he would have capsized the canoe. There we were both of us on firm ground for the first time since, as little boys, we left old England. I did feel strange, and when I tried to walk, I could scarcely get along. "Tom rolled about as if he was drunk, hardly able to keep his feet. The rough ground hurt us, and we were every instant knocking our toes and shins against stumps and fallen branches. We both of us sat down ready to cry. `How shall we ever get along?' asked Tom. `We shall get accustomed to it,' I answered; `but it does make me feel very queer.' We found a good supply of provisions in the canoe, and we loaded ourselves with as much as we could carry, and we then had the sense to lift our canoe out of the water, and to carry her some way till we found a thick bush in which we hid her. `If they find out we got away in the canoe they'll think we are drowned, and not take the trouble to look for us,' observed Tom, as we turned our backs on the spot. We were pretty heavily laden, for we didn't know where we might next find any food; and as we walked on we hurt our feet more and more, till Tom roared out with pain, and declared he would go no further. `Then we shall be caught and flayed alive, that's all, Tom,' said I. `But let us see if we can't mend matters; here, let us cut off the sleeves of our jackets and bind them round our feet.' We did so, and when we again set off we found that we could walk much better than before. We hadn't been so many years at sea without learning how go steer by the stars. What we wanted was to get to the east; as far from the sea and our hated ship as possible: that one thought urged us on. Through brushwood which tore our scanty clothes to shreds, and over rough rocks which wounded our feet, and across marshes and streams which wetted us well nigh from head to foot, we pushed our way for some hours--it seemed to us the whole night--till we got into an Indian track. We didn't know what it was at the time, but found it was an easy path, so we followed it up at full speed. On we ran; we found that it led in the right direction, and that's all we thought of. Unaccustomed to running or walking as we were, it seems surprising how we should have held out; but the truth is it was fear helped us along, and a burning desire to be free. "Daylight found us struggling up a high hill or ridge, rather running north and south; we reached the top just as the sun rose above a line of lofty and distant mountains. We turned round for a moment to look on the far-off blue waters which lay stretched out below us, and on which we had spent so large a portion of our existence. `I've had enough of it,' cried Tom, fiercely shaking his fist; and then we turned along again, and rushed down the ridge towards the east. It was the last glimpse I ever had of the wide ocean. Still we did not consider ourselves safe. We should have liked to have put a dozen such ridges between our tyrants and ourselves. On we went again till at last our exhausted strength failed, and we stopped to take some food. Once having sat down it was no easy matter to get up again, and before we knew what was happening we were both fast asleep. We must have slept a good many hours, and I dreamed during that time that the mate, and cook, and a dozen seamen were following us with flensing-knives, and handspikes, and knotted ropes, shrieking and shouting at our heels. We ran, and ran for our lives, just as we had been running all night, but they were always close behind us. The mate--oh! how I dreaded him--had his hand on my shoulder, and was giving a growl of satisfaction at having caught me, when I awoke; and, looking up, saw not the mate, but the most terrible-looking being I had ever set eyes on, so I thought. "I had, to be sure, seen plenty of savages who came off to the ship from the islands at which we used to touch, but they were none of them so fierce as he looked. I won't describe him, because he was simply a redskin warrior in his war paint and feathers. It was his hand that was on my shoulder; his grunt of surprise at finding us awoke me. I cried out, and Tom and I jumped to our feet and tried to run away; a dozen Indians however surrounded us, and escape was impossible. `Let us put a bold face on the matter, Tom,' I sang out; `I don't think they mean to kill us.' Our captors talked a little together and they seemed pleased with the way we looked at them, for they showed us by signs that they meant us no evil. They were a portion of a war party on their way to destroy the pale-face settlement on the coast. They guessed by our dress and looks, and from our clothes being torn, that we were runaway English seamen; and, knowing that we should not wish to go back to our ship, considered that we should prove of more value to them alive than our scalps would be if they took them. We understood them to say that they wanted us to go with them to attack their enemies, but we showed them by our feet that we could not walk a step, and as they were not ill-tempered people they did not insist on it. After a talk they lifted us up--two taking Tom, and two me between them--and carried us along at a quick rate for some miles to their camp; there we saw a large number of Indians collected, some armed with bows, and some few with fire-arms. "There were a few women, in whose charge we were placed. We could not make out whether we were considered prisoners or not; at all events, we could not run away. Leaving us, the whole party set forth towards the west on their expedition. Two days passed, and then, with loud shoutings, and shriekings, and firing of muskets, the party appeared, with numerous scalps at the end of their spears, and some wretched captives driven before them, I remember, even now, how I felt that night, when the war-dance was danced, and the prisoners tortured; how fearfully the men, and even the women, shrieked, and how the miserable people who had been taken, as they were bound to stakes, writhed under the tortures inflicted on them. While we looked on, Tom and I wished ourselves back again, even on board the ship, thinking that we ourselves might next be treated in the same manner. At last the savages brought fire, and then, as the flames blazed up, we saw three people whom we knew well,--the captain, and mate, and one of the men, who had been among the worst of our tyrants. Though their faces were distorted with agony and horror, as the light fell on them, there was no doubt about the matter. They might have seen us. If they did, it must have added to their misery. They had come on shore to visit some of the settlers, we concluded, and, at all events, were found fighting with them. We got accustomed, after a time, to such scenes, and learned to think little of them, as you doubtless do, friend Peter; but at that time, I went off in a sort of swoon, as the shrieks and cries for mercy of the burning wretches reached my ears. The Indians had got a great deal of booty, and having taken full revenge for the injury done them, and expecting that they would be hunted out if they remained in the neighbourhood, they judged it wise to remove to another part of the country. Our feet had sufficiently recovered during the rest of two days to enable us to walk, or I am not certain that we should not have been killed, to save our captors the trouble of carrying us. It took us a week to reach the main camp, where most of the women and children were collected. We limped on, with difficulty and pain, thus far concealing our sufferings as much as we could. We could not have gone a mile further, had not the tribe remained here to decide on their future course. The rest, and the care the women took of us, sufficiently restored our strength to enable us to move on with the tribe to the new ground they proposed taking up. Your Indian ways, friend Peter, were very strange to us at first, but by degrees we got into them, and showed that we were every bit as good men as the chief braves themselves. Whatever they did, we tried to do, and succeeded as well as they, except in tracking an enemy, and that we never could come up with. They, at first, treated us as slaves, and made us work for them, as they did their women; but when they saw what sort of lads we were, they began to treat us with respect, and soon learned to look upon us as their equals. We both of us became very different to what we were at sea, Tom especially. There we were cowed by our task-masters, here we felt ourselves free men; and Tom, who was looked upon as an arrant coward on board ship, was now as brave as the bravest warrior of the tribe. We were braver, indeed; for while they fought Indian-fashion, behind trees, we would rush on, and never failed to put our enemies to flight. "We were of great service to our friends in assisting them to establish themselves in their new territory, and to defend themselves against the numerous foes whom they very soon contrived to make. Still we held our own, and our friends increased in numbers and power. Our chief was ambitious, and used every means to add fresh members to his tribe, by inducing those belonging to other tribes to join us. His object, which was very clear, excited the jealousy of a powerful chief, especially, of the great Dakotah nation, inhabiting the country north-east of our territory. He, however, disguised his intentions, and talked us into security by pretending the greatest friendship. Through his means, our other enemies ceased to attack us, and we began to think that the hatchet of war was buried for ever. Tom and I had been offered wives-- daughters of chiefs--and we had agreed to take them to our lodges, when we both of us set out on a hunting expedition, to procure game for our marriage feast, and skins to pay for the articles we required. We had great success, and were returning in high spirits, when night overtook us, within a short distance of the village. We camped where we were, as we would not travel in the dark, hoping to enter it the next morning in triumph. About midnight, both Tom and I started from our sleep, we knew not why. Through the night air there came faint sounds of cries, and shrieks, and shouts, and warlike noises. We thought it must be fancy; but presently, as we stood listening, there burst forth a bright light in the direction of the village, which went on increasing, till it seemed that every lodge must be on fire. What could we do? Should we hasten on to help our friends? It was too late to render them any assistance. We must wait till daylight to learn what way the foe had gone, and how we could best help our friends; so we stood watching the flames with grief and anger, till they sunk down for want of fuel. We had not lived so long with Indians, without having learned some of their caution; and concealing our game and skins, as soon as it was dawn we crept on towards the village. As we drew near, not a sound was heard-- not even the bark of a dog. We crept amid the bushes on hands and feet, closer and closer, when from a wooded knoll we could look down on the lately happy village, or, I should say, on the spot where it lately stood. "By the grey light of the morning a scene of desolation and bloodshed was revealed to us, which, in all my experience of warfare, I have never seen equalled. Every lodge was burnt to the ground; here and there a few blackened posts alone remaining to show where they once stood: but a burnt village I have often seen. It was the sight of the mangled and blackened bodies of our late friends and companions thickly strewed over the ground which froze the blood in our veins. For some moments we could scarcely find breath to whisper to each other. When we did, we reckoned up the members of the tribe, men, women, and children, and then counting the bodies on the ground, we found that our foes had killed every one of them, with the exception of perhaps a dozen, who might have been carried off. This told us, too correctly, how the event had occurred. In the dead of night the village had been surrounded, torches thrown into it, and, as the people rushed out confused, they were murdered indiscriminately--old and young, women and children. Were our intended wives among them? we almost wished they were; but we dared not descend to ascertain. The place was no longer for us. `I wish that I was back in England, Tom,' said I. `So do I, Bill, right heartily,' said he. `East or west, Tom?' said I. `Not west! no, no!' he answered, with a shudder; `we might be caught by another whaler.' `East, then,' said I, pointing to the rising sun; `we may get there some day, but it's a long way, I've a notion.' `If we keep moving on, we shall get there though, long as it may be,' said Tom. So we crept back to where we had left our goods, and having taken food for a couple of days, we went and hid ourselves in some thick bushes, where we hoped our enemies would not find us. For two days and nights we lay hid, and on the third morning we agreed that we might as well chance it as stay where we were, when the sound of voices, and of people moving through the woods reached our ears, and, peeping out, we saw several warriors passing along at no great distance. From the way they moved we knew that they were not looking for any one, nor believing that any enemy was near; but still, should any one of their quick eyes fall on our trail, they would discover us in an instant. I never felt my scalp sit more uneasy on my head. Suddenly they stopped and looked about; I thought that it was all over with us; the keen eyes of one of them, especially, seemed to pierce through the very thicket where we lay. We scarcely dared to breathe, lest we should betray ourselves. Had there been only five or six we might have sprung out and attacked them with some chance of success, but there were a score at least, and more might be following, and so the odds were too great. They were most of them adorned with scalps--those of our slaughtered friends, we did not doubt, and we longed to be avenged on them. On they came, and just as we thought that we had seen the end of them, more appeared, and several of them looked towards us. How we escaped discovery I do not know. Long after the last had passed on into the forest we came out of our hiding-place, and gathering up all our property, prepared to commence our journey. We pushed on as fast as our legs would carry us, every moment expecting to come upon some of our enemies, or to have them pouncing out upon us from among the trees or rocks. All day we pushed on, almost without stopping, and for several days resting only during the hours of darkness, till at last we hoped that we had put a sufficient distance between our enemies and ourselves to escape an attack. We now camped to catch more game, and to make arrangements for our course. We had got some little learning at school, though most of it was forgotten; but we remembered enough to make us know that England was to the north-east of us, and so we determined to travel on in that direction. I won't tell you now all about our journey. We had not got far before we found the country so barren that we were obliged to keep to the north, which brought us into the territory owned by the Dakotah people. We knew nothing of the way then, except from the accounts picked up over the camp fires of our former friends, and we had managed hitherto to keep out of the way of all strangers. We were ignorant, too, of the great distance we were from England; and of another thing we were not aware, and that was of the cold of winter. We were still travelling on, when the nights became so cold that we could scarcely keep ourselves from freezing, though sleeping close to our camp fires. It got colder and colder, and then down came the snow, and we found that winter had really set in. To travel on was impossible, so we built ourselves a lodge, and tried to trap and kill animals enough to last us for food till the snow should disappear. They became, however, scarcer and scarcer, and we began to fear that the supply of food we had collected would not last us out till summer. We had, however, a good number of skins, and though we had intended to sell them, we made some warm clothing of them instead. "We had too much to do during the day in hunting and collecting wood for our fire to allow of the time hanging very heavy on our hands. At first we got on very well, but our food decreased faster than we had calculated; and then Tom fell down from a rock, and hurt himself so much that I could scarcely get him home. While he was in this state I fell sick, and there we two were, in the middle of a desert, without any one to help us. Tom grew worse, and I could just crawl out from our bed of skins and leaves to heap up wood on our fire, and to cook our food. That was growing less and less every day, and starvation stared us in the face. Our wood, too could not hold out much longer, and though there was plenty at a little distance, I was too weak to go out and fetch it and cut it up, and poor Tom could not even stand upright. Day by day our stock of food decreased. All was gone! There was wood enough to keep our fire alight another day, and then we knew that in one, or, at most, two days more, we must be starved or frozen to death. Tom groaned out that he wished we had but a bottle of rum to keep us warm, and drive away dreadful thoughts. So did I wish we had. That was a hard time, friend Peter." "Fire water! was that all you thought of? Did you never pray? Did you never ask God to deliver you?" inquired the Indian in a tone of astonishment. "No! What had God to do with us poor chaps in that out-of-the-way place? He wouldn't have heard us if we had prayed; and, besides, we had long ago forgotten to pray," answered the old man in an unconcerned tone. "Ah! but He would have heard you, depend on that. The poor and destitute are the very people He delights to help," observed the Indian. "Ah! old friend, you little know what God is when you fancy that He would not have heard you." As he spoke he produced a Testament in the Ojibway tongue, from which he read the words, "God is love," and added, "This is part of the Bible, which your countrymen, the missionaries, have translated for us into our tongue." "Ay! maybe," remarked the old man, after considering a time; "I remember about the Bible when I was a boy, and it's all true; but I don't fancy God could have cared for us." "Why? is that wisdom you speak, old friend?" exclaimed Peter. "See, God did care for you, though you did not even ask Him, or you wouldn't be alive this day. He has cared for you all your life long. You have already told me many things which showed it, and I doubt not if you were to tell me everything that has happened to you since you can remember up to the present day, many, many more would be found to prove it. Was it God's love which sent me to you when you were on the point of death, or was it His hatred? Was it God's love which softened the hearts of the Sioux towards us? Come, go on with your history. I doubt not that the very next thing that you have to tell me will prove what I say." "Well, friend Redskin, what you say may be true, and I don't wish to differ with you," answered the hunter, still apparently unmoved. "As I was saying, Tom and I expected nothing but starvation. It was coming, too, I have an idea; for my part I had got so bad that I did not know where we were or what had happened. The hut was dark, for I had closed up the hole we came in and out at with snow and bundles of dry grass, or we should very quickly have been frozen to death. "The last thing I recollect was feeling cold--very cold. Suddenly a stream of light burst in on my eyes, and, that waking me up, I saw several Indians, in full war-dress, standing looking at Tom and me. I felt as if I did not care whether they scalped me or not: I was pretty well past all feeling. One of them, however, poured something down my throat, and then down Tom's throat: it did not seem stronger than water though it revived me. I then saw that their looks were kind, and that they meant us no harm. The truth was that our forlorn condition touched their hearts: it is my opinion, friend Peter, that nearly all men's hearts can be moved, if touched at the right time. These men were Sioux--very savage, I'll allow--but just then they were returning home from a great meeting, where, by means of a white man, certain matters were settled to their satisfaction, and they felt, therefore, well disposed towards us. Who the white man was I don't know, except that he was not a trader, and was a friend of the Indians. The Sioux gave us food, and lighted our fire, and camped there for two days, till we were able to move on, and then took us along with them. We lived with them all the winter, and soon got into their ways. When we proposed moving on, they would, on no account, hear of it, telling us that the distance was far greater than we supposed, and that there were cruel, treacherous white men between us and the sea, who were always making war on their people to drive them off their lands, and that they would certainly kill us. The long and the short of it is that Tom and I gave up our intention of proceeding, and, having wives offered to us much to our taste, we concluded to stay where we were. Every day we got more accustomed to the habits of our new friends; and we agreed also, that our friends in England would not know us, or own us, if we went back. We were tolerably happy; our wives bore us children; and, to make a long story short, we have lived on with the same tribe ever since. Tom has grown stout and cannot join in the hunt, but his sons do, and supply him with food. If Tom had been with the rest, he would not have left the neighbourhood of the ground where I fell without searching for me. It is through he and I being together that I can still speak English, and recollect things about home and our early days. We have been friends ever since we were boys, and never have we had a dispute. Four of my children died in infancy, and I have a son and a daughter. The only thing that tries me is leaving Tom and them, for their mother is dead; and yet I should like to go and hear more of the strange things you have told me about, and see some of my countrymen again before I die. They won't mourn long for the old man: it is the lot of many to fall down and die in the wilds, as I should have died if you had not found me. Tom, maybe, will miss me; but of late years, since he gave up hunting, we have often been separate, and he'll only feel as if I had been on a longer hunt than usual." "And your children?" said Peter. "They'll feel much like Tom, I suppose," answered the white hunter. "You know, friend Redskin, that Injun children are not apt to care much for their old parents. Maybe I will send for them, or go for them, if I remain with the pale-faces." The Indian was silent for some time. He then observed gravely, "Maybe, old friend, that the merciful God, who has protected you throughout your life, may have ordered this event also for your benefit; yet why do I say `maybe.' He orders all things for the best: this much I have learned respecting Him--the wisest man can know no more." Were not the Indians of North America indued with a large amount of patience they could not get through the long journeys they often perform, nor live the life of trappers and hunters, nor execute the curious carved work which they produce. Patience is a virtue they possess in a wonderful degree. Day after day Peter travelled on, slowly, yet patiently, with his charge, at length reaching the banks of the Assiniboine River, a large and rapid stream which empties itself into the Red River, at about the centre of the Selkirk settlement. The banks, often picturesque, were, in most places, well clothed with a variety of trees, while the land on either side, although still in a state of nature, showed its fertility by the rich grasses and clover which covered it. The old hunter gazed with surprise. "Why, friend Peter, here thousands and thousands of people might live in plenty, with countless numbers of cattle and sheep!" he exclaimed. "I knew not that such a country existed in tiny part of this region." "We are now on the territory of the English, a people who treat the red man as they should--as fellow men, and with justice," answered the Indian. "It may be God's will that, ere many years are over, all this vast land, east and west, may be peopled by them, still leaving ample room for the red men, who, no longer heathen hunters, may settle down in Christian communities as cultivators of the soil, or keepers of flocks and herds." Still more surprised was the old hunter when, a few days after this, they came upon several well cultivated fields, and saw beyond them a widely-scattered village of neat cottages, and the spire of a church rising amid them towards the blue sky. "What! are those the houses of English settlers?" asked the old man; "it will do my heart good to see some of my own countrymen again." "You will see few of your countrymen here, father; the inhabitants are settlers, truly, but nearly all my people. There is, however, here a good minister, and a school-master, white men, who will welcome you gladly. Their hearts are full of Christian love, or they would not come to live out here, far removed from relatives and friends, labouring for the souls' welfare of my poor countrymen." The old man shook his head, "No, no; I have no desire to see a parson. I remember well the long sermons--the last I ever heard was when I was at school--the parson used to give, and I used to declare that when I was a man I would keep clear of them, on this account." "You would not speak so of our minister here, were you to hear him," said the Indian. "I will not ask you to do what you dislike--but here is my house--those within will give you a hearty welcome." An Indian woman, neatly dressed, with a bright, intelligent countenance, came forth with an infant in her arms, to meet Peter, several children following her, who clung around him with affectionate glee. A few words, which Peter addressed to his wife, made her come forward, and, with gentle kindness, assist the old man into the cottage, where the elder children eagerly brought a chair and placed him on it. One boy ran off with the horse to a stable close at hand, and another assisted his mother to prepare some food, and to place it on a table before his father and their guest. The old man's countenance exhibited pleased surprise. "Well! well! I shouldn't have believed it if I had heard it," he muttered. "I remember many a cottage in the old country that did not come up to this." Many and many a cottage very far behind it, the old hunter might have said-- and why? Because in them the blessed Gospel was not the rule of life; while in that of the Indian God's law of love was the governing principle of all. Christ's promised gift--the gift of gifts--rested on that humble abode of His faithful followers. Several days passed by, and, to Peter's regret, the old hunter showed no desire to converse with the devoted missionary minister of the settlement. He came more than once, but the old man, shut up within himself, seemed not to listen to anything he said. At length he recovered sufficiently to go out, and one evening, wandering forth through the village, he passed near the church. The sound of music reached his ears as he approached the sacred edifice; young voices are raised together in singing praises to God for His bounteous gifts bestowed on mankind:-- "Glory to Thee, my God, this night, For all the blessings of the light; Keep me, O keep me, King of Kings! Beneath Thine own Almighty wings." The old hunter stopped to listen: slowly, and as if in awe, he draws near the open porch. Again he stops, listening still more earnestly. The young Christians within are singing in the Indian tongue. Closer he draws--his lips open--his voice joins in the melody. Words long, long forgotten, come unconsciously from his lips. They are the English words of that time-honoured hymn, often sung by children in the old country. Scarcely does his voice tremble: it sounds not like that of a man, but low and hushed, as it might have been when he first learned, from his long-lost mother, to lisp those words of praise. The music ceases. The old hunter bursts into tears--tears unchecked. Now he sinks on his knees, with hands uplifted--"Our Father, which art in Heaven,"--he is following the words of the missionary within. Are a mother's earnest, ceaseless prayers heard--prayers uttered ere she left this world of trial? Yes; undoubtedly. But God's ways are not man's ways: though He tarry long, yet surely He will be found--aye, "Found of them who sought Him not." The children's prayer meeting is over. The old man remains on his knees, with head bent down, and hands clasped, till the shades of evening close over him. CHAPTER FOUR. That was the turning-point; from that day Rob Nixon was an altered man. Of course, I do not mean that he at once found all his difficulties gone, his heart full of love, his prayers full of devotion; but from this time he felt, as he had never felt before, that he was "blind, and poor, and naked," and far away from his home. His good and faithful friend, Peter, had given him wise and good advice, and had introduced him to the excellent minister of the settlement, Archdeacon Hunter, who soon became a daily visitor at Peter's cottage. Skilful in imparting religious knowledge, he was able, by slow degrees, to instruct the old hunter in the leading truths of Christianity. Once comprehended, the old man grasped them joyfully; and though long unaccustomed to the sight of a book, he set to work again to learn to read, that he might himself peruse the sacred volume. He, of course, learned in English, and it was curious to remark, how his countenance beamed with pleasure as he recognised once familiar, but long forgotten, letters and words, and how rapidly he recovered the knowledge he had possessed as a boy. His great delight was to attend the school-children's service, and to hear them afterwards catechised by the minister; and the greyheaded, gaunt old man, might have been seen constantly sitting among them, truly as a little child, imbibing the truths of the Gospel. But, after a time, a change came over him. He appeared no longer content to remain, as hitherto, quietly in the cottage of his friend Peter, but spoke of wishing, once more, to be in the saddle, following his calling of a hunter. His rifle and accoutrements had carefully been brought home by Peter; but they would be of no use without a horse, powder and shot, and provisions. The autumn hunt, in which a large number of the natives of the Red River settlement engage every year, was about to commence; and, to Peter's surprise and regret, Rob Nixon expressed his intention of accompanying them, should he be able to obtain the means of so doing. Peter trembled lest his old friend's conversion should not have been real--lest the seed, which he had hoped would have borne good fruit, had, after all, been sown on stony ground. He delicately expressed his fears, describing the temptations to which a hunter is exposed. A tear appeared in the old man's eye, as he called Peter's eldest boy to him. "Friend, you love this boy?" he said. "I do, fondly," was the natural answer. "And you love his soul?" he asked. "Far more surely. It is the most precious part of him," said the Christian father. "I, too, have a son, and I love him; but I knew that he could take good care of himself, and so I left him with little regret," said the hunter. "But now, friend, I know that he has a soul which is in danger of perishing, I long to seek him out, to tell him of his danger, to win him back to that Saviour from whom he has strayed so far. I have a daughter and a friend too, and that friend has children. To all I would show how they may be saved. I loved them once, thinking nothing of their souls. How much more do I love their souls now that I know their value!" Peter warmly grasped the old hunter's hand, as he exclaimed, "Pardon me, father, that I had hard thoughts of you. I understand your object, and I doubt not that aid will be afforded you to carry it out, for it is surely one well pleasing in God's sight. `He who converteth a sinner from the error of his way, shall save a soul from death, and shall hide a multitude of sins.'" The whole matter being laid before the missionary minister the next day, he highly approved of the old hunter's intention, and promised to aid him as far as he had the power. He was on the point of setting out to visit the settlements, as the Red River colony is called, and he invited Robert Nixon to accompany him, that he might there obtain the necessary aid for the accomplishment of his enterprise. It was agreed, in the first place, that the old man should not undertake the journey alone. The difficulty was to find a companion for him. Fortunately, two years before, a young Sioux had been taken prisoner by a party of Crees, a numerous, people, who inhabit the country round Lake Winnepeg, their lodges being found far in other directions. They, like the heathen Ojibways, are always at war with the Sioux, and no opportunity is lost of taking each others' scalps. This young Sioux, to whom the name of Joseph had been given, was anxious to carry the glad tidings of salvation to his countrymen, and hearing of the old hunter's wish, gladly volunteered to accompany him. Peter would willingly himself have been his companion, but that he had his duties as a teacher to attend to, and his family to care for; besides which, a Sioux would be able to enter the country of his people with less risk of being killed by them, than would one of the Cree, or Ojibway nation. Peter, however, insisted on Nixon taking his horse. "You can repay me for the hire some day, or your son can repay my children, should you bring him back. If it is not God's will that you should succeed in your mission, yet I fear not that He will repay me, as the loan is for an object well pleasing in His sight." A horse for the young Sioux, as well as provisions and articles as gifts to propitiate any chiefs of tribes who might not know him, were still considered necessary, and these could only be procured at the Red River. The distance between the little colony of Prairie Portage and Red River is about sixty-five miles, but this neither the old hunter nor his companions thought in any way a long journey. The astonishment of Robert Nixon was very great on finding a well-beaten road the whole distance, over which wheeled carriages could pass with perfect ease; still more when he passed several farms, even to the west of Lane's Post, which formed the termination of their first day's journey. Their course was in the same direction as that of the Assiniboine, which very winding river they occasionally sighted. The banks were generally well clothed with fine wood, and the soil everywhere appeared to be of the richest quality. Considerably greater than before was the old man's astonishment when, on the second day about noon, the party arrived at a comfortable farm, where the owner hospitably invited them to rest, and placed before them the usual luxuries to be found in a well-ordered farm-house in the old country, such as good wheat and maize bread, cheese, butter, bacon and eggs, with capital beer, and in addition, preserves and fruit, several vegetables, and fresh maize boiled, answering the purpose of green peas. A joint of mutton was roasting at the fire, and potatoes were boiling. After this repast, the farmer brought out a supply of tobacco which, he told his guests, grew on the farm. "Indeed, gentlemen, I may say we here live in plenty," he observed; "and all we want are people to settle down about us, and make our lives more sociable than they now are. We have drawbacks, I'll allow; and what farmer, even in the old country, can say that he has not? Ours are--early and late frosts, though chiefly the latter; grasshoppers, which will clear a field of every green thing in a night; and, occasionally, wolves and bears; but those gentry don't like the smell of our gunpowder, and have mostly taken their departure. On the Red River farms they seldom or never hear of one, and the injury they can do us is but slight." This was the commencement of a long line of farms which extends, with few breaks, the whole distance to the Red River, into which the Assiniboine falls. Often the old hunter was silent, considering the unexpected scenes which met his sight, though he occasionally indulged in quiet remarks on them; but when, at length, the lofty and glittering spire of a large cathedral, [note] appearing, as the rays of the evening sun shone on it, as if formed of burnished silver--numerous edifices, some of considerable dimensions, scattered about--public buildings and dwelling houses--other churches in the distance--several windmills, with their white arms moving in the breeze, high above the richly tinted foliage of the trees, which formed an irregular fringe to the banks of the river flowing beneath them, while near at hand, at the point where the Assiniboine flows into the larger stream, rose the walls and battlements of a strong fort, whose frowning guns commanded the surrounding plains,--when he saw all this, the scene appeared to his bewildered eyes as if it had sprung up by the touch of the enchanter's wand, in the midst of the desert. "Well! well!" he exclaimed, "and I have been living all this time, but a few weeks' journey from this place, and never should have thought of it." The sight of the large sails of the freighters' boats made him somewhat uncomfortable, lest he should be carried off to sea, and he could scarcely be persuaded that he was still not far short of two thousand miles from the Atlantic ocean, and that there was no chance of his being kidnapped. He was even more frightened than his steed when a steamer came puffing up to a wharf below Fort Garry. "What creature is that they have aboard there?" he exclaimed, "Where does the strange craft come from? What is she going to do?" He sprang from his horse, and stood looking over the cliff at the steamer. He at once recognised her as a vessel, though of a construction wonderfully strange to his eyes, as no steamers had been built when he left England, and he had never heard of their invention. The stream of steam puffed off, and the loud screams accompanying it made him somewhat incredulous as to the nature of the vessel. When, however, all was quiet, and he saw a stream of people issuing from her side, he was satisfied that she was of mortal build, and he was at length persuaded to go down and examine her himself. It almost took away his breath, as he said, to find that vessels of far greater size now ploughed the ocean in every direction, and that continents were traversed by long lines of carriages, dragged by single locomotives, at the rate of forty miles an hour. After hearing of this, he was scarcely surprised at any of the wonders which were told him, and of the numerous discoveries and inventions which have been brought into practical use during half-a-century. At the close of the day the travellers reached a well-built rectory, on the banks of the river, where they were hospitably received and entertained. While seated in the evening before the fire with his host, the old man, as he looked round the room and observed the various comforts which it contained, heaved a deep sigh. "Ah! I feel now how sadly I have thrown my life away," he exclaimed. "I might, but for my early folly, have enjoyed all the comforts of civilisation, and played my part as a civilised man, instead of living the life of a savage among savages." "Friend," observed the minister, "this is not the only life. There is another and a better--to last for ever. "Then you have no desire to return to your former friends, the Sioux?" the minister continued, after a pause. "Ah! yes; but not for the pleasure such a life as they lead could give me. There is the friend of my youth, and there are his children, and my children. My great desire is to return to them to tell them that they have souls, and what the Lord, in His loving kindness, has done for their souls." The object of the old hunter was no sooner known in the settlement than he obtained all the assistance he could require. Few persons who had for so long led a savage life could have appreciated more fully than he now seemed to do the advantages of civilisation, and yet none of them could turn him from his purpose. Within five days he and his young Sioux companion, Joseph, were ready to set out. They had a led-horse to carry their provisions and presents, and they had arms, though rather to enable them to kill game for their support than for the purpose of fighting. "I pray that our hands may be lifted up against no man's life, even though we may be attacked by those who are what we ourselves were but a short time back, and should still be, but for God's grace," said the old man, as he slung his rifle to his saddle-bow. Once more Robert Nixon turned his back on the abodes of civilised men. Had it not been for the object in view it would have been with a heavy heart. "If Tom and I had remained at school, and laboured on steadily, we might have been like one of those ministers of the Gospel, or settlers, and our children the same, instead of the young savages they now are, ignorant of God and His holy laws." Thus he mused as he rode along. He and his young companion did not neglect the usual precautions, when they camped at night, to avoid discovery by any wandering natives who might be disposed to molest them. The young Indian, though possessing much less religious knowledge than Peter, yet showed a sincere anxiety to fulfil his religious duties, and, without fail, a hymn was sung and prayer was offered up before starting on their day's journey, and when they lay down on their beds of spruce, fir-twigs, or leaves, or dry grass, at night. The travellers rode on day after day without encountering any material impediments to their progress. There were no rugged mountains to ascend, no dense forests to penetrate, or wild defiles amid which they had to find their way. There were rivers and streams; but some were easily forded, across others they swam their horses, and passed their provisions and goods on small rafts, which they towed behind them. Leaving British territory, and moving west, the country had a barren and arid appearance. In many districts sand predominated, with sand-hills of more or less elevation; in others grass, growing in tufts out of the parched-up, stony ground, was the only herbage. Indeed, from north to south and east to west, for many hundred miles, there exists an extent of country, known as the Dakotah territory, unfitted, from the absence of water, to become the permanent abode of civilised man. Here, however, at certain seasons, herds of buffalo find pasturage on their way to and from the more fertile regions of the north; and thus, with the aid of fish, and other wild animals, and roots and berries, considerable tribes of the Dakotah nation find a precarious existence. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Note. This cathedral belongs to the Roman Catholics, who have also a large convent near at hand. They maintain a considerable number of Missionary Stations in different parts of the country. CHAPTER FIVE. It was in the western portion of the Dakotah territory, described in the last chapter, that a numerous band of the lords of the soil had pitched their skin tents by the side of a stream, whose grassy banks, fringed with trees, contrasted strongly with the dry and hilly ground before mentioned, which, as far as the eye could reach, extended on either side of them. Yet the scene was animated in the extreme. In the centre of a wide basin, into which a valley opened from the distant prairie, was erected a high, circular enclosure of stakes, and boughs, and skins. There was but one entrance towards the valley, and on either side of this entrance commenced a row of young trees, or branches of trees, the distance between each line becoming greater and greater the further off they were from the enclosure. The figure formed by the lines was exactly that of a straight road drawn in perspective on paper: being very wide at one end, and narrowing gradually till it became only the width of the entrance to the enclosure at the other. Between each of the trees or bushes was stationed an Indian armed with bow or spear, and having a cloak, or a thick mass of branches in his hand. Outside the enclosure were numerous persons, chiefly women and old men and boys, the latter armed with bows and arrows, and the former having cloaks or boughs. They were flitting to and fro, apparently waiting some event of interest. As the travellers reached the top of a hill overlooking the enclosure, a cloud of dust was seen approaching the further end. "There they come, there they come!" exclaimed the old hunter, with difficulty refraining from dashing down the hill, as, at the instant, a herd of some three or four hundred buffaloes burst, at headlong speed, from out of the dust--tossing their heads and tails, tearing up the earth with their horns, trampling, in their terror, over each other--followed closely by a band of red-skinned huntsmen, with bow or spear in hand, most of them free of clothing, and uttering the wildest cries and shouts, now galloping here, now there, as some fierce bull turned and stood at bay, sending an arrow into the front of one, dashing a spear into the side of another, while they hung on the flanks of the herd, keeping the animals, as nearly as possible, in the centre of the road. Whenever any of the herd approached the line of bushes on either side, the Indians stationed there shook the cloaks or the boughs they held in their hands, and shouted and shrieked, thus effectually turning the bewildered animals into the main stream. Sometimes the whole herd attempted to break through, but were turned with equal facility. If they attempted to stop, the hunters behind, closing in on them, urged them on until, still more and more compressed, those in the interior of the herd being utterly unable to see where they were going, they were forced, by redoubled shouts and shrieks in their rear, through the narrow gateway into the enclosure. Through it they dashed, a dark stream of wild, fierce heads and manes surging up and down, till the whole were driven in, and the hunters themselves, leaping the bar across the entrance, followed close in their rear. Now, round and round the confined pound, the affrighted creatures rushed, not discovering a single opening which might afford them a chance of escape, bellowing and roaring, the strong trampling on the young and weak, the calves soon falling and being crushed to death; showers of arrows from the hunters' bows bringing many low, while others, wounded by the darts and spears of the people outside, or gored by their fellows, sunk down exhausted from loss of blood. It was truly a spectacle of wanton and barbarous slaughter, which none but those accustomed to it could have watched unmoved. Even Robert Nixon, though he had often joined in similar scenes, regarded it with feelings very different to what he would formerly have done. "Alas! alas! is it thus God's creatures are destroyed to no purpose by these poor savages?" he exclaimed to his companion. "Not one-twentieth part of the meat can be consumed by them; and the lay will come when they will seek for food and there will be none for them, and they themselves must vanish away out of the land." The two travellers had been moving along the height above the valley, but so entirely engaged were the Indians in the work of entrapping the buffalo, that they were observed by no one. They now descended towards the tents. In front of one of them sat a somewhat portly man, his countenance, and the hue of his complexion, rather than his costume, showing that he was of the white race. The tents were pitched on a spot sufficiently elevated above the valley to enable him to watch all that was taking place within the pound. His attention also was so completely absorbed by the proceedings of his companions, that he did not perceive, for some time, the approach of the horsemen. When he did, starting to his feet, and upsetting the three-legged stool on which he was sitting, he exclaimed, "What, old chum! is it you--you, indeed? I made sure that what they told me was true, and that you were long, long ago food for the wolves. Let me look at you. I cannot yet believe my senses." Rob Nixon having dismounted, the two old men stood for some moments grasping each other's hands. It was some time before old Tom could persuade himself that his friend was really alive; not, indeed, till the latter had given a brief account of the way he had been found and rescued by the Indian, Peter, and the chief events which had occurred to him. "Well, well! I'm right glad to get you back; and now you must give up hunting, as I have done, and just take your ease for the rest of your days," said old Tom. "Hunting I have done with; but I have yet much work to do before I die," answered the old hunter. "You and I are great sinners; we were brought up in a Christian land, and still we have been living the lives of heathens. But, Tom, since I have been away I have read the Bible; I have there learned about Christ; and I see that we have been living lives as different from His as black is from white, as light is from darkness. Tom, would you like to learn about Him?" Tom signified his readiness with a nod. It was all Robert Nixon required, and he at once opened on the subject of God's love, and man's sin, and Christ the Saviour from sin. The young Indian stood by holding the horses, and watching the countenances of the speakers. It must have been a great trial for him to remain thus inactive while his countrymen were engaged in their exciting occupation; but a new rule of life had become his, and duty had taken the place of inclination. "There, Tom; I've just said a little about the chiefest thing I've got to say to you," were the words with which Rob wound up his address. Tom looked puzzled, but not displeased, as some men might have been. His friend was prevented from saying more by the loud shouts of the Indians as the last bull of a herd of nearly three hundred animals sunk, overcome by loss of blood from numberless arrows and darts, to the saturated ground. There lay the shaggy monsters in every conceivable attitude into which a violent death could throw them, some on their backs as they had rolled over, others with the young calves, which they had run against in their mad career round the pound, impaled on their horns; many had fallen over each other, and, dying from their wounds, had formed large heaps in every direction. It was truly a sickening spectacle. [Note.] The old hunter after a pause pointed towards it;--"There Tom, that's just a picture of what has been going on in the world time without mind," he remarked; "the Indians are doing what the spirits of evil do, and the poor buffaloes are like the people in the world, all driven madly together, destroying one another till none remain alive; but Christ delivers men from the spirits of evil, and leads them into safety and rest." Hitherto the new comers had escaped observation, but now numerous Indians crowded round, some to welcome the old white hunter, others to inquire the cause which brought the young man with him. The first to approach the old man was a young girl; her complexion was fairer than that of several other girls who accompanied her, and her dress was more ornamented with beads and feathers than theirs. She stopped timidly at a short distance--Indian etiquette would not allow her to approach nearer. She was very beautiful, but her beauty was that of the wild gazelle, it had not yet been destroyed by the hard toil and often cruel usage to which the older women of her people were exposed. "Come daughter, come," said the old man in the Dakotah tongue, holding out his arms, "I have good tidings for thee." The young girl bounded forward, and Rob Nixon, taking her in his arms, imprinted a kiss on her brow. "Father, father, that you have come back when we thought you lost, is good news enough; you cannot bring me better," looking up into the old man's face, not without some surprise, however, at the affectionate manner in which she was treated, contrasted with the stern way in which the Indians treat the females of their people. "I will tell thee of the good news anon. You might not value it as it deserves," said Robert Nixon. "Thy brother, where is he?" "He left the camp with a score more of our young braves nearly ten moons ago, to make war on the Crees of the plain, and he has not yet returned. Scouts have been sent out, but no tidings have been received of the party." The father did not conceal his disappointment. "I have a rich gift to offer him," he thought; "would that he had been here to have accepted it. Alas! alas! how great is my sin, who was born a Christian, to have allowed my children to grow up ignorant heathens." It is sad to think that many white men in many parts of the vast territory known as Rupert's land, may have cause to feel as did Robert Nixon. Two of old Tom's sons were also away on the same hazardous expedition, but though anxious about them, for he was a kind-hearted man, he could not enter into Rob Nixon's feelings in the matter. Now as the evening came on the people crowded into the encampment, all eager to hear how their white friend and one of their chief, as well as the oldest, of their leaders had escaped death. He used no bitter expressions, but he could not help asking, ironically, how it was that--among so many who professed regard for him--no one had thought of turning back to look for him when he was missed? Numerous were the excuses offered, and all were glad when he dropped the subject, and held up a book out of which he proposed to read to them in their own language. Not knowing the nature of a book, they naturally supposed it to be some powerful charm, and declared that he had become a great medicine man. "If it is a charm, and I do not say that it is not, it is one that, if you will listen, may do you good, and will make you wiser than you have ever before been," he answered. "Do you, or do you not wish to hear me?" There were no dissentient voices, and he then read to them how God, the Great Spirit, so loved the world, that He sent His Son into the world that all who believe in Him should not perish but have eternal life,--"men, women, and children, old and young alike," he added. "I will tell you more about the matter by-and-by, friends. Talk over now what I have said. This book, though small, contains a great deal; many a day must pass before you know its contents. Those who wish to know more may come to my lodge when they will, and I will read to them." Bob Nixon made a very efficient missionary in his humble, unpretending way. He did not attack Manitou or any of the superstitions, but he placed the better way before them, that they might have the opportunity of comparing it with their own foolish customs and notions. With his own daughter and his old friend, whom he knew he could trust, he proceeded in a different method; his friend he reminded of what he had been taught in his youth, how he had spent his life, and again and again inquired what hope he had for the future. To his daughter he pointed out the folly of the religious belief and the customs of the red people, and showed her the advantages of those of true Christians. To an artless, unsophisticated mind, where sin has not ruled triumphantly, the Gospel will always prove attractive, if offered--as its Divine Originator intended it should be offered--as a blessing--as a charter of freedom, not a code of legal restrictions. The young girl received it joyfully, and day by day increased in knowledge and grace. He was, however, often in despair with regard to old Tom. His friend listened to what he read and said, but the truth did not appear to find an entrance into his mind; still he listened and tried to pray, and as he tried he found praying less difficult; and when he listened he comprehended better and better what he heard. Tom's sons and daughters still remaining with him began also to listen, and came oftener and oftener to the old hunter's lodge, as their interest increased, till they declared that they were ready to go wherever they could constantly hear the Word of God, and be more fully instructed in its truths. A large part of Robert Nixon's object was accomplished, but not the whole. A great grief lay at his heart--the loss and probable death of his son. The winter had now set in, snow covered the whole face of nature in every direction for many hundreds of miles. Travelling, though not impracticable, had become more difficult and dangerous; it could, however, be accomplished by means of dog-sleighs or carioles, though all the wealth possessed by Nixon and his friend could scarcely furnish dogs sufficient to transport all the party and provisions to the banks of the Assiniboine. No news had been received of the missing band. Old Tom shared his friend's grief, and now he began to dread their loss for the most important reason. Nixon's time was also engaged among the tribe generally; even the chief listened to him attentively, and offered no opposition to his proceedings. For himself he said that he was too old to change, but that his people might follow the new way, if they found it better than the old. Joseph, the young Sioux, was a great assistance to him. Nixon offered to allow him to go back to his own people, but he declined, saying that he was not strong enough to resist temptations, and might be inclined to go back to their evil ways, if he found himself among them; an example which more civilised youths might wisely follow-- not to run into temptation. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Note. The chief object of the Indians in thus slaughtering so large a number of buffalo is to lay in a store of their flesh, which they preserve and call pemmican. It is first cut off free of fat and hung up in thin strips to dry in the sun. It is then pounded between stones and put into leathern bags, with the boiled fat of the animal poured in and mixed with it. The white fur traders also purchase this pemmican, as well as the skins known as robes, and also the sinews. Very many more animals are killed than can be used by the thoughtless savages, and thus thousands are left to rot uselessly on the prairie. As the buffaloes decrease in number, so do the red men disappear from the face of the earth. The settlement of civilised men in the territory appears to be the only mode of saving the natives by affording them the means of subsistence. CHAPTER SIX. It was during the short spring of the North American continent, which so suddenly breaks into perfect summer, that a camp might have been seen pitched on the side of the bank of a broad and rapid river. The spot selected for the camp formed a bay of the river, or it might be called a nook in the bank. It appeared to have been chosen for the purpose of concealment: for only from one point on the opposite bank could it be seen, while above it was completely sheltered by the thick growth of trees which fringed each side of the river. From the conical shape of the skin-covered tents, the accoutrements of the steeds tethered near, the dog-sleds, for carrying goods and provisions, and the people standing or sitting about, it would have been known at once to be a Sioux encampment. On a nearer inspection, however, several points of difference would have been discovered. In front of one of the tents sat two old men whose complexion showed that they were not Indians, while the dress of one of them was that of a civilised man. Several young women and girls were busily preparing the evening meal, some young men were bringing them a supply of fire-wood and water, while others were engaged in fishing in the river. Several, both of the young men and girls, had complexions much lighter than those of Indians, though others, from their dark colour, were evidently of the native race. They seemed to be fearless of interruption; indeed, they probably relied on due notice of danger being given them by their scouts or sentries, who were watching from some of the more elevated spots in the neighbourhood. One of the old men had been reading to the other from the Bible. He closed the sacred volume--"Let us thank God, old friend, that within a week we may hope once more to be among our Christian countrymen, and be able to join with them in His worship and praise, and to thank Him for His loving mercy to us," said Robert Nixon. "For my part I have only one desire: to recover my boys and yours, and to see them be longing to Christ's flock." "Ah, Bill!" Tom always called his friend by that name, "I, too, should like to see the day; but it's far off, I fear. But I hope they'll go to Heaven somehow." This conversation was interrupted by a loud cry of alarm from the young women of the party; and, looking up, they saw a dozen redskin warriors, who had just issued from among the trees on the summit of the bank above them. Several had rifles, others were armed only with bows. They were in the act of taking aim with their weapons when Nixon saw them. Forgetting the native language in his agitation, he shouted out to them, in English, to desist. They hesitated. Some of the girls took the opportunity of rushing off to seek for shelter behind the trees. Tom went into the tent for his gun. Nixon advanced towards the Indians, whom he perceived to be Crees, the mortal enemies of the Dakotahs. His daughter, believing him to be in danger, instead of running for shelter, like her companions, flew after him. Old Tom re-appeared at the moment with his rifle. The Crees, believing that resistance was about to be offered, fired. Their powder or weapons were bad: some did not go off, the bullets, generally, flew wide, but one, alas! took effect. It was in the bosom of Rob Nixon's daughter. Her cry made him turn round, and, forgetting all else, he caught her in his arms as she was sinking to the ground. Before the savages had time to re-load, and as they were about to rush down the hill, scalping-knife in hand, to complete their cruel work, they were set upon by an equal number of Sioux, who sprang so suddenly on them from behind that not one of them had time to use his weapon in self-defence. A desperate struggle ensued, each man trying to pin his antagonist to the ground. Two Crees, desperately wounded, lay fainting from loss of blood. Tom, climbing up the hill, still further turned the balance in favour of the Sioux. The Sioux were, Tom perceived, of his own party. They had been warned by one of their scouts that an enemy was at hand, and without disturbing the rest of the camp had gone out to intercept them. They had, however, missed them, but again discovering their trail, had followed close in their rear, though not fast enough to prevent the unhappy catastrophe which had occurred. The struggle was fierce and desperate. Neither party expected any mercy from the victors. Three of the Crees were killed, and this releasing three of the Sioux party, aided by old Tom, the latter were able to assist their companions. Their aim was, however, not to kill. The Crees were quickly disarmed, and being bound, stood expecting the usual fate of the vanquished. At a signal from Nixon they were led down the bank to where he knelt by the side of his daughter, in vain attempting to staunch the life-blood streaming from her wound. "Father!" she whispered; "I am leaving you. I feel death coming, but I am happy, for I know One powerful to save is ready to receive me. I would have lived to have comforted you, but I believe my prayers are heard, and that my brother will yet be restored to you." She was silent for some time; then her eyes, opening, fell on the prisoners as they stood bound on the top of the bank, and she continued: "I have but one petition to make. It is that those ignorant men may not be punished. They followed but the ways of their people, and thought not of the wicked act they were doing. I would speak to them." In a faint voice the dying girl addressed the prisoners, and urged them to listen to the words her father would speak to them, adding: "Truly do I forgive you, and may you find forgiveness from the Great Good Spirit whom you know not." It would be difficult to describe the astonishment of the Crees when they found that not only were they not to undergo torment before being killed, but that they were actually freely pardoned. After consulting for some time, one of them, who appeared to be the leader, stepped forward and said:--"We have heard that there are praying men among the pale-faces, but that their praying made their people different to us we did not know, for most of the things we do they do; they fight with each other and with us, they drive us from our lands, they cheat us when trading, they shoot us without pity whenever they catch us, and they bring disease and death among us, so that, though once we were numerous as the stones which strew the prairie lands of the Dakotahs, now we can count our people while the sun rests at its mid-day height in the sky. Such was our notion of the pale-faces, but you have given us a different notion. Though we have done you a great injury, though our weapons have cruelly cut down one who is surely the most lovely of the flowers of the prairie, instead of slaying us, you forgive us; she too, even, not only forgives us, but prays to the Great Spirit for us. Our minds are astonished; our hearts are softened, melted within us. We would be your friends, and we wish to prove it. We know the pale-faces who dwell towards the rising of the sun, and we will accompany you on your way to them, and guard you from further attacks. You doubt us. You fear treachery. You are wise. We will prove that we are honest. Some moons past, ere the snows of winter had covered the ground, our tribe was assailed by a party of Dakotah braves. We had notice of their coming, and had an ambush prepared for them. Among them we discerned three whom we knew by their colour to be the children of the pale-faces. We judged that they had been carried off when young, and we hoped to obtain a reward by restoring them to their parents or countrymen, our friends. The Dakotahs we slew, but, though they fought desperately and were much wounded, we succeeded in saving the three young men alive. We could not then travel with them, so we kept them in our lodges while the snow remained. We were on our way to the east with them when, in our folly, we resolved to attack your camp. Our prisoners we left with a small number of our band who are but a short way from this." "Oh! bring them--haste!--haste!" exclaimed the wounded girl, alone divining who they were of whom the Cree spoke; "I would see my brother ere I die. I have much--much to say to him." Anxious to gratify his daughter, and satisfied that the Cree chief spoke the truth, and would not prove treacherous, Robert Nixon allowed two of his followers, known as fleet of foot, to hasten to his camp to bring in the young men spoken of, having no doubt that his own son, and his friend's two sons, were the prisoners spoken of. Meantime, it appeared doubtful whether the dying girl would survive till their arrival. While the rest of the party stood round grieving, she reclined in her father's arms, occasionally whispering a few words of comfort in his ear, and assuring him of her happiness. At length she lifted up her head in the attitude of listening. Her quick ear had caught the sound of approaching footsteps, even before the rest of the party. It was some time before any one appeared. "I knew it--I knew it--my brother!" she cried out, as several young men, running at full speed, burst from among the trees at the top of the bank. One of them, who was leading, taking a hurried glance around, rushed down, and, with an expression in which surprise and grief were mingled, threw himself by her side. She took his hand, and strange to his ear were the communications she made. Another of the youths approached her. She gave him her other hand, and turned her countenance towards him as she did so. "I was the cause of your going on that expedition. I was ignorant, dark-minded, wicked. I knew well that you loved me. I know it now; but, oh! listen to my father. He will tell you of One who loves you far more than I could do, whose love will make ample amends for the loss of mine; and then we may meet in the realms of happiness, to dwell for ever and ever together." To the young heathen this language was an enigma. Ere it was solved, the speaker had ceased to breathe. "The Lord's will be done!" said the old hunter: and those who knew how he loved his child understood what a mighty change religion had wrought in his heart. They buried her in that secluded spot, beneath the green turf, on which she had lately trod so full of life and beauty; and those who had loved her, and their late foes, assisted to raise a monument, of materials furnished by the river bed and the surrounding trees, above her tomb. Rob Nixon and all the party reached the settlements in safety. He mourned as a father for his daughter, but his mourning was full of hope. Her dying words were not thrown away on her brother, or on his companions. Before long, they were all baptised, and admitted to the privileges and blessings of Christ's church. When the father knelt at the Lord's table, for the first time after his daughter's death, and thought of the dead for whom thanks had been given, because they had died in Christ's faith and fear, he felt that his beloved daughter had not died in vain. He declared that he had not been preserved from so many and great dangers of body and spirit, to lead a life of idleness, and while life remained, he never wearied in striving to bring others to a knowledge of Him, whom he had found to be so precious to his own soul. THE END. 
42307	----	[Illustration: The GUNBOAT SERIES. BOOKS for BOYS, by a GUNBOAT BOY. FRANK IN THE WOODS. PORTER & COATES, PHILADELPHIA, PA.] Frank and Archie Series. FRANK IN THE WOODS. by HARRY CASTLEMON, Author of "The Rocky Mountain Series," "The Go-Ahead Series," etc. Philadelphia: Porter & Coates. Cincinnati, O.: R. W. Carroll & Co. Contents. CHAPTER I. THE ENCAMPMENT 7 CHAPTER II. AN UNPLEASANT COMPANION 15 CHAPTER III. AN INDIAN HUNT 27 CHAPTER IV. THE "OLE SETTLER" 47 CHAPTER V. THE FIGHT IN THE WOODS 52 CHAPTER VI. THE WHITE BUCK 76 CHAPTER VII. A MIDNIGHT ATTACK 90 CHAPTER VIII. A COUPLE OF NEW PETS 101 CHAPTER IX. CLOSE QUARTERS WITH A GRIZZLY 116 CHAPTER X. A BEAVER HUNT 132 CHAPTER XI. BREAKING UP A MOOSE-PEN 143 CHAPTER XII. THE MOOSE SHOWS HIS QUALITIES 152 CHAPTER XIII. THE BLACK MUSTANG 169 CHAPTER XIV. A BRUSH WITH THE GREASERS 180 CHAPTER XV. CAUGHT AT LAST 194 CHAPTER XVI. THE LOST WAGON-TRAIN 204 CHAPTER XVII. THE STRUGGLE IN THE CAVE 216 CHAPTER XVIII. END OF THE TRAPPER AND BLACK MUSTANG 227 CHAPTER XIX. THE INDIANS AGAIN 236 CHAPTER XX. THE JOURNEY HOMEWARD 251 FRANK IN THE WOODS. CHAPTER I. The Encampment. Our scene opens in the swamp that stretches away for miles north of Lawrence. It was a cold, dreary night. The wind moaned and whistled through the leafless branches of the trees, sending the snow in fitful gusts through every nook and corner of the forest. On the banks of a small lake, that lay hemmed in on all sides by tall trees, which bowed to every gust of the winter's storm, was an encampment. A rude hut--built, however, after the most approved hunter fashion, with its back to the wind, and its front open to a cheerful fire--stood in a little grove of evergreens, ready to receive beneath its friendly shelter four boys, whom you could easily recognize as our old friends of the sailing and fishing frolics described in "THE YOUNG NATURALIST." We left them, after a hard day's work at fox-hunting--Archie asleep on the bed, and Frank seated in his easy chair, reading one of his favorite authors; while George and Harry, who had a quarter of a mile to go before they reached home, were walking slowly along the road, so weary that they could scarcely drag one foot after the other. To enable the reader to understand how we come to find them here in the woods, twenty miles from any human habitation, we must conduct him back to Lawrence, and relate a few incidents with which he is not acquainted. On the day following the one on which the foxhunt took place, the boys were too lame to tramp about, and they passed most of their time in the shop. Frank commenced to prepare the fox-skin for mounting in the museum, and Archie busied himself in putting his traps in working order. While thus engaged, Frank exclaimed: "Archie, let's go and make Uncle Joe a visit. What do you say?" "I should like to go very much," said Archie; "but you know it's a mean journey to make in winter. I don't like the idea of carrying my baggage on"---- "We need not carry any thing," interrupted Frank. "I have been thinking it all over, and I don't see why we can't do as the Canadian trappers do--drag our baggage after us on sleds." The village boys had always been in the habit of visiting Uncle Joe in the summer; the journey could then be made with scarcely any inconvenience, for Glen's Creek ran within a few feet of the old hunter's cabin; but in winter the traveling was much more difficult, for the boys were obliged to carry their provisions, blankets, and other needful articles, on their backs. But Frank's plan obviated this difficulty. The creek was frozen over, and using it as a highway, they could accomplish the journey to Uncle Joe's almost as easily as with a boat. "That's a first-rate idea," said Archie. "I wonder why we did not think of it before! Let us go right to work and make the sled." "We had better wait until we find out whether mother will let us go or not," said Frank; "besides, we want Harry and George to go with us." "I think Aunt Mary will give her consent," said Archie, laying aside his traps. "Let's go in and ask her." The boys readily answered all Mrs. Nelson's objections--such as being lost in the woods and eaten up by bears--by assuring her that they were well acquainted with the road to Uncle Joe's, for they had traveled it several times before; besides, they had a compass, and it was impossible to get lost; and, as to the bears, there were very few of them in the woods, and no bear that ever lived was a match for four boys, all good marksmen, armed with double-barrel shot-guns, and assisted by three good dogs. So Mrs. Nelson was obliged to consent, and the boys started off to see George and Harry. The latter easily obtained their parents' permission, and the boys adjourned to the kitchen to talk over their plans. It was decided that two sleds would carry all their baggage, and that every thing should be ready for the start early on Monday morning; it was then Friday. After making all their arrangements, Frank and his cousin returned home, and immediately commenced working on their sled. A stout hickory sapling, which they had used in stretching and curing the skin of the deer they killed in the lake, was sawed in twain for the runners, and bent into shape by steaming. The braces were then put in, and before dark the body of the sled was completed. It was light and very strong, and Archie dragged it about the shop in high glee. "It's all done but the box," said he. "We don't want any box," said his cousin. "It would only make the sled heavy, without doing any good. We will get an old quilt or blanket from mother, and that will do better than a box." This article was soon obtained, and fastened to the sled in such a manner that it could be strapped around the baggage; and just as Hannah called them to supper, the sled was pronounced ready for the journey. The next day Hannah was kept busy baking biscuit and other provisions sufficient to last until they reached Uncle Joe's; while the boys busied themselves in cleaning their guns, sharpening their knives and axes, and getting every thing ready for the start. Time seemed to move on laggard wings, so impatient were they to be off; but Monday morning came at length, and the boys were stirring long before daylight. As soon as they had eaten breakfast, the sled was brought out of the shop, and their baggage--which consisted of a change of clothes, blankets, ammunition, axes, and provisions--was strapped on securely. Just as they completed their preparations, George and Harry came along. Bidding Mrs. Nelson and Julia good-by, they all started off; and, after a hard day's tramp, encamped at the place where we now find them. After they had finished carrying their baggage into the hut, a lively scene was presented. Harry sat before the fire, cutting a pair of leggins out of a finely-dressed deer-skin, which he had spread on the floor of the hut; George was engaged in arranging their beds; Archie was in front of the hut, chopping the evening's supply of fire-wood; and Frank was superintending the cooking of their supper. The dogs lay stretched out on a blanket, enjoying a quiet nap. "There," said Archie, at length, leaning on his ax, and surveying the pile of wood he had cut; "I guess that will last us through the night." "Yes, that's a plenty," said Frank. "Come, boys, supper is ready!" Archie accordingly entered the hut, and, after depositing his ax in a corner, picked out a warm place by the fire, and commenced helping himself to the eatables. The meal consisted of squirrels, which had been roasted on spits before the fire, coffee, and bread and butter. Their long tramp--they had made about twenty miles since morning--had sharpened their appetites, and the supper rapidly disappeared. But there was enough left for the dogs, and after they had been bountifully fed, and the supper dishes washed, the boys stretched themselves out on their blankets before the fire. Each seemed to be occupied with his own thoughts. The sifting of the snow over the roof of the hut, the crackling of the fire, and an occasional howl of a wolf, were the only sounds that broke the stillness. At length, Harry said: "Now, boys, this is the kind of a life I enjoy. Doesn't it make a fellow feel comfortable, to lie here and listen to the storm, and know that he is securely sheltered? For my part, I don't see how a person can live cooped up in a city all his life." "It is a difficult matter," answered Archie; "for I have tried it, and profess to know something about it. How many times I have sat in school, when I had a hard lesson to get, and looked out of the window, and wished that I was off in the woods somewhere!" "Well, you're here at last," said George; "but the only way to pass a long winter evening is in listening to a good story. Come, Frank, give us one." "Yes," chimed in Harry, "give us something exciting." "A hunting adventure," said Archie, "or a fight with the Indians." "O, you will hear plenty of such stories when we get to Uncle Joe's," said Frank. "But I will tell you of an adventure which happened to my uncle, who was a young lawyer at the time, settled in St. Louis;" and Frank, after rearranging his blanket commenced as follows: CHAPTER II. An Unpleasant Companion. "It was one bright evening, in the fall of 18--," said my uncle, "while I was traveling on horseback through the northern part of Missouri, that I reined up before a pleasant little tavern, where I purposed to stop for the night. The landlord, a bustling little Englishman, soon had supper ready for me, and as I had not eaten a mouthful since morning, I sat down to it with a most ravenous appetite, and ate until I began to feel ashamed of myself, and finally stopped, not because I was satisfied, but because I had eaten every thing on the table, and did not wish to call for more. As I was rising from the table, the hostler entered the room, and said: "'What be the matter with your 'orse, sir? He be so lame he can 'ardly walk?' "'The matter with my horse!' I repeated; 'there was nothing the matter with him when I gave him into your charge;' and, in no amiable mood, I started for the stable. "My horse, which was the gift of a deceased friend, was one of the finest animals I ever saw. I had owned him for more than six years, during which he had been my almost constant companion; and as I had neither wife nor child to love, it is no wonder that my affections clustered around him. I found that he was indeed lame; one of his legs was swollen to twice its usual size, and it was with great difficulty that he could move. I was for some time entirely at a loss how to account for it, and felt very much like giving the hostler, who stood at a little distance, eyeing me as though he expected a kicking, a piece of my mind, when I happened to remember that, as I was that afternoon descending a steep hill, my horse had stepped upon a rolling stone, and almost thrown me from the saddle; and I noticed that he limped a little afterward; but I thought it was nothing serious, and had almost forgotten the circumstance. This I explained, in a few words, to the hostler, who drew a long breath, as if a mighty load had been removed from his breast. After rubbing the animal's leg with some liniment, which I had brought with me, I saw him plentifully fed and bedded down, and returned to the tavern. After spending an hour listening to the 'yarns' of the occupants of the bar-room, I went up to bed, and was soon fast asleep. Near the middle of the night, I was aroused by loud voices under my window; and, as soon as I was fairly awake, I found that something unusual was going on. The shrill, frightened voices of the females mingled with the hoarse ejaculations of the men, and every thing appeared to be in the greatest confusion. I sprang out of bed, and after hastily drawing on my clothes, ran down into the bar-room. "'What's the matter, landlord?' I inquired of my host, as he hurried by me, pale and almost breathless with excitement. "'Matter!' he repeated. 'Come and see. Giles Barlow has been around again, and there is one poor fellow less in the world, I'm afraid.' "He led the way to a small bed-room, which opened off the bar-room, where I found several persons crowded around a bed, on which lay the form of a man, and a surgeon was engaged in bandaging an ugly-looking wound, which he had received in his breast. As soon as the operation was completed, he informed us, in reply to an inquiry of one of the bystanders, that the wound was dangerous, but that by careful nursing the man might recover; and ended by requesting us to leave the room, as much depended on his being kept quiet. We moved back into the bar-room, and I inquired of one of the men who Giles Barlow was. "'Why, don't you know?' he asked, in surprise. 'I thought everybody had heard of him! I guess you are a stranger in these parts, ain't you?' "I replied in the affirmative. "'You must live a good piece from here,' said the man, 'or you would certainly have heard of Giles Barlow. He is a highwayman, that has been about here for almost ten years, murdering folks and stealing their money. He goes on the principle that "dead men tell no tales."' "'Why haven't you arrested him before this time?' I inquired. "'O, yes,' answered the man, 'that's all easy enough to talk about. Haven't we tried that game? We've hunted him with rifles, and tracked him with blood-hounds, but you might as well try to catch a will-o'-the-wisp.' "'What sort of a looking man is he?' I asked. "'He's a small man,' answered my informant, 'and looks like a dried-up mullen-stalk. But, the Lord love you, he's quick as lightning, and he's got an eye that can look right through a common man. And such hair! It is long and curly, and looks like snakes stuck on his head. I've seen him once, and I never want to meet him alone in the woods, now, I tell you.' "I felt some curiosity to know something more of this noted robber, but before I could ask another question the man had walked away, shrugging his shoulders, and joined a group of his companions, who stood in one corner of the room, talking over the matter. "After the exciting scenes through which I had just passed, sleep was of course out of the question; and I stretched myself out on a bench by the fireplace, and waited impatiently for the morning. It came at length, and, as was my usual custom, I hurried out to the stable to look after my horse. I found him much better, but his leg was still swollen, and I knew that he would not be in good traveling condition for at least a week. "'Landlord,' I exclaimed, as I entered the bar-room, 'where can I hire a horse for two or three days? I must be in Bennington by day after to-morrow, and my horse is too lame to travel.' "'Well,' said the landlord, 'you are in a nice fix. I don't believe there is a horse about here you can get.' "'I must have one,' I answered, 'for I must be in Bennington as soon as possible.' "'Well, I'll see what I can do for you,' said the landlord, and, going to the door, he shouted to the hostler, who stood in the stable, rubbing down my horse, 'Tom, go over to Bill Parker's and see if you can get his mare. Tell him there's a gentleman here who wants to hire her for two or three days.' "Tom started off immediately, but soon returned with the information that Mr. Parker had gone off into the country to buy cattle, and would not return in less than a week. "What should I do? I had an important case to attend to in Bennington, and must be there in time. I was about making up my mind that I would start off on foot, when the landlord suddenly exclaimed: "'I'll tell you what you can do. This creek' (pointing to a wide, deep stream which flowed by a little distance from the tavern) 'runs within half a mile of where you want to go; and I guess you might hire Jim Hilton's boat.' "Mr. Hilton's dwelling was pointed out to me, and, in a few moments, I found my man chopping wood in the yard. I made known my wants. After rolling his quid about in his mouth, he concluded to let me have the boat, or rather dugout, provided I would 'do the fair thing' by him. To this I readily agreed. After giving emphatic directions as to the treatment of my horse, I stepped into the canoe, and was soon out of sight of the tavern. I used my paddle with a will, and made good headway. When I became weary, I would cease paddling, and allow the canoe to glide along with the current, giving only an occasional stroke to direct its course. "About noon, I began to grow hungry, and turned the canoe's head toward the shore, to eat my dinner and rest myself, for I had become very tired from the cramped position in which I was obliged to sit. In about an hour I made preparations to continue my journey, and was about pushing the canoe from the shore, when a strong, cheery voice called out: "'Hallo, friend! whither bound?' "I looked up, and saw a man, dressed in the garb of a hunter, standing on the bank above me, leaning on his rifle. "'I am going to Bennington,' I replied. "'Are you? That's lucky. I am traveling in the same direction. Would you have any objections to good company?' "'No sir,' I replied. 'Come on.' "The hunter came down the bank; depositing his rifle and knapsack carefully in the bow of the canoe, he took up one of the paddles, and we pulled from the shore. As soon as we got out into the current, I turned, with some casual remark, to take a nearer look at my passenger. Merciful Heaven! how I started! He was a small man, considerably below the medium hight, very slim, but well formed, and wiry as an eel, and the enormous muscles on his limbs showed plainly with every motion he made. But his eye! How it flashed! and when he turned it on me I felt as though he were reading my very thoughts. And then there were the long 'snaky' ringlets, which the man at the tavern had described to me. My companion was none other than Giles Barlow, the highwayman and murderer. "You may be sure I was not very well pleased with this discovery, and the cold sweat started out from every pore of my body; still I did not feel afraid, for I was accustomed to scenes of danger, was well armed, and had the reputation of being a tough customer to handle. But the situation in which I was placed would have tried stronger nerves than mine. I thrust my hand into my pocket, and felt that my revolvers were safe. I concluded that, if the worst came to the worst, I could at least have two pulls at him before he could reach me; and, as I was a good shot, I had little fear of missing my mark. "My companion was a very jolly fellow, and joked and laughed as though he felt extremely happy, and I, of course, joined with him, keeping a close watch on all his movements. "The afternoon wore slowly away, and as it began to grow dark, I became doubly watchful, for I knew that if he intended to make an attempt upon my life, the time was approaching. About nine o'clock my companion suddenly said, as he wound up one of his stories: "'There's no need of both of us sitting up. It's a good forty miles to Bennington, and we shan't reach it before morning.' "'Very well,' said I, 'you may go to sleep first, and I will call you at midnight.' "'O, no,' said he, 'I'm not in the least sleepy; I will steer the canoe, and you can lie down here in the bow, and sleep as long as you like.' "Of course it would not answer for me to raise any objections to this, for I knew it would arouse his suspicions; so we changed places, and the highwayman took his seat in the stern of the canoe. After wrapping my cloak around me, and placing myself so that I could see every motion he made, I drew one of my revolvers, and waited impatiently to see what course things would take. "For almost an hour my companion steered the boat very well, and I began to think that perhaps I had been mistaken in my man, when I saw him carefully draw in his paddle, muttering, as he did so: "'Ah, my chicken, you little thought that you had Giles Barlow for a passenger. I'll just quietly douse your glim, and take what money and other little valuables you may have, to pay your traveling expenses to the other world.' "As he spoke, he bent over and drew out of his knapsack a long, shining bowie-knife, and, after trying its edge with his thumb, rose slowly to his feet. In an instant, I threw aside my cloak, and, supporting myself on my elbow, I raised my revolver, and took a quick, steady aim at his breast. He uttered a cry of surprise, but without hesitating a moment, threw himself forward. But the sharp report of the revolver echoed through the woods, and the robber sank back into the canoe, dead. "I arrived at Bennington the next morning about ten o'clock, and delivered the body to the authorities. The news spread like wildfire, for the name of Giles Barlow was as familiar as a household word. "I prosecuted my case with success, and, in a week, returned to the place where I had left my horse. He had received excellent care, and was entirely cured of his lameness; but the landlord stubbornly refused any remuneration. He had heard of my exploit, and that was his way of showing his gratitude." CHAPTER III. An Indian Hunt. The next morning, a little after daylight, Frank awoke, and, raising himself on his elbow, he gazed about him. The storm had ceased, and the morning was clear and intensely cold. The fire, however, still burned brightly, for the boys had replenished it several times during the night. His companions, comfortably wrapped up in their thick blankets, were sleeping soundly; but Frank thought it was high time they were stirring, for they had a good twenty miles to travel that day; so, reaching over, he seized Archie by the shoulder and shook him. The long tramp of the previous day had wearied the boys considerably; but with several hearty shakes, Frank succeeded in getting them all on their feet; then, after washing his hands and face in the snow, he commenced to prepare their breakfast. After a good deal of yawning and stretching, the others began to bestir themselves; and while Archie cut a supply of wood, with which to cook their breakfast, George and Harry busied themselves in packing their baggage on the sleds. As soon as they had eaten breakfast, they put out the fire, and renewed their journey. The traveling was much more difficult than it had been the day before, for the snow was piled on the ice in deep drifts, and it was dark before they reached Uncle Joe's cabin. As they approached, they were welcomed by the old trapper's dogs, and Uncle Joe finally appeared at the door. "Get out, you whelps!" he exclaimed. "Who's that a comin' there?" he continued, trying to peer through the darkness. "Friends," answered Frank. "Jeroomagoot!" ejaculated the old man, who recognized Frank's voice. "What are you boys doin' out in these woods this time o' night? Come in--glad to see you any how," and Uncle Joe seized their hands as they came up, and shook them heartily. "What have you got on them sleds--your plunder?" "Yes," answered Archie. "That's a new way we have got of carrying our baggage." "Fetch it right into the house then, boys;" and, suiting the action to the word, Uncle Joe seized the sleds and pulled them into the cabin. "Bars and buffalers!" exclaimed a voice, as the boys entered. "How de do youngsters?" and a tall, powerfully built man arose from his chair, and, striding across the floor, approached the boys. It was Dick Lewis--Uncle Joe's brother. He was a fine specimen of a North American trapper; fully six feet in hight, with a frame that seemed capable of enduring any amount of fatigue. Thirty years among savage beasts, and still more savage men, had brought him in contact with almost every variety of danger. He had hunted and trapped on every little stream between the Rio Grande and the Great Bear Lake; had taken more than one rough-and-tumble fight with Rocky Mountain grizzlies; was very expert with the rifle; could throw the tomahawk with all the skill of an Indian; and could lasso and ride the wildest horse that ever roamed the prairie. He was a good-natured, jovial fellow, and when stretched out on his blanket before the cheerful camp-fire, no one delighted more to tell stories and crack jokes than he. He used to say that there was but one thing in the world he hated, and that was an Indian. And good cause had he for enmity; for, if the prairie and the deep, dark woods could speak, they could tell of many a deed of cruelty which he had seen practiced upon the unoffending trappers. Dick had three times been bound to the stake, once when a mere boy, and had escaped by making use of his prodigious strength, and almost incredible swiftness of foot, which had won for him, from the Indians, the appellation of Big Thunder. Of all the trappers, none was more active in punishing the Indians, or more hated and feared than he. One night, mounted on a powerful, well-trained mustang, he would appear, in spite of their vigilance, in their very midst, picking off their favorite chiefs, or "stampeding" their swiftest horses; and the next morning a warrior, seated at his solitary camp-fire, fifty miles away, would be startled by the crack of the rifle that was to start his spirit on its way to the happy hunting-grounds. He seemed to delight in danger, and being perfectly acquainted with the Indian mode of warfare, he eluded all the plans to capture him, with the same skill and cunning he would exhibit in laying his own. But he did not always escape unhurt, for many an ugly scar on his body bore evidence to the valor of his enemies, and the severity of the struggles in which he had engaged. He did not call Uncle Joe's his home. He had lived on the prairie, and among the mountains, from boyhood, and despising the ordinary modes of conveyance used by more enlightened men, he had traveled the entire distance, from the head-waters of the Missouri to his brother's cabin, on foot. "How are you, youngsters? I say," he exclaimed, continuing his greeting, which we have so unceremoniously interrupted; and he seized Frank's hand, and gave it a gripe and a shake, which he felt for a quarter of an hour afterward. "Draw a cheer up to the fire, young'uns," said Uncle Joe, "an' set down." The boys were well acquainted with the trappers, and always made themselves quite at home with them; so, after brushing the snow from their feet, they pulled off their overcoats and seated themselves before the huge fireplace. The cabin--or, as Uncle Joe called it, "shantee"--was built in the most primitive style, having but one room and a "loft," to which access was obtained by a ladder. There were four beds in the room--rude-looking, indeed, but very clean, and abundantly supplied with quilts and blankets; while around on the walls hung the trappers' rifles, hunting-knives, and powder-horns. Three large dogs lay stretched out before the fireplace, and one of them, a huge, powerful animal, was the only companion Dick had had for three years. He was an ungainly looking animal, but his strength and courage had been severely tested in many a desperate encounter, and twice he had saved his master's life. No wonder, then, that he held a prominent place in the trapper's affections. The only other inmates of the cabin were the four hired men--tall, brawny fellows, who despised the city, with its "eternal jostlings and monotonous noises," but delighted in the freedom and solitude of the forest. "Had any supper, youngsters?" inquired Uncle Joe, as the boys drew their chairs up to the fire. "No, I reckon not," he continued, without giving them time to reply. "Bob, just fetch out some grub. I'll bet the boys are as hungry as wolves, after their long tramp." The boys did not raise any objections, for they _were_ hungry, and they knew that the supper they would get would be worth having. Bob, who was one of the hired men, began to bustle about, and, after hanging the tea-kettle over the fire, he drew out a pine table, and covered it with a snow-white cloth, and dishes which shone in the fire-light in a manner that would have delighted a New England housewife. Then came ham and eggs, which, with the coffee, were cooked in the fireplace, wheat-bread, honey, and fresh butter and milk. Although they were forty miles from any settlement or neighbor, in the midst of an almost unbroken forest, there was no danger but what they would fare well, for Uncle Joe was famous for good living. The boys ate very heartily, and Uncle Joe sat by, smoking his pipe, and watching them with evident satisfaction. After supper, while they were engaged in unpacking their sleds, Dick's dog, which answered to the name of Useless, arose suddenly to his feet, looked toward the door for a moment, and uttered a dismal howl. "Injuns ag'in, by all that's miserable," ejaculated Dick, removing his pipe from his mouth, and instinctively reaching toward his rifle, which hung on the wall above his head; but instantly recollecting himself, he resumed his former position, while a dark scowl settled on his face. In a few moments, light steps sounded in the snow outside the cabin, and Useless bounded toward the door barking, and showing his teeth, with every demonstration of rage. "Come back here, dog," said Dick; "I don't blame you, 'cause they are a mean, thievin' race. The animal understands their natur' as well as I do," he continued, as the dog reluctantly returned to his place. "Me an' him war brought up to hate Injuns, an' we believe in makin' war on 'em wherever we find 'em. It's a mighty wonder that they don't steal Joe out o' house an' home." The country around Moosehead Lake was inhabited by the remnant of a once-powerful tribe, and the Indians, in going to and from the settlements to dispose of their furs, frequently made Uncle Joe's cabin a stopping-place. Dick was not at all pleased with this state of affairs; but, as he often remarked, he was not "boss of the shantee, and couldn't help himself." The footsteps drew nearer, and finally the door opened softly, and two Indians entered. "How are you, Jim," exclaimed Uncle Joe, shaking the outstretched hand of the foremost. "How de do, brother," replied the Indian, in imperfect English; and this was all the greeting that passed between them. They deposited their rifles and packs carefully in one corner of the cabin, and then advanced to the fire, and seated themselves on the floor without saying a word. They were dressed in the regular Indian costume, with leggins, moccasins, and hunting-shirts of the finest deer-skin, gaudily ornamented, and wore knives in their belts. Such sights were not new to the boys, for Lawrence was a regular Indian trading-post. Frank thought that he had never seen such fine specimens of savages before. But different thoughts seemed to be passing through Dick's mind, for he twisted uneasily in his chair, and smoked and scowled more vigorously than ever. Useless seated himself by his master's side, and watched them as closely as a cat ever watched a mouse, now and then uttering a low, angry growl. Neither of the Indians took part in the conversation that followed, but, after emptying their pipes, they spread their blankets out on the floor, and were fast asleep in a few moments. "I don't see what in tarnation you let them ar painted heathen camp in your shantee in this way for," said Dick, at length, addressing himself to his brother. "The woods are open, an' they won't ketch cold by sleepin' out-doors." "O, I don't mind it," answered Uncle Joe. "Me an' the Injuns allers have been on good terms together." "Wal, you'll wake up some mornin' an' find your shantee gone," said Dick, "unless it is fastened down tarnation tight. I hate the rascals wusser nor pisen, an' I allers ache to begin a knock-down-an'-drag-out fight with 'em whenever I see 'em. Now, Useless," he continued, turning to his dog, and speaking as though the animal could understand every word he said, "I'm goin' to bed, an' I want you to keep an eye on them fellers;" and Dick stretched his heavy frame out on one of the beds, while Useless crawled under the blankets, and lay down beside him. The others soon followed his example, and, in a few moments, nothing was heard in the cabin but the regular breathing of the sleepers. The next morning the boys slept later than usual. When they awoke, they found Bob engaged in getting breakfast. The Indians had gone. According to their usual custom, they had resumed their journey at the first peep of day. Dick sat by the fire, engaged in looking over his "plunder," as he called it, to see if any thing had been stolen. "Wal," said Uncle Joe, as they arose from the breakfast-table, "what do you youngsters kalkerlate to do first?" "Let's go and set our traps for foxes," said Archie, who was particularly fond of hunting that kind of game, and had become quite proficient in the art. "Wal," said Dick, "I'll go with you. I have some traps that need 'tendin' to;" and the trapper took down his long rifle and thrust his never-failing pipe into his pocket, and was ready for the start. Archie began to overhaul his traps, which had been piled in one corner of the cabin. He looked them over and over several times, and finally inquired: "Frank, do you know what has become of all my fox traps? Three of them are missing." "They ought to be in that pile with the others," answered Frank. "There are only two of them here," said Archie. "My best ones are gone; I'm afraid we have lost them. They must have got loose, and tumbled off the sled." "No, I guess not," said his cousin; "they were all there last night, for I counted them." "That ar is what comes of allowin' them Injuns to camp here," said Dick. "Jeroomagoot!" ejaculated Uncle Joe. "You don't s'pose them Injuns stole the traps, do you?" "Sartin, I do," answered Dick, dropping the butt of his rifle heavily to the floor. "I don't s'pose nothin' else." "Wal, it's the first thing I ever had stole," said Uncle Joe. "Thar's whar the traps have gone to, any how," said Dick. "Useless," he continued, turning to his dog, "you aint worth a pinch o' gunpowder. I told you to watch them fellers. I don't see how the rascals could do it, for if Useless had seed one of 'em prowlin' around, he would have muzzled him quicker nor lightnin'. If you want your traps, youngsters, you'll have to foller them Injuns. I'll go with you." "Will you," exclaimed Archie. "Then, let's start right off." "Wal, then," said the trapper, "pull off them overcoats, 'cause it 'ill be the hardest job you ever done to ketch them Injuns." There was something novel and exciting in the idea of a chase after Indians. The boys had often read of such things, and now there was an opportunity for them to take part in one. They were soon ready for the chase. Shouldering their guns, they followed Dick from the cabin, and immediately set out on the trail of the Indians, which could be easily followed by the prints of their moccasins in the snow. All the dogs were left at home, except Useless; for he was the only one that understood "Injun hunting," and the others would only be in the way. The trail ran directly down to the creek, and as soon as they were fairly on the ice, the trapper broke into a "dog trot," and the boys followed close behind him, in Indian file. After going a little way, Frank said: "Dick, I don't believe that both of those Indians went this way." "Why not?" inquired the trapper. "Because there is only a single track, such as one person would make." "I guess you haven't hunted Injuns much," said Dick, with a laugh. "Don't you know that when they are travelin', the hindermost ones step exactly in the leader's tracks? If fifty Injuns had been along here, they would not have left a bigger trail nor those two have. But arter you have hunted and fit 'em as much as I have, you could tell by lookin' at a trail how many there was in the party. I hope you youngsters are good at runnin'." "We should not care about running a race with you," answered George; "but if you will hold this gait, we will agree to keep up with you." "O, you'll have to go faster nor this, if you want to ketch them Injuns," said Dick. "See here--here's where the rascals began to run." "How can you tell?" inquired Archie. "Why, easy enough. You see the tracks are further apart nor they wur a little piece back. Come, youngsters! let out a little." The boys thought that Dick "let out" a good deal, for he almost redoubled his pace, and they concluded it was best to discontinue their talking; for they soon found that they had no breath to waste. After they had gone about two miles, the trail led them from the creek off into the woods; and, in a few moments, the trapper came to a stand-still on the bank of a small stream, where the trail abruptly ended. "Where did they go to?" inquired Frank, after he had looked in vain for the trail. "They couldn't have jumped across the creek." "No;" answered the trapper, "that would be a better jump nor I ever saw made. We must go back." "What for?" asked George. "Why, the thieves knowed that we would foller 'em, an' they have doubled on their trail, just like a fox." "The tracks all point the same way," said Frank, stooping down and examining the trail. "In course they do," said Dick. "You don't s'pose you can tell by the looks of a red-skin's track which way he is goin', do you? I have knowed 'em to travel backward for more 'n a mile, to throw their enemies off the scent. But we hain't got no time to waste. Come on." The boys followed the trapper back to the creek, and he immediately started off again at a rapid pace. There was not the least sign of a trail, and they were at a loss how to account for the trapper's reasons for following the creek, when he knew that the trail ran back into the woods. At length he said, by way of explanation: "This is takin' a short cut on the Injuns. You see, they went back into the woods, an' doubled an' twisted about on their trail, an' when they think they have fooled us nicely, they will come back to the creek again." The next two miles were passed over in silence. The boys could not have talked if they had wished to, for the rapid pace was telling on them severely, and they began to think that they had never known what running was. But the trapper did not seem to mind it in the least. His motions were easy and graceful, and he appeared to move along without making any exertion whatever. They ran until almost noon, without seeing any signs of the Indians, and the boys began to think that the trapper had been mistaken in his calculations. But their doubts were soon removed by the finding of the trail. "Hurry on now, youngsters," exclaimed Dick; "but don't make too much noise, for the redskins aint far off." And so it proved; for the next bend in the creek brought them in sight of the Indians, who were walking leisurely along, with their packs on their backs, thinking, no doubt, that they had effectually eluded pursuit. But they soon became aware of the approach of the hunters, and, without stopping to look back, they commenced running at the top of their speed. "Bars an' buffalers!" exclaimed the trapper. "This is somethin' like ole times. Now, youngsters, I'll show you some runnin' as is runnin'. Come, Useless, show us what you're made of." The dog seemed to understand him perfectly, and was off on the instant, and the trapper followed after him at a rate of speed which the boys had never expected to see accomplished by a human being. The creek, for almost a mile, was perfectly straight, and afforded them a fine view of the race, which was worth going miles to see. The Indians were no inferior runners; and, as they had nearly three hundred yards the start of Dick, the boys were doubtful as to the manner in which the chase would end. But the trapper had lost none of that lightness of foot which had rendered him so famous, both among friends and foes, and before they had gone half a mile, he was near enough to seize one of the Indians, while Useless pulled down the other as though he had been a deer. The boys had been doing their best; but, of course, were left far behind; and when they came up they found the Indians standing as motionless as statues, apparently perfectly unconcerned, and the trapper and his dog were keeping guard over them. "Now, little 'un," said Dick, addressing himself to Archie, and pointing to the packs which the Indians had thrown down, "look in them ar bundles an' see if you can find your traps." Archie accordingly handed his gun to his cousin, and, kneeling down in the snow, opened one of the packs, when the first thing he discovered was his missing property. He arose slowly to his feet, and surveying the Indian to whom the pack belonged, with a comical expression on his face, said: "You're a grand rascal. I've a good notion to take the ramrod out of my gun and give you a good trouncing." The Indian was a man fully as large as Dick, very powerfully built, and muscular; while Archie was a little, "spindle-shanked" fellow, very small for his age, and looked as though he were in danger of being carried away by the first gust of wind that passed. The former, after regarding the diminutive hunter for a moment, with an expression of contempt, drew himself up to his full hight, and ejaculated: "Ugh! me big Injun." He, no doubt, considered it a gross insult that a person of Archie's proportions should talk of "trouncing" him. "Wal," said the trapper, "we're done with you, you painted niggers; travel on about your business; but I wouldn't advise you to cross my trail, in these woods, this winter;" and Dick tapped his rifle in a very significant manner. The savages raised their packs to their shoulders without making any reply, and walked off as though nothing had happened. As soon as they were out of sight, Archie packed up his traps, and the hunters turned their faces homeward. CHAPTER IV. THE "OLE SETTLER". It was dark before they reached the cabin, but they found a good supper waiting for them. After they had eaten heartily, they drew their chairs up around the fireplace, and Uncle Joe inquired: "Wal, youngsters, how do you like Injun-huntin'?" "I don't believe we like it well enough to try it again," said Harry. "I never was so completely tired out in my life." "O, that wasn't nothin' at all," said Dick. "Such Injun-huntin' as that we had to-day is fun. What would you have thought if we had follered them thieves for a week afore we found 'em? But, I must say, that you youngsters done very well. I'll own up, that when we started, I thought I would see what sort o' stuff you wur made of; an' I thought I'd stretch your legs for you in a way that would make you give in. But you fellers are purty good shakes at runnin', for boys of your age. But this reminds me o' a scrape I onct had near the Colorado River. Do yer see this? If you can ketch as many grizzly bars in your lifetime as this trap has, you are smarter nor I think you are. This is what I call the 'Ole Settler!'" And, as the trapper spoke, he raised from the floor the object of his admiration, and held it up to the view of the boys. It was an ordinary bear-trap, with double springs, and huge jaws, which were armed with long, sharp teeth. It had received a thorough rubbing and greasing, and shone in the fire-light like silver; but, after all, there was nothing uncommon in its appearance. There were plenty of traps in the cabin that were quite as well made, and could, probably, do quite as much execution. In the trapper's mind, however, the "Ole Settler" was evidently associated with some exciting event. "The reason why I call this trap the 'Ole Settler'" continued Dick, "is, 'cause it has been in the service so long. My gran'father bought it, when he war only a boy, of a Mexikin trader, an' he give two ten-dollar bar-skins for it. When he got too ole to trap, he give it to my father, an' he give it to me. It has been stole from me a good many times; but I allers made out to get it back agin. Onct a yaller-hided Mexikin Greaser bagged it, an' I didn't set eyes on it for more 'n a year; but I knowed it in a minit when I did see it; an', arter a little brush with the Greaser, I made him give it up. The last time I lost it war while I war trappin' in Utah. It war stole from me by a Blackfoot Injun; and the way it happened war this: "I allers had the name of bein' able to bring into market jest as many an' jest as fine furs as any trapper in the mountains. But I had a good many good trappers to go agin, and arter awhile my huntin'-grounds begun to give out; so, one summer, I packed my plunder, an' moved to the west side of the mountains. I war right in the heart of the Pawnee region, the wust Injun country in the world; but I kalkerlated to get all my trappin' done arly in the spring, an' move out; 'cause as soon as the ice breaks up in the spring, the red-skins allers come round on a grand hunt, an' I didn't care to have the rascals near me. I never yet see the Injun that I war afeared of, but it's mighty onpleasant to have them around; they go screechin' through the woods, shootin' at a feller, when he can't see 'em, an' steal his traps an' other plunder in a mighty onfriendly way. "Wal, in less than a week arter I got to my new quarters, I war settled. I had all my traps sot in the best places, an' had mighty good luck. The streams war full of beaver, otter, an' mink, an' I used to have a fight with the grizzlies in the mountains every day. In this way the winter passed; an' about the time that spring come, I had well-nigh trapped every thing in the valley. It war gettin' about time for the Injuns to come round on their reg'lar hunts; so one mornin,' arter a good breakfast on buffaler hump, I started out an' begun to gather up my traps. A'most every one had some kind o' game in it, an' I soon got as big a load as I could wag under. So I started back for camp. I war goin' along mighty keerless like, an' wasn't thinkin' o' nothin', when all to onct I seed something that made me prick up my ears, an' step a little lighter. I see that something had been passin' through the bushes. You, in course, wouldn't have noticed it, but I knowed in a minit that an Injun had been along; an', arter lookin' around a little, I found his track. It wasn't a Pawnee; but, arter examinin' the trail, I found that it war a Blackfoot. What one of them should be doin' so far from home I didn't know, but most likely he war layin' around for scalps. "'Wal,' thinks I, 'Dick Lewis, you had better be lookin' out for them traps o' yourn;' so I hid my spelter in the bushes, an' started up toward the mountains. I had sot the Ole Settler the day before, to ketch a grizzly that had been botherin' me a good deal, an' I war afeared the Injun would come acrost it an' bag it. I saw plenty of Injun signs all the way, but the tracks had all been made by the same feller. I could see, by the way the rascal had moved, that he knowed I war in the valley; for he took mighty good care to cover up his trail as much as possible. Arter a few minits' walk, I come to the place where I had set the Ole Settler; but, just as I had expected, the trap war gone. The Blackfoot had been there afore me, an' I knowed that if I wanted my trap, I must look for it; an' I made up my mind that I did want it, an' that I would have it, if I had to foller the Injun clar to his home. So I started arter him, an', for a mile or so, the trail was toler'ble plain, an' I got along first-rate. I made up my mind that if the thief got away from me he would have to be smarter nor I thought he war. But, at last, I come to where he had tuk to a swamp, an' two or three times I come mighty nigh losin' the trail. The swamp war full o' logs, an' the Injun had walked on them, an', in course, he didn't leave no trail. I follered him more 'n a mile by the marks on the bushes, an' finally I couldn't see a single sign. There war the print of one of his moccasins in the mud as plain as daylight; an' there the trail ended. I couldn't tell which way the rascal had gone. I looked around, examinin' every bush an' twig, but it war no use. Now, I s'pose you think I war beat at the Injun's own game, don't you? Wal, I wasn't. In course, I couldn't find the trail in the swamp; but I knowed which way the Blackfoot war goin', an' if I crossed the swamp, I knowed that I would find it on the other side. So I started out, an' as it war gettin' late, I wanted to find the trail agin afore dark. I guess I made purty good time. I done my best, an' the way I got through that swamp war a thing to look at. The runnin' you see to-day wasn't a patchin' to the runnin' I done that night. But I tuk mighty good care to keep my ears open, an' to make no more noise than I could help; for, just as like as not, there war Injuns in the swamp, an' one of 'em might take it into his head to send a chunk of lead into me when I couldn't see him. "About an hour afore dark, I reached the other side of the swamp; an' in less nor ten minits more I had found the trail, and wur follerin' it up as fast as my legs could carry me. But afore I had gone a mile it begun to grow dark. In course, I couldn't foller the trail no further; an' the only thing I could do, war to camp down where I war, an' wait for daylight. So, arter makin' my supper out o' parched corn, I picked out a nice place by the side of a log, and settled myself down to sleep. "The next mornin', bright and arly, I war up, an' on the trail agin. I follered it all day, without onct stoppin' or losin' sight of it, an' about night it begun to grow fresher; but it came on dark agin, and I had to camp. Long about midnight I heerd a sort of rustlin' like in the bushes. I war wide awake in a minit; for a feller that lives in the woods larns to keep his ears about him. I lifted my head an' listened. Yes, thar war no mistake--I could hear something steppin' keerfully over the leaves, an' I thought it war comin' right toward me. At first I thought it war some wild varmint; but, as it come nigher, I found that it war a two-legged critter; so I cocked my rifle an' waited for the Injun--for I knowed by the step that it war a red-skin--to come in sight. The steps sounded nigher an' nigher, an' all to onct the bushes parted without any noise, an' out come the biggest Blackfoot that it ever war my luck to set eyes on. He didn't seem to know that me an' my rifle war around; if he had, I reckon it wouldn't have made him feel very pleasant; but he walked past, within ten foot of me, an' disappeared in the darkness. "Now, perhaps you would like to know why I didn't up and shoot him. Wal, I'll tell you. That would have jest knocked the hul thing in the head, an' I should have had all my trouble for nothin'. I knowed that the Injun that stole my trap wasn't a great way off, and I knowed, too, that the feller that jest passed war a sort of friend of his'n, an' that they war goin' to meet somewhere in the woods close by. So I thought that perhaps, if I took matters easy, I could rub out both of the rascals. "As soon as the Injun wur out o' hearin', I picked myself up, an' started along arter him, purty certain that before long I would come in sight of their camp-fire; an' I wasn't mistaken I hadn't gone half a mile afore I see a light shinin' through the trees; an' droppin' on all-fours, I begun to crawl along through the bushes, until I come to a place where I had a full view of the fire. As I had expected, there war two Injuns settin' by it. One of them--the one that had just passed me--war eaten' his supper, an' the other lay stretched out on his blanket, and war showin' his friend the trap he had stole from me; an' they war both laughin' over it, as though they thought it war a mighty good joke. This kinder riled me, an' I knowed that I could soon put an end to their skylarkin'. I might have shot one of them where he sot easy enough, but that wouldn't do, for the other would have escaped, an' I wanted to make sure of both of 'em. I wasn't fool enough to think of walkin' into their camp an' tacklin' both of 'em to onct; they would have made an end of me in the shake of a buck's tail. The only way I could work it war to get 'em apart, an' take 'em one at a time. So I dropped my rifle an' drawed my knife, an' gave two loud yells, which war a signal to let the Injuns know that one of 'em war wanted. They both sprang to their feet an' listened for a moment, an' one of 'em--the one that had stole my trap--picked up his rifle and come toward me; an' the other went on eatin' his supper. "I waited until the Injun had come within ten foot of me, then all to onct I stepped out from behind my tree an' stood before him. Bar an' buffaler! how the rascal started! He looked at me for a minit, as if to make sure that I war a human critter, an' then, givin' an unarthly yell, he dropped his rifle, an' made at me with his tomahawk. But I met him half way, an' ketchin' hold of the hand that held the tomahawk, I give him a stab with my knife that settled his business for him. He fell to the ground like a log, an' I had hardly time to grab my rifle afore I seed the big Injun comin' toward me. But he hadn't made more'n two steps, afore a chunk of lead brought him to the ground. "I then walked up to the camp, and stretched myself out on one of the Injuns' blankets; and arter makin' a good supper on a piece of venison I found hung up on a tree close by, I covered myself up, an' in a few minits war fast asleep. "The next mornin' I war up bright an' arly, an' pickin' up my trap, an' all the Injuns' plunder I wanted, I drew a bee-line for camp. In another day I had gathered up all the rest of my traps, without seein' any more Injun signs; but I knowed they would soon be around. As I didn't care about bein' in their company, an' as game war gettin' scarce, I tumbled all my spelter into my canoe, an' started down the river." CHAPTER V. The Fight in the Woods. The next morning, after breakfast, the trapper took down his long rifle, saying, as he did so: "Now, youngsters, I'm goin' off into the woods, about twenty mile or so, to camp out for a week, an' see if I can't find some otter. If you want good sport, you had better go, too. The game is gettin' too scarce around here to suit me." The boys readily agreed to this proposal, and began to talk of packing their sleds; but the trapper scouted the idea. "You'll never larn to be what I call woodsmen," said he, "until you get rid of some of your city notions. You must larn to tote all your plunder on your backs. Just fill your possible-sacks[1] with coffee and bread; take plenty of powder an' shot, a change of clothes, an ax or two, an' some blankets, and that's all you need." [Footnote 1: Haversack.] These simple preparations were soon completed, and, after bidding Uncle Joe good-by, they set out, accompanied by their dogs. Dick carried the "Old Settler," and had his blanket strapped fast to his belt. Frank and George each carried an ax. Archie had several of his fox-traps, which he could not think of leaving behind; and Harry brought up the rear, carrying a large bundle of blankets. Besides these necessary articles, the boys carried their shot-guns, and the trapper his long rifle. Dick led the way directly up the creek, following the same course they had taken the day before in pursuit of the Indians, for about ten miles, and then struck off into the woods. About noon they halted in a little grove of evergreens, and the trapper said: "We'll camp here for awhile, youngsters, an' eat our dinner." The boys were very glad to hear this; for, strong and active as they were, they found that they were no match for Dick in traveling. Archie and George leaned their guns up against a tree, took the axes, and commenced to clear away a place where they could build a fire. "Now," said the trapper, turning to the others, "we'll leave them here to 'tend to the camp, an' make a good cup of coffee for us agin we come back, an' the rest of us will take a tramp through the woods, an' see what we can get for dinner. Take different directions now, so as to scare up more game." The boys immediately set out as directed, each accompanied by his dog. Brave ran on ahead of his master, beating about through the bushes, but not a rabbit or squirrel showed himself. But Frank kept on, taking good care to remember the points of the compass, determined that he would not go back to the camp empty-handed. At length Brave's well-known bark caused him to start forward at a more rapid pace, and the next moment he heard some heavy animal crashing through the underbrush, just in advance of him, at a tremendous rate. The woods were so thick that Frank could not see the game, but the angry yelping of the dog told him that it was being closely pursued. Guided by the noise they made, he followed after them as fast as his legs could carry him, keeping a sharp look-out on all sides, for he did not know but that it might be a bear which the dog had started. He remembered his meeting with the wild-cat, but felt no fear now, for he had his trusty gun in his hand, heavily loaded with buck-shot, and knew, from experience, that, at short range, it was a very efficient weapon. His first care was to find the trail which the game had made, and, upon examination, he found that Brave had started, not a bear, but several moose. He knew their tracks in a moment, for he had often seen them in the woods; but he could not tell how many of them there were, for their trails crossed each other in every direction. He had never had the fortune to meet one of these animals, and his feelings were worked up to the highest pitch of excitement by the discovery. He started forward again at the top of his speed. The rapid pace of the game soon carried all sounds of the chase out of hearing; but Frank had no difficulty in following the trail. He had run nearly a mile, when the angry yelps of the dog sounded through the woods in fiercer and more abrupt echoes. Frank hurried forward, and soon came in sight of the game. The moose--a huge bull, with wide-spreading antlers--was standing at bay, and the dog was bounding around him, watching an opportunity to seize him, but was met at every point. Now and then the moose would lower his head, and rush upon his enemy, but the latter nimbly kept out of his way. Frank did not pause long to witness the battle, but immediately ran forward, holding his gun in readiness for a shot. The moose, upon discovering him, suddenly wheeled, and started off at a rapid trot. The snow in that part of the woods was nearly three feet deep, and was covered with a crust strong enough to sustain the hunter and his dog, but the moose sank into it at every step, and his trail could be easily traced by the blood which was running from numerous wounds on his legs, made by the sharp crust. He ran heavily, and Frank, who was exerting himself to his utmost, had the satisfaction of finding that he was gaining on him. Brave easily kept pace with him and finally succeeded in bringing the moose at bay again. This was what Frank wanted. Just as the deer was about to make a charge upon the dog, he fired, and the huge animal tumbled to the ground. The young hunter ran forward, intending to give him the contents of the other barrel, but, before he could fire, the moose staggered to his feet, and disregarding the attacks of the dog, which were renewed with redoubled fierceness and vigor, rushed straight upon the hunter, and bore him to the ground. In falling, Frank lost his gun. The enraged animal pressed upon the young hunter, burying his antlers in the snow on each side of him, holding him fast to the ground. Frank gave himself up for lost; but he determined that he would not yield his life without a struggle. He was unarmed, and the contest must be one of strength and endurance. Before the moose could draw back to make another charge upon him, Frank seized him by the antlers, and clung to them with all his strength. Brave seemed to understand the perilous situation in which his master was placed, and fought more furiously than ever. But the moose, although severely wounded by the teeth of the dog, did not appear to notice him in the least, but struggled desperately to free himself from the young hunter's grasp. Frank was dragged about through the snow, and pressed down into it, until his clothing was almost reduced to tatters; and he was severely wounded by the sharp crust and the hoofs of the enraged deer, which cut through his garments like a knife. It required all his strength to retain his hold. He did not seem to be in the least frightened; but the manner in which he clung to the moose, and cheered on the dog, showed that he well knew the danger of his situation. But he was growing weaker every moment, while the moose appeared to be growing proportionately stronger, and his struggles became more furious and determined. Frank knew that the animal would soon succeed in freeing himself, and then----. It was a horrible thought! At this moment he heard the noise of approaching feet on the crust, and a voice exclaimed, "Bars and buffaler! Hang on to the creetur jest a minute longer, youngster! Take 'em, dog! take 'em!" And the next instant a dark object bounded lightly over him, and commenced a furious battle with the moose. Benumbed and exhausted, Frank could hold out no longer. As the moose tore himself from his grasp, the young hunter saw him pulled to the ground by the trapper's dog, and then a mist gathered before his eyes, and he sank back on the snow insensible. When his consciousness returned, he found himself in a rudely-constructed hut, lying in front of a blazing fire, and so tightly wrapped up in blankets that he could scarcely breathe. Dick sat in one corner of the hut, smoking his pipe, and gazing vacantly into the fire. Brave lay stretched out by his master's side, with his head resting on his shoulder, gazing into his face with every expression of concern. As soon as Frank opened his eyes, the faithful animal announced the fact by a joyful bark, which brought all the boys into the hut. "How do you feel, Frank?" inquired Archie, whose pale face showed that he had more than a common interest in his cousin's well-being. "O! I'm all right," answered Frank, in a weak voice. "But you've got me bundled up so tight I can hardly breathe. I wish you would take a dozen or two of these blankets off." "No, you don't," said Dick, as the boys crowded up around Frank. "I believe I've got the bossin' of this yere job. Here," he continued, as he arose from his seat and approached his patient, "drink this;" and he raised Frank from his blankets with one hand, and, with the other, held to his lips a cup containing some of the most bitter stuff he had ever drank. The young hunter made wry faces over it, but succeeded in draining the cup. "Now," resumed Dick, "lay down agin an' go to sleep. Shut up! No back talk!" he continued, as Frank essayed to speak. "You musn't talk till I say you may;" and the rough but kind-hearted trapper laid him back on his bed, and, drawing the blankets more closely about him, left him to his meditations. He soon fell off into a refreshing slumber; and when he awoke it was dark, and his companions were seated around the fire, eating their supper. "Wal, youngster," said Dick, "how do you feel now?" "O! I'm much better," answered Frank; "and hungry as blazes. Won't you give a fellow some thing to eat?" "In course," said Dick; and he brought Frank some pieces of toast and a cup of coffee. "I don't like your style of doctoring a bit," said Frank, as the trapper carefully removed the blankets with which his patient was enveloped. "The remedies you use are worse than the disease. You've kept me wrapped up so tight that I am sore all over." "I shouldn't wonder," said the trapper, laughing heartily; "but that doesn't come of bein' wrapped up in the blankets. You war purty well chawed up when me an' Useless diskivered you." Dick raised Frank to a sitting posture, and, in spite of his objections, once more drew the blankets about him, allowing him, however, the free use of his arms; and the young hunter soon discovered that he was not quite so well as he had imagined, for sharp pains shot through his body, and he was so weak he could scarcely sit up. "I believe I had something of a fight with that moose, didn't I?" he inquired, as he broke off a piece of the toast. "I believe you did, judging from the looks of your clothes," answered Harry, as he laid down his plate, and took from a peg in one corner of the hut all that remained of Frank's garments. The coat and pants were torn almost into shreds, and covered with blood, and the sole of one of his boots had been pulled off by the sharp hoofs of the deer. Brave had also suffered severely, judging from the bloody bandages that he wore. "It was a narrow escape, wasn't it?" said Frank, as he gazed in astonishment at his tattered garments. "Yes, indeed," said Archie; "I shouldn't have cared about being in your boots just then. How you ever made out to get out of those clothes alive, is more than I can tell." "It war a careless trick," said Dick, "tacklin' that animal in that ar way. You ought to knowed better." "Well, we got the moose, didn't we?" inquired Frank. "Yes," answered George, chewing away at a large piece of meat; "and we are eating him up as fast as we can." As soon as Frank had finished his toast and coffee, he was glad to lie down again, for he was still very weak from the loss of blood. The others, after putting away the supper-dishes, replenished the fire, and stretched themselves out on their blankets. "How do you feel now, youngster?" asked the trapper, as he drew a brand from the fire and lit his pipe. "O! I guess I shall get along." "It's a'most time for you to take some more of your medicine." "I don't care about taking any more of it," answered Frank. "It's the meanest stuff I ever tasted." "It's Injun medicine," answered the trapper, as he sank back on his blanket, and puffed away vigorously at his pipe. "I remember," he continued, after a few moments' pause, "of doctorin' up my chum, Bill Lawson, an' that war the way me an' him come to get acquainted. But he war used to Injun doctorin', and didn't growl as much as you do. I've heered him tell of that scrape a hundred times; an' he used to tell it in this way: "'The way me an' Dick Lewis come to get together,' he used to say, 'war this. I war onct trappin' among the mountains on a little stream called Muddy Creek. It war about the wust bit of Injun country in the world; but they didn't bother me, an' I tuk mighty good care not to meddle with their corn an' beans, an' for a long time I had jest the best kind of luck in trappin'. Beaver were plenty as black flies in summer, an' the woods war chuck full o' otter, an' the mountains of grizzly bars an' black-tails, so I had plenty to do. "'I had made my camp in the woods, about a mile back from the creek where I war trappin', so as not to skeer away the game. Beaver is mighty skeery animals, an' don't like to have a feller trampin' around them all the while; and when a man sets a trap, he musn't go to it agin afore arly the next mornin', for if he does, the game soon gets mighty shy, an' the first thing the trapper knows, he'll have to hunt somewhere else for beaver. You see I knowed all this, an' so kept out of their way. I got along first-rate, until arly in the spring, jest as the ice begun to break up, an' hadn't seed nothin' of the Injuns. But one mornin', while I war on my way to 'tend to my traps, I seed the prints of some moccasins, where three or four fellers had crossed the creek. I knowed in a minit, from the looks of them, that they wasn't white fellers' tracks; so I begun to prick up my ears an' look around me a little. I examined the trail agin, an' I knowed there could be no mistake. The Comanches had been along there, sure. I begun beatin' keerfully around through the bushes, for I didn't know but that the tarnal red-skins war watchin' me all the time; when all to onct I come acrost another trail, which war as different from the first as a muskrat is different from a grizzly. It war a white feller's track. The tracks looked as though he had been crawlin' along on his hands an' knees, an' onct in awhile I could see the place where the butt of his rifle had trailed on the ground. I knowed in a minit that the white hunter, whoever he war, had been follerin' up the Injuns. "'"Wal," thinks I, "Bill Lawson, you had better keep an eye out for them traps o' yourn." So I begun to draw a bee-line through the woods toward the place where I had sot one o' my traps, keepin' my gun ready to put a chunk of lead into the first thing in the shape of an Injun that I should see. But instead o' goin' up to my trap in the way I generally did, I went round so as to come up on the other side. Purty soon I begun to come near the place where the trap was sot; so I dropped down on all-fours, an' commenced to crawl through the thick brush. I knowed I should have to be mighty keerful, for an Injun has got ears like a painter, an' he allers keeps 'em open, too. Wal, purty soon I poked my head over a log, an' peeked through the bushes; an' what do you think I seed? There war my trap, with a big beaver in it, ketched fast by the hind leg; an' right behind some big trees that stood near the trap war three Injuns, listenin', an' watchin', an' waitin' for me to come an' get my game. "'"That's the way you painted heathen watch for a white gentleman, is it," thinks I; "I'll fix some o' you." So I drawed my knife an' tomahawk, an' laid them on the ground beside me, an' then, arter examinin' my rifle to see that it war all right, I drawed a bead on the biggest Injun, an' fired. He rolled over, dead as a door nail, an' the others jumped up an' yelled like two screech owls. I didn't stop to ax no questions; but, throwin' away my rifle, I grabbed up my knife an' tomahawk, an' walked into 'em. "'They both fired as I came up--one missed, an' the other tuk me in the leg, an' kerflumux I come to the ground. The Injuns thought they had me now, sure, an' they came toward me, drawin' their knives an' yellin' like mad. But I war on my pins agin in less than no time; an', standin' as well as I could on my broken leg, I swung my tomahawk around my head, an' let fly at the nighest Injun. It tuk him plumb atween the eyes, an' I knowed that the work war done for him. But the next minit the other heathen clinched me, an', liftin' me off my legs, throwed me to the ground like a log. He had two legs to use, an' I had only one; there war where he had the advantage of me. But I had the use of my hands; an' I jest made up my mind that if he wanted my scalp he would have to work for it; so, quick as lightnin', I grabbed the hand that held the knife, an' give it a squeeze that actooally made the bones crack, an' the rascal give one yell, an' let go the weapon. Then, with the other hand, I ketched him by the scalp-lock, an' done my best to turn him, knowin' that if I could onct get on top of him, I would be all right; but I couldn't use my leg; so, thinks I, I'll hold him here awhile, an' I pulled his head down close to me. But I had bled so much that I begun to give out; an' the Injun, who hadn't made a move arter I got hold of his har, knowed that I war growin' weak, an' the first thing I knowed, he broke away from me, an' sprung to his feet. I tried to get up too, but the Injun grabbed up his knife, an' pinned me agin. I fit as well as I could, but the rascal knowed I couldn't do nothin'; and, placing one knee on my breast to hold me down, he put one hand to his mouth, an' give a loud yell. "'It war answered close by, an' somebody come out o' the bushes. At first I thought it war another Injun comin' up to help rub me out; but another look showed me that it war a white feller. He didn't stop to ax no questions, but made a dash at the Comanche, who got off me in a tarnal hurry, an' callin' out some name that showed that he knowed who the white feller war, he begun to make tracks; but he hadn't gone ten foot afore the trapper had him by the neck. The fight war mighty short, for the Comanche wasn't nowhere--the trapper handled him as though he had been a baby, an' in less than two minits he war a dead Injun.' "That's the way ole Bill used to tell his story," continued Dick; "an' he allers used to pint me out as the man that saved him. The white feller's trail that he seed by the creek war my own, an' I war follerin' up the Comanches. Wal, I tuk the old man back to his camp, an', arter two months' doctorin', I got him all right agin. When he got well, he wouldn't let me leave him, nor I didn't want to, for he war jest the kind of a man I wanted for a chum. He hated an Injun as bad as I did, an' I used to like to listen to the stories he told of his fights with them. How do you come on now, youngster?" "O! I feel pretty well," answered Frank, "only I'm a little weak." "You can thank your lucky stars that you wasn't rubbed out altogether," said the trapper, as he approached the young hunter. "Me an' Useless got there jest in time. But you won't allers be so lucky." After wrapping Frank up carefully in the blankets again, he knocked the ashes from his pipe, and sought his own couch. CHAPTER VI. The White Buck. It was a week before Frank was able to travel, during which time George and Archie had been sent back to Uncle Joe's after supplies of bread, coffee, and salt. Early one morning they again set out, the trapper leading the way more slowly than at the former part of the journey, so as not to weary his young companion. They halted at noon for dinner, and about four o'clock in the afternoon they reached a dilapidated cabin. "This yere is to be our camp for awhile," said Dick, throwing his rifle into the hollow of his arm. "I camped here last winter; but I see the shantee is well-nigh broke down. But we can soon set it to rights agin." They leaned their guns against the logs of the cabin, and Archie and George cut down some saplings with which to repair the roof; while the others cleared out the old pine boughs that covered the floor, and erected a new crane over the fireplace, which was a hole about four feet in diameter and a foot and a half deep, that had been dug in the middle of the floor. An opening in the roof directly over this did duty both as chimney and window. Before dark the cabin was put in order again, and the hunters began to prepare their supper. The next morning the trapper, after giving Frank emphatic directions to remain quiet during the day, set out, with Useless at his heels, to look for "otter signs." George and Archie followed him with their fox-traps; and Frank and Harry, being left to themselves, shouldered their guns, and strolled slowly through the woods, and amused themselves in shooting rabbits, which were very abundant. In a short time they had secured game enough for dinner, and were about to retrace their steps toward the cabin, when the dog, which was some distance in advance of them, suddenly stopped, and, after listening a moment, uttered a low whine, ran back to his master, and took refuge behind him. "What's the matter with the dog, I wonder?" said Frank, patting the animal's head, and endeavoring to encourage him. "I don't know," answered Harry, clutching his gun more firmly; "he must have seen or scented some wild animal. Perhaps it would be safer to go back a little way. I shouldn't like the idea of meeting a bear or panther;" and Harry began to retreat. "Hold on," said Frank; "don't be in a hurry. If it is a panther, we are certainly a match for him. Our guns are loaded with buck-shot." "I know it; but if I should see one of the 'varmints,' as Dick calls them, I should be so excited that I couldn't shoot at all. I think we had better"-- "Hush!" interrupted Frank. "Don't you hear something?" The boys listened, and a faint cry, like the yelping of a pack of hounds, was borne to their ears. "It can't be dogs," said Frank, "for if it was, Brave would not have been so frightened; besides, it does not sound exactly like them, and I know of no hunter in this part of the country that keeps hounds." "I wonder if that is what Brave heard?" said Harry. "It must be," replied Frank, watching the motions of his dog, which appeared to grow more excited as the sound came nearer. "I would like to know what it is." "We shall soon find out, for it seems to be coming this way. Let's hide behind some of these trees." The boys, accordingly, concealed themselves, and waited impatiently, with a great deal of anxiety, for the animals to come in sight. Louder and louder grew the noise, and Harry, turning to his companion, with blanched cheeks, exclaimed: "It's the cry of a pack of wolves. Let's get away from here." "O, no," said Frank. "They must be in pursuit of something. Let us wait and see what it is." There was something appalling in the sound, which now began to echo loudly through the woods, and it was no wonder that Harry wished to retreat. Even Brave, although he was a very courageous dog, seemed struck with terror, and crept up behind his master, as if endeavoring to get out of sight. But Frank, with his usual recklessness, determined to stand his ground as long as possible. The wolves seemed to be running directly toward them, and the boys held their guns to their shoulders, ready to shoot the first one that appeared. In a few moments there was a crashing in the bushes, and a white object was seen gliding among the trees, while behind him followed a pack of a dozen wolves. They ran with their ears laid close back to their heads, and their mouths open, displaying frightful rows of teeth. Frank gazed at them a moment, and then turned his attention to the game. Could he believe his eyes! It was a _white buck_. He was running at the top of his speed; but his tongue was hanging out of his mouth, and his legs were horribly lacerated by the sharp crust, into which he sank at every step. He was evidently almost tired out, and the wolves were gaining on him rapidly. Frank had often heard of white deer, but had never seen one before, and he determined to take a hand in the affair, and, if possible, rescue the buck from his pursuers. "Shoot the wolves, Harry," he exclaimed, "and save the deer. We want him ourselves." "Don't shoot--don't," urged Harry. "The wolves will turn on us." But it was too late. Frank's gun was at his shoulder in an instant, and the foremost of the pack leaped high in the air, and fell to the ground, dead. The others stopped and ravenously attacked their fallen comrade, and in a moment every vestige of him had disappeared. The white buck kept on his way, and soon disappeared from their sight. "Shoot 'em, Harry," exclaimed Frank, excitedly, turning to his companion, who stood holding his gun in his hand, and gazing at the wolves as though he had suddenly been deprived of all action; "shoot 'em, and don't be standing there like a bump on a log. They'll pitch into us, sure, and the more we kill now, the less we shall have to deal with by-and-by." This seemed to bring Harry back to his senses, and he hurriedly raised his gun to his shoulder and endeavored to cover one of the wolves with the sight. But he was trembling violently, and his gun swayed about like a leaf in a storm. "Why don't you shoot?" exclaimed Frank. Harry pressed the trigger, and the loud yell that followed showed that the shot had not been thrown away. One of the wolves was severely wounded. Maddened by the pain, he dashed toward the place where the boys were standing, followed by the whole pack. "Take to a tree, quick!" exclaimed Frank, who began to be surprised at his own coolness; "it's our only chance. Be sure and keep a good hold of your gun." Suiting the action to the word, he swung himself into the lowest branches of a small pine that stood near, and, reaching down, seized Brave by his long hair and pulled him up after him. It was slow climbing among the thick branches, with a gun in one hand and a dog nearly as heavy as himself in the other; and he had scarcely ascended out of reach before the wolves were around the tree. Several of the pack leaped among the branches, and made desperate efforts to reach him, while their dismal howls made his blood run cold. "Hold on, down there," muttered Frank. "Wait until I get Brave fixed, and then I'll soon be even with you." After feeling in all his pockets, he found a stout strap, with which he tied his dog fast to the branches, so that he would not fall down among the wolves. "I say, Frank, where are you?" shouted Harry, from his tree. "Here I am," answered Frank. "Are you all right?" "Yes; but I had a narrow escape, I tell you. The wolves pulled off one of my boots as I was climbing up this tree. You're always getting a fellow into some scrape or other, ain't you?" "I don't call this much of a scrape," answered Frank. "We're safe, at any rate." "I know it," replied Harry, who seemed to be regaining his courage. "But we may have to stay up here a week." "No we won't--not if our ammunition holds out," answered Frank, pushing his gun through the branches of the tree. "I'm going to commence shooting them." "That's a good plan; I did not think of that." The report of Harry's gun followed his words, and feeling safe in his tree, he made a good shot, the largest of the wolves receiving the entire charge in his head. The boys continued to load and fire until the last wolf was killed, when they dropped down from the trees, and took a survey of their work. Nine wolves were lying dead on the snow, which was saturated with blood, and a tenth was endeavoring to crawl away on two legs. Brave immediately commenced a battle with him, but the wolf had plenty of fight left in him, and was killed only after a hard struggle. "Now," said Frank, "let's follow up that white buck. I would give almost any thing to catch him alive. He is pretty well tired out, and can't run far." "Lead on, then," said Harry; "but, if Dick was here, he would say it was no use. You know hunters are inclined to be superstitious about such things." The boys had often heard extravagant stories told about the incredible speed and tenacity of life possessed by white deer, and had heard old hunters say that it was impossible to kill or capture them. But Frank was not superstitious. He could not see why a white deer should be so widely different from one of the ordinary color. At all events, he determined to make an attempt to capture the white buck--which would make a valuable addition to his museum. So, leaving the wolves where they had fallen, he led the way along the trail, which could be easily followed by the blood on the snow. They had run nearly a mile, when they discovered the white buck a short distance ahead of them, making his way slowly through the snow, and staggering as though he were scarcely able to keep his feet. "There he is," exclaimed Frank, joyfully. "Catch him, Brave." The dog was off in an instant, and although the buck made an effort to run, he was speedily overtaken, and pulled down without a show of resistance. The boys hurried forward to secure their captive, which struggled desperately as they approached. But at length Frank succeeded in fastening his belt around his neck. The buck staggered to his feet, and, after a few ineffectual attempts to escape, seemed to submit to his fate, and suffered himself to be led toward the cabin. He was one of the most noble specimens of the common deer that the boys had ever seen. He stood nearly five feet high at the shoulders, and his head was crowned with antlers, which Frank had learned, from experience, would prove no mean weapons in a fight. He was evidently an "old settler," and had seen some stirring times during his life, for his body was almost covered with scars. They reached the camp without any mishap, and Harry brought from the cabin a long rope with which the captive was fastened to a tree. After a short struggle, during which the boys received some pretty severe scratches from the buck's sharp hoofs, his legs were rudely bandaged, and he was left to himself. After a hastily-eaten dinner, the boys returned to the scene of their late fight with the wolves, to procure some of the skins, which Frank wished to mount in his museum. They got back to the cabin just before dark, and found Dick leaning on his long rifle, and closely examining the buck. Useless was seated at his side, and near him lay three otter-skins, which they had captured during the day. "See here, youngsters," exclaimed the trapper, as the boys came up, "what's all this yere?" "O, that's our day's work," replied Frank. "Give us your hands, youngsters," continued Dick. "Shoot me if you hain't done somethin' that I tried all last winter to do an' couldn't. If I shot at that buck onct, I shot at him twenty times. Do you see that scar on his flank? I made that. An' there's another on his neck. When I hit him there I thought I had him sure; for he war throwed in his tracks, an' when Useless come up to grab him, he war up an' off like a shot. If you war with some trappers I know, they would tell you to cut that rope an' let him get away from here as fast as he could travel. Some fellers think these yere white deer have got the Evil One in 'em." "O, that's all nonsense," said Frank; "a white deer isn't a bit different from any other, only in the color." "That's what I used to tell 'em," said Dick. "But this yere is my day's work," he added, lifting the otter-skins from the ground; "and a good one it is, too. But five mile back the woods are full of otter, an' a little further on is a beaver-dam--eight houses in it--forty beaver at the least kalkerlation." As the trapper finished speaking, he shouldered his rifle and led the way into the cabin, where a fire was soon started, and some choice pieces of venison, which had been brought in by him were laid on the coals to broil. In a few moments, George and Archie entered, and the latter inquired: "Who caught that white buck?" Frank gave him the desired information, and also related their adventure with the wolves; when Archie continued: "I'm glad you caught him, for you always wanted one for your museum. We came near catching a black fox for you." "A black fox!" repeated the trapper. "Yes; the largest one I ever saw," said George. "He's black as a coal--hasn't got a white hair on him, except the very tip of his tail." "I know him," answered the trapper. "Him an' Useless had more'n one race last winter. You found his trail down by that little creek that runs through that deep hollow." "Yes," answered Archie. "An' lost it up here in the woods but two mile back." "Yes," said Archie again. "An' that's the way you'll keep doin' as often as you chase him. You can't ketch him. He's an ole one in these parts, an' I guess he'll stay here till he dies a nat'ral death." "No, I'll be shot if he does," said Archie, decidedly, as he deposited his gun on a couple of pegs in one corner of the cabin, and began to divest himself of his overcoat. "I've got a dog that was never fooled yet. There was a fox that used to live on Reynard's Island, a short distance from Lawrence, and he had been chased by all the best dogs in the country; but the first time he got Sport on his trail, he was a gone sucker. I'm going to start out early to-morrow and try that black fox again, and if I don't catch him the first day, I'll try him the next, and keep it up till I do succeed. I don't mean to leave these woods without him." "Then you'd better send home for plenty of grub," said the trapper, "for you'll have to stay here all winter." "Supper's ready," said Frank; and this announcement cut short the conversation. CHAPTER VII. A Midnight Attack. After supper, the hunters stretched themselves out on their blankets around the fire; but the usual evening conversation was omitted. Their day's work had fatigued them all, and soon their regular breathing told that sleep had overpowered them. About midnight Frank, who slept away from the fire, and almost against the door, was aroused by a slight noise outside the cabin, like the stealthy tread of some animal in the snow. He had begun to acquire something of a hunter's habits, and the noise, slight as it was, aroused him in an instant. The dogs had also heard it, for they stood looking at the door, with every hair sticking toward their heads, but without uttering a sound. Frank reached for his gun, which hung on some pegs just above his head, and at that moment he heard a sound resembling the "wheeze" of a glandered horse. "Bars and buffaler!" exclaimed Dick, suddenly arousing from a sound sleep, and drawing his long hunting-knife, which he always carried in his belt; "there's a painter around here somewhere--I'm sartin I heered the sniff of one." "I heard something," replied Frank, "but I didn't know what it was." By this time all the inmates of the cabin were aroused, and there was a hurried reaching for guns, and a putting on of fresh caps. "Lend me your rifle, Dick," said Frank, "and I'll shoot him. I have never killed a panther." "Wal, don't be keerless, like you generally are," said the trapper, handing him the weapon. "Be keerful to shoot right between his eyes. Hist--I'll be shot if the varmint ain't a pitchin' into the white buck--he are, that's sartin!" As Dick spoke there was a violent rustling in the bushes, and a sound as of a heavy body falling on the snow. Then there was a slight struggle, and all was still again. Frank quickly threw open the door, and hunters and dogs all rushed out together. It was very dark; but Frank, who was in advance of his companions, could just distinguish a black object crouching in the snow near the tree where the white buck had been fastened. In an instant his rifle was at his shoulder, and as the whip-like report resounded through the woods, the panther uttered a howl that sounded very much like the voice of a human being in distress, and, with one bound, disappeared in the bushes. The quick-scented dogs found his trail in a twinkling. Guided by their barking, the hunters followed after them as rapidly as possible, in hopes that the dogs would soon overtake the panther and compel him to take to a tree. Running through a thick woods in a dark night is not a pleasant task; and the hunters made headway very slowly. But at length they came up with three of the dogs, which were standing at the foot of a large tree, barking furiously. Brave was nowhere to be seen. "I shouldn't wonder if the varmint war up here," said the trapper, walking around the tree and peering upward into the darkness. "No he ain't, neither," he continued. "Useless, ye're fooled for onct in your life. You see, youngsters, where that big limb stretches out? Wal, the painter ran out on that, an' has got out of our way." "I wonder where Brave is?" said Frank, anxiously. "That ar is a hard thing to tell," answered the trapper. "The varmint may have chawed him up too, as well as the white buck." "If he has," said Frank, bitterly, "I won't do any thing all the rest of my life but shoot panthers. Hold on! what's that?" he added, pointing through the trees. "It looks mighty like somethin' comin' this way," said Dick. "Turn me into a mullen-stalk if I don't believe it's the painter! He's creepin' along a'most on his belly." In an instant four guns were leveled at the approaching object, and the boys were about to fire, when the trapper, who had thrown himself almost flat on the snow, to obtain a better view of the animal, heard a suppressed whine. Springing to his feet, he knocked up the weapons, and quietly said, "I guess I wouldn't shoot, boys. That's the dog comin back. I shouldn't wonder if he had been follerin' the painter all alone by himself." The boys lowered their guns, and, in a few moments, to the infinite joy of Frank, Brave came up. He crawled slowly and with difficulty toward his master, and the hunters could see that he had been severely handled. He had several long, ugly wounds on his body, which were bleeding profusely. "Wal, I'll be shot!" exclaimed the trapper, "if that ar fool of a dog didn't tackle the painter! He ought to knowed better. The varmint could chaw him up in two minits. Useless here wouldn't have thought o' doin' sich a thing. But it'll do no good for us to stay here, so we might as well travel back to the shantee. Ye're minus a white buck, Frank," he continued, as he led the way through the woods. The young naturalist made no reply, for it was a severe blow to him. He had anticipated a great deal of pleasure in taming the white buck, and in showing him to his friends, and relating the circumstances of his capture. But the panther had put an end to these anticipations; and Frank determined, as long as he remained in the woods, to wage a merciless war against all his tribe. A few moments' walk brought the hunters to the cabin, and they went at once to the place where they had left the white buck. The panther had torn an ugly-looking hole in his throat, and he was stone dead. It was evident, from the position in which he lay, that the panther had endeavored to drag him away, but was prevented by the rope and the timely interference of the hunters. As regrets were useless, Frank and his cousin carried the remains of the buck into the cabin. After fastening the door and replenishing the fire, the hunters again sought their blankets. The next morning they were stirring long before daybreak, and Archie busied himself in removing the skin of the white buck, while his cousin, who was impatient to commence his war upon the panthers, was employed in cleaning his gun and sharpening his hunting-knife. Brave seemed to understand that something unusual was on hand. In spite of the rough treatment he had received the night before, he appeared to have plenty of spirit left in him still, and acted as though he were impatient to be off. "Dick, will you lend me your trap?" inquired Frank, after he had finished his breakfast, and was preparing to set out. "The 'Ole Settler' do you mean?" asked the trapper. "Sartin I will. Goin' to ketch the painter, ain't you?" "Yes; I'm going to try. I must have at least three panther-skins to make up for the killing of the white buck. He was worth more to me than my entire museum." "Wal," said Dick, as he handed Frank the trap, "if you can get him to stick his foot in the 'Ole Settler,' he's yourn, an' no mistake. That ar trap sticks tighter nor a brother when it gets a hold o' any thing. Now, be mighty keerful o' yourself." "All right," answered Frank. "I'll have something to show you when I come back." He set out, with Brave as his only companion. The trapper did not accompany him, for the reason that he had work of his own to attend to; and besides, although he was constantly scolding and finding fault with Frank for his "carelessness," he was proud of his courage, and admired the spirit that prompted this somewhat hazardous undertaking, and wished to allow him to reap all the honors himself. Archie and George did not go, for they were very anxious to visit their traps, and see whether there were any foxes in them. They did not like the idea of panther-hunting, and had tried every means in their power to induce Frank to abandon his project. Harry thought at first that he would be delighted to go, but, on reflection, he remembered his adventure with the wolves, and was fearful of another similar "scrape." So, as we have said, Frank started out alone, with nothing on which to depend except the faithful Brave, and his own courage and skill as a marksman. He was well enough acquainted with the woods, and the animals that inhabited them, to know that there was danger in the undertaking; but he thought only of the disappointment he had suffered in the death of the white buck, and the pleasure there would be in seeing the panther that had killed him stuffed and mounted in his museum. He followed the same course the panther had taken the night before, until he reached the place where the animal had taken to the tree and escaped, Here the trail, of course, ended; but Brave had no difficulty in finding it again, and from this Frank concluded that he must have seen the panther jumping from tree to tree, and had followed him, until the latter, seeing that he was pursued by only one of his enemies, had descended to the ground and given battle, which had, of course, ended in Brave's defeat. After a careful examination, Frank could discover but three foot-prints in the trail, which looked as though some one had endeavored to obliterate it, by drawing a heavy stick over it. He could not account for this, but he knew, by the blood on the snow, that the panther had been severely wounded by the shot he had fired at him; so, without stopping to make any more observations, he ordered Brave to "Hunt 'em up." The dog immediately set off on the trail, and Frank kept as close to him as possible. The panther had made good use of his time, for they followed the trail until almost four o'clock in the afternoon, without coming up with him. In the excitement of the chase, Frank had not thought of stopping to eat his dinner, and he was both tired and hungry. A few moments' rest, and a piece of the cold venison and bread, with which his haversack was well stored, he thought would enable him to follow the trail until dark. He began to look around to find a good place to build a fire, when a loud bark from Brave drove all such thoughts out of his mind, and he ran forward to the place where the dog was standing, and suddenly came in sight of the panther, which had killed a wild turkey, and was crouching at the foot of a tree, just ready to begin his meal. One of his hind-legs was entirely useless, having been broken by the shot from the rifle; and that it was which had given that peculiar look to his trail. How he had managed to climb so many trees, and travel such a distance, with his leg in that condition, Frank could not imagine. But he was not allowed much time to make observations, for the panther crouched lower over his prey, and lashed his sides with his tail, as if about to spring toward him. He was within easy range, and Frank cocked both barrels of his gun, and slowly raised the weapon to his shoulder. His hand could not have been more steady if he had been aiming at a squirrel. He glanced along the clean, brown tubes for a moment, and fired both barrels in quick succession. The gun had been heavily loaded, in order to "make sure work" of the panther, and the immense recoil threw Frank flat on his back. When he recovered his feet, he saw the panther stretched out motionless on the ground. The buck-shot had done its work. CHAPTER VIII. A Couple of New Pets. Frank was a big-feeling boy just then. He knew that he had done something that many an older person than himself would hesitate to undertake. He was fast becoming accustomed to scenes of excitement and danger, and he thought only of the feat he had accomplished, and not of the perilous position in which he had placed himself but a few moments before. What if his gun had missed fire, or he had only wounded the panther? How long could he and Brave have withstood his attacks? The panther would certainly have conquered them. And what could he have done if he had been disabled in the depths of those woods, so far from any human being? Such questions as these passed through the reckless young hunter's mind, but he dismissed them with the thought that the panther was dead, and that he had nothing to fear. The animal was one of the largest of his kind, measuring, as near as Frank could judge, fully seven feet in length, including the tail. The rifleshot which had broken his leg had made an ugly-looking wound, and he had received both charges of buck-shot in his head; but the skin was not spoiled, and Frank's first thought was to take it off and cure it for stuffing. Around the tree was a little space, which was clear of bushes, and was probably as good a camping-ground as he could find. So he placed his gun where he could put his hand upon it at a moment's warning, and removed his haversack, hanging it up on a small tree that stood near. He then unfastened his belt, and took from it his blanket and a small tin pail, which was to do duty as a coffee-pot. With the aid of his heavy hunting-knife, he soon erected a hut--rude-looking, indeed, but sufficiently strong and tight to protect him from the wind. Over the floor he spread hemlock branches to the depth of four or five inches, and the camp was finished. He then kindled a fire in front of the hut, and filled his pail with snow, and hung it on a crane to boil. In a little while the turkey, which the panther had killed, was dressed, and cooking as fast as a hot fire could make it. Before his supper was cooked, the panther was hauled into the cabin, and his skin taken off, and hung upon a frame to dry. The turkey was equally divided between master and dog; and as neither had eaten any dinner, not a vestige of the fowl was left. While Frank was building his camp, he had heard a faint ripple, like the noise of a small water-fall; and he was somewhat surprised thereat, for the intensely cold weather had formed ice, even in the swiftest water, almost two feet in thickness. As soon as he had finished his supper, he started out to see what had occasioned the noise, taking the trap with him, intending to find a good place to set it. When he arrived at the stream, he found it had its source in a salt spring, or, as the hunters would call it, a "deer-lick." The snow on the banks was trodden as hard as a floor, and the paths that the animals had made, in going to and from the stream, ran up into the woods in all directions. These springs are favorite resorts of deer and other wild animals, which delight to taste their brackish waters; and it is a common way of killing deer, in places where they are scarce, to watch one of these "licks" during the night, and shoot the animals as they approach. Frank walked up one of the paths that led to the spring, and began to make preparations to set his trap. It was just the place for it, as he would be certain to catch something before morning. He first dug a hole with his hunting-knife, directly in the middle of the path, and the next job was to set the trap. He knew how it ought to be done. But the powerful jaws of the "Ole Settler" had often resisted the efforts of a stronger person than himself. After half an hour's work, during which time the skirts of his coat had been cut almost entirely off by the long, sharp teeth, he succeeded in getting it set, and placed safely in the hole which he had dug for its reception. Then, with his hunting-knife, he cut down a good-sized sapling that stood near, and to this he fastened one end of a short, heavy chain; the other end of the chain he fastened to the trap. After he had placed every thing to his satisfaction, he carefully covered the trap and chain with snow, removed all the twigs and leaves he had scattered about, and returned to his camp. He employed himself until dark in gathering his evening's supply of fire-wood, and then lay down on his bed of boughs, well satisfied with his day's work. As it grew dark, it seemed to him that his camp became the center of attraction to every wild animal in the woods for a circle of ten miles around. The owl flew down around his fire, uttering his dismal scream; the barking of foxes was heard in all directions; and, now and then, a dark object would come out of the bushes, and gaze at him a moment with eyes that shone through the darkness like coals of fire, and then beat a hasty retreat. Once or twice he heard a sound that made him reach, rather hurriedly, for his gun--the same sound that the trapper, the night before, had pronounced the "sniff of a painter." Frank did not feel exactly safe in going to sleep, and sat for a long time with his gun in his hand. Several times he was half inclined to shoot at some of the animals that came around the camp; but he finally concluded to keep the peace as long as they would. In a few moments after he had made this resolution, he sank back on his blanket, and was soon fast asleep. Near midnight he was awakened by a chorus of loud yells. Starting up, he found his camp surrounded by wolves. The fire had almost gone out, and the wolves appeared to be growing bolder by degrees, having already approached quite close to the cabin. Frank started to his feet and threw a firebrand among them, when they scattered in every direction, and were out of sight in a moment. He was not disturbed again, and when he awoke it was daylight. After putting a good supply of wood on the fire, and hanging his coffee-pot on the crane, he shouldered his gun, and started toward the place where the trap had been set, hoping to find something in it that would make a breakfast for him. There _was_ something in it, beyond a doubt, for both trap and clog were gone; and the way Brave growled and showed his teeth led him to believe that he had caught something besides a deer. The hole in which he had placed the trap was trodden down as though a flock of sheep had passed over it. It was a matter of some difficulty to follow the trail of the animal that had been caught in the trap, for he had moved directly up the path, and the only "sign" that Frank had to guide him was, now and then, a slight scraping in the snow, which he knew had been made by the clog, as the animal dragged it after him. He followed the trail in this manner for nearly half a mile, when it suddenly turned off into the woods, where he could follow it up considerably faster. Here he discovered that there was a bear in the trap, for the prints of his great feet were in the snow. His progress had evidently been retarded a good deal, for, at intervals along the trail, the broken bushes and trodden snow showed where the clog had caught and held him fast. Brave led the way, but they had not gone far before he began to show signs of uneasiness. A little further on, he suddenly came to a halt, and stood gazing steadily before him, toward a thicket of bushes, that looked as though it would afford a splendid hiding-place for a wild animal. Frank began to be excited now, and his hand was none of the steadiest as he cocked his gun and stooped down to caress his dog. He had faced the wounded panther without flinching, but he did not like the idea of attacking that bear in his den, for such it undoubtedly was, as under an immense pile of limbs and bushes Frank could see something dark, that looked like a cave. Brave ran around the bushes, with every hair on his body sticking toward his head, and now and then making a dash at the den, as though challenging the bear to come out. But the cave was as silent as death. Frank could not see how he could attack the bear in there, and the question was, how to get him out into open ground, so that he could have a fair shot at him, and a good opportunity to retreat, if that shot should not prove fatal. After waiting nearly half an hour for the bear to come out and give them battle, Frank grew impatient, and determined to commence fight himself. Grasping his gun firmly in one hand, he set to work with his hunting-knife to cut a passage through the bushes, so that he could get a fair view of the mouth of the cave. While thus employed, he heard a slight rustling of leaves in the den, accompanied by a low, wailing cry, and followed by a hoarse growl. He bravely stood his ground, holding his gun in readiness; but, as the bear did not come out, Frank went on with his work, more determined than ever to effect the destruction of the animal, for that wailing noise was the cry of a cub, which he was determined to have. He knew that this would be no boy's play, for, of course, the old bear must be killed before he could venture down into the cave. He was also well aware that she would fight for her young with a ferocity and stubbornness, against which only the most determined courage and a steady hand and quick eye could avail. He had heard Uncle Joe relate a story of a man, and one not wanting in courage either, who, upon discovering a couple of young bears playing together in the woods, had shouldered his rifle and made for home at the top of his speed. The least cry from one of those clumsy little fellows would have brought upon him an enemy that the bravest hunter would not care to encounter. But Frank had great confidence in himself, and worked away industriously, now and then pausing to look down into the cave and listen. He had cut away most of the bushes before the opening, and as soon as he could get a good view of the interior, threw himself flat upon the snow and looked in. It was dark as midnight inside the cave, but he could see two fiery eyeballs glaring upon him through the darkness, which appeared to be approaching the opening. This afforded a fine mark, and one that he thought he could not possibly miss; so, throwing forward his gun, he took a steady aim, and fired. The report was followed by a howl that made the cold sweat start from every pore of his body; but, without hesitating a moment, he discharged the other barrel, and then, springing to his feet, rapidly retreated, just as the enormous head and shoulders of the bear rose out of the opening. After running a little distance, and finding that he was not pursued, he turned and looked behind him, and saw the bear, in front of the cave, rolling over and over in the snow. The "Ole Settler" was fast to one of her hind-legs, and the clog had caught and was holding her fast. Frank immediately commenced to reload his gun, keeping his eye on the bear, ready to retreat again if she should succeed in freeing herself. He hastily rammed down the charges, and poured a handful of buck-shot into each barrel, and then crawled toward the bear, which, almost beside herself with rage and pain, was tearing at her wounds, and pulling up all the bushes within her reach. Frank felt comparatively safe now, knowing that the bear could not escape; and besides, if she should succeed in getting the clog loose, she could not overtake him, incumbered as she was with the heavy trap. He waited until a fair mark was presented, and then fired again. The wound was mortal. After a few struggles, the bear lay motionless on the snow. The next work was to draw her away from the mouth of the cave and take off the trap. This was no easy task, for the animal was very heavy, and, as Dick had predicted, the "Ole Settler" "stuck tighter nor a brother." After much exertion, this was accomplished, and Frank was about to commence skinning the bear, when, all at once, the thought struck him, Where was the father of the family? This thought made him spring to his feet rather hurriedly, and cast anxious glances at the cave. "The old fellow can't be in there," he soliloquized, "or he would certainly have come out before this time; but I'll just keep an eye open for him, and if he shows himself, and undertakes to interfere in this business, he'll get the worst of the bargain." He was not disturbed, however. The old bear, if he was about, probably thought that his family was capable of taking care of itself and fighting its own battles. As soon as he had taken off the bear's skin, he began to make preparations to enter the cave and bring out the cubs, which, all the while, had kept up an impatient cry. He first cut down a stout sapling, and, after he had lopped off all its branches, fastened his hunting-knife firmly to it. This he intended to use as a spear, in case he should be attacked while in the den. Grasping it in one hand, and his gun in the other, he crawled down into the cave. It was so dark that he could scarcely see his hand before him; but, after a few moments' search, he discovered the cubs, nicely covered up in a bed of leaves. There were two of them, and they were about the size of a cat. They fought and screamed furiously as Frank took them up, but he unceremoniously thrust them into the capacious pockets of his hunting-shirt, and crawled out of the cave. When he reached his camp he found that the fire had gone out. It was soon rekindled, when, after wrapping the cubs up in his overcoat, and putting them carefully away in one corner of the tent, he sat down on his bed of boughs, and made a hearty breakfast on cold venison and bread. While he was eating, he began to think seriously of setting out for "home," as he called the encampment where he had left his companions. He had accomplished much more than he had expected he could during the two days that he had been in the woods, and now had about as much on hand as he could conveniently attend to. The skins of the panther and bear must be prepared for stuffing, which would require his close attention; the cubs, also, must be taken care of and watched, for they would escape, if left to themselves. If he was at home, they could be shut up in the cabin while he was off hunting, and he could have his cousin's assistance in curing the skins. So, after resting an hour, he pulled on his overcoat again, stowing the cubs away in his pockets, folded up his blanket, strapped it fast to his belt, shouldered his gun, and set out. It was dark before he reached the cabin. His companions had just finished eating their supper, and had not expected his return that night. "Why, Frank, how are you?" exclaimed Archie, springing to his feet and seizing his cousin's hand. "I'm glad to see you back safe. What kind of a time did you have?--rather lonesome, I guess. What have you got?" he continued, as one of the cubs, thinking that something unusual was going on, again set up a furious yelping. "I've the skin of the panther that killed the white buck," answered Frank, "and also a bearskin, and two young cubs." As he spoke, he drew the cubs from his pocket. "You keerless feller!" exclaimed Dick, who had not yet spoken; "I know'd you'd be in some scrape or other." "So did I," chimed in Harry, "and that's the reason why I wouldn't go with him. It's a wonder you ain't all clawed to pieces." "Hain't had any supper yet I reckon?" said the trapper. "Come an' set down here, an' tell us all about it." Frank was quickly relieved of his gun and overcoat, while a plateful of venison, some bread and butter, and a cup of hot coffee were passed over to him. Stretching his feet out toward the fire, he related the details of his adventures, while the trapper sat by, smoking his pipe, apparently deeply interested in his story. CHAPTER IX. Close Quarters with a Grizzly. "Wal," said Dick, as soon as Frank had finished his story, "that war about the keerlessest trick I ever hearn tell on. Here, in the woods, it's jest the same as it is in a city; let a boy have his own way, an' he'll make an eend of himself in a tarnal hurry. Don't you know that that bar could have chawed you up in a minit?" "Yes," answered Frank, "I suppose she could; but I had to run the risk of that in order to get the cubs." "Yes, that's another of your boy tricks," continued Dick, knocking the ashes from his pipe, "an' it 'minds me of some scrapes I had when I war a youngster. It war while my ole man war livin'. Him an' me were onct huntin' somewhar nigh the head-waters o' the Colorado River. I war about seventeen year ole, an' a purty good boy I war for my age, too. It tuk a smart, lively young Injun to take my measure on the ground, an' I used to think that what I didn't know about trappin', shootin', and fightin' grizzly bars, warn't wuth knowin'. I was allers gettin' into some scrape or another, an' sometimes I used to get pawed up purty badly, too; but as long as I could crawl round I war all right. "I 'member onct that I had been over to a little creek about two mile from the camp, to 'tend to some traps I had sot for muskrats, an' as I war comin' home through the woods, I seed a young bar, jest about the size of them you brought home. He come out of the bushes, an' looked at me a minit, an' then jumped back agin. I thought he war a purty little feller, an' made up my mind that I would ketch him an' take him to camp with me. I had a kinder hankerin' arter pets, jest like you, Frank, an' I wanted to tame this young bar, an' I thought me an' him would have some tall fights when he growed up; so I put arter him, an' finally ketched the little feller, an' tuk him in my arms, an' started for camp. He hollered an' fit like the mischief; but I hung on to him, an' arter half an hour's walk reached home. My ole man warn't there; he had gone off to 'tend to his traps; but I didn't keer, for I war used to bein' alone in the woods. Arter feelin' in all my pockets, I found a long strip o' buckskin, an' I thought I would tie the little feller to a saplin' that stood close by the cabin; so I sot down on the ground an' war tyin' the string fast to his neck--he hollerin' an' fightin' all the while--when, all to onct, I heerd a loud growlin' and crashin' in the bushes behind me. I looked up, an' seed the ole bar a comin'. She had heered her baby squallin', an' was comin' arter him. I jumped up an' let the young bar fall, as though he had been a live coal. My gun war standin' agin a tree, close by, but I knowed I wouldn't have time to reach it, so I turned an' begun to go up the saplin'. You better believe I climbed _some_, an' I thought I war gettin' along mighty fast; but I warn't a minit too quick. I hadn't hardly got out of reach afore the bar made a grab at me, an' pulled off one of my moccasins. I war fairly treed; an' there I had to stay, too, 'cause the ole bar kept a close watch on me; but the tree war too small for her to climb, so I knowed I war safe. 'Bout an hour afore dark I heered the ole man a comin', an' the bar left off watchin' me, an' begun to get ready for him. So, I hollered to the ole man, an' he put a chunk o' lead into her. As soon as I see that she war done for, I slid down the saplin' as fast as I could to ketch the young bar; but the ole man, who knowed in a minit what I had been doin', give him a clip side the head with the butt of his rifle, that knocked the daylights out of him; an' then, bars an' buffaler, didn't he scold me for bein' so keerless; but, law sakes, it didn't do a bit o' good, for, in about three days arterward, I war in a wusser scrape nor that. "Arter 'tendin' to my traps, as usual, I started out through the mountains, on a hunt. 'Bout noon I killed a big-horn, an' while I war cookin' my dinner, I happened to see, in a rocky place up the side o' the mountain, a small openin' 'bout large enough for a man to crawl into, an' I knowed it war a sort of cave. I didn't stop to think any more 'bout dinner jest then, but picked up my rifle an' started up the mountain. I wanted to see what kind of a place the cave war. When I got purty nigh to the openin' I seed a kind o' path runnin' up to it, an' I knowed the cave must be the home of some wild animal. This made me prick up my ears, an' be a little more keerful. I didn't like the idee of havin' a varmint jump down on me afore I knowed it. But I reached the mouth o' the cave without seein' any thing, and poked my head in, keepin' my gun ready to crack away at the first live thing I should set eyes on; but the cave war so dark that I couldn't see into it two foot; but I _heered_ something, an' I scrambled up into the openin' an' listened. It war a faint moanin' kind of a noise--somethin' like the squall of a young kitten, an' I knowed in a minit what it war that made it; it war a young painter. Now, if I had knowed any thing, I would have climbed down out o' that place as fast as my legs would let me. But, no; I tuk it into my head all to onct that I must have them young painters. I wanted one of 'em to play with; an' without stoppin' to think, I begun to crawl down into the cave, an' along a narrer, crooked passage that must a been twenty yards long. One little feller kept up his cryin', an' it kept growin' louder an' louder, an' I knowed that he warn't a great way off. At last I come to a place where the cave seemed to widen into quite a large room, an' after a few minits' lookin'--or, I should say, feelin'--for the cave war as dark as a nigger's pocket--I found the young painters--three of 'em--in a nice bed of leaves made up in one corner. I didn't mind the hollerin' they made when I tuk hold of 'em, but chucked 'em all into my cap, an' started back. I had tuk good keer to 'member my bearin's, an' I knowed I should have no trouble in findin' my way out; so I crawled along keerless like, as usual, chucklin' over my good luck, an' thinkin' what nice pets I would make of the young painters, when all to onct I come within sight of the mouth o' the cave. Bars and buffaler! I would have give all the beaver-skins I ever expected to be wuth, if I had been safe out o' that cave. The ole painter was comin' in. She had smelt my tracks, an' I could see by the light that come in, in little streaks on each side of her, that every hair on her body war stickin' toward her head. She meant mischief. Any greenhorn could a told that I war in somethin' of a fix. I dropped the cubs, an' as I did so, they all set up a yell. The ole lady couldn't stand that, an' givin' a growl that made my blood run cold, she begun to get ready to spring at me. I used to think I war tall timber at rifle shootin', but, although the painter war not thirty feet from me, I war 'most afraid to risk the shot. But I knowed I didn't have much time to waste in sich thoughts, an' drawin' up my shootin' iron, I blazed away, expectin' to have the painter grab me the next minit. But when the smoke cleared away, I see the old lady stretched out, stone dead. I have been in tight places since then, in fights with varmints an' wild Injuns, an' many a time a single chunk o' lead has saved my scalp; but that war the best shot I ever made. It war a thing that many a Rocky Mountain trapper wouldn't keer to undertake. I like to hunt now as well as I ever did, an' expect to be in a good many rough-an'-tumble fights with Injuns an' grizzly bars, but I'd rather be excused from crawlin' down into a dark hole like that agin. But arter I had got out o' the cave, I didn't stop to think o' the danger I had been in; the cubs war mine, an' that's all I keered for." Here the trapper paused, and thrusting his hand into the pocket of his hunting-shirt, he drew forth a clasp-knife and a plug of tobacco, and after cutting off a generous "chaw," as he called it, and stowing it away in his cheek, he continued: "But 'bout the nighest I ever come to bein' rubbed out, war while I war trappin' on the Missouri River, with my chum, Bill Lawson--the poor fellow is gone now"--and here the trapper lowered his voice almost to a whisper, in reverence to the memory of his departed companion, and hastily drew his hand across his eyes--"an' I am left alone. It'll be lonesome on the prairy when I get back there, an' when I visit the places where me an' him used to camp an' trap together, I shall miss the ole man. He war one of the best trappers I ever come acrost. He war generally very good natered an' jolly; but he had strange ways with him sometimes, an' when he got one of his gloomy fits on him, there would be days when--although we ate at the same fire, an' p'rhaps slept under the same blanket--he wouldn't speak to me. I knowed something war troublin' him, an' it war a sorry sight for me to see that strong man weepin' like a child; but I trapped with him for better nor five years afore he told me his story. There would be weeks at a time when he would seem to forget his troubles, an' then it done me good to lay beside our camp-fire an' listen to his stories. He war a'most as big agin as I am, an' strong as a hoss. He could pull up a saplin' that two common men couldn't budge; and he war as brave as he war strong--as brave as a man could be; he didn't seem to keer for any thing, for I never see him frightened in my life, an' I war with him for better nor twenty years. An' he war a great Injun fighter, too. It tuk a mighty lively red-skin, an' one that could pick up his feet in a tarnal hurry, to get away when ole Bill onct set eyes on his trail; for the way he could run war a caution to owls, an' if there war one of them varmints in the country for fifty miles round, ole Bill allers knowed it. He used to tell me that he could smell an Injun further than he could see him; an' I believe he could. "But what I started to tell you 'bout war a little scrape we onct had with a grizzly. As I said, we war trappin' on the Missouri River, right among the mountains. One mornin', arter a good breakfast on buffaler hump, I war gettin' ready to start out to 'tend to my traps, when ole Bill said: "'Dick, I see some grizzly bar tracks down in the gully last night. Let's go an' hunt up the varmint. I would have follered him up last night, only it war too dark.' "In course I agreed, an' we ketched our hosses, which we had picketed close by the cabin, an' started out--ole Bill leadin' the way. "Huntin' a grizzly is fine sport sometimes; but if a feller is any way skeery, he had better not take a hand in it. Even the Injuns don't keer to meddle with the varmint, unless a dozen or two of 'em, well mounted an' armed, can ketch him out in clar open ground; an' even then they have to handle themselves round purty lively, for if the bar onct gets his claws on a hoss he has to go under. You couldn't hire a red-skin to go into the mountains alone an' hunt up a grizzly. The varmint allers lives in the thickest part of the woods; an' if you don't plug him through the brain at the first shot, or if your hoss gets tangled in the bushes, you're in a mighty onpleasant fix the first thing you know. But me an' Bill had hunted grizzlies plenty o' times, an' allers come out o' the fight right side up, an' we war used to the sport. "Wal, as I was sayin', we started out toward the place where Bill had seed the trail o' the bar, an', arter four hours' hard ridin' over rocks an' fallen logs an' thick bushes, we come to the gully. It war 'bout a hundred feet deep an' a quarter of a mile broad, an' the banks on both sides war as steep as the roof o' this cabin, an' covered with bushes so thick that a hoss couldn't hardly work a way through 'em. It war a fine place for a bar, an' many a trapper wouldn't have liked the idea o' goin' down in there to hunt one up, an' I couldn't help sayin': "'Ugly place, ain't it?' "'Yes,' answered ole Bill. 'But look over there;' an' he pinted acrost the gully to a sort o' clar spot, where there warn't no bushes, an' the timber didn't grow very thick. 'If the bar gets arter us,' he went on to say, 'we must run for that ar place; an' if we onct get him up there, he's ourn, sure.' "Arter stoppin' a few minits to give our hosses a chance to rest, we took a look at our rifles, to see that they war all right, an' then begun to work our way down into the gully. It must have tuk us an hour to reach the bottom, for the brake war higher than our hosses' heads, an' it war hard work to get through it. We had sent out the dogs--we had two of the best bar dogs I ever happened to see--when we first started down, and jest as we reached the bottom of the gully, they give notice, by their howlin', that they had found the grizzly's trail. We rid up to the place as fast as we could, an' ole Bill jumped off his hoss an' examined the tracks. They war fresh. The bar had jest passed along, an' we knowed that he warn't far off. "'Hunt 'em up, dogs! hunt 'em up! Off with you!' shouted ole Bill; an' he jumped on to his hoss agin, and the dogs, understandin' what he meant, war out o' sight in no time. We follered them as fast as we could, an', purty quick, we heered a great crashin' in the brake, an' the dogs broke out into a reg'lar yelpin'. We knowed that they had started the bar, an' war arter him. In a few minits we come up with 'em, and see the bar settin' on his haunches. The dogs war jumpin' round him, now an' then takin' a grab at his hams, an' they kept the varmint spinnin' round as though he war sot on a pivot. Ole Bill drew his rifle up to his shoulder, an' sent an ounce-ball into the bar's hide, which brought him to the ground; but he war on his pins agin in less than no time, an', leaving the dogs, he took arter ole Bill, who made straight acrost the gully toward the clar spot he had spoken of. The dogs follered close at the bar's heels, onct in awhile makin' a grab at his back settlements, which seemed to bother him a good deal; but he didn't stop to fight 'em, cause he thought the ole trapper war bigger game. The bushes an' trees war so thick that for some time I couldn't get a chance to put in a shot. I didn't want to fire till I war sartin of killin' the bar, 'cause it war only throwin' away powder without doin' no good. So I cheered on the dogs, hopin' that they would bring the bar to a stand-still; an' I warn't mistakened, for they begun to pitch in so rough, that the varmint had to stop to keep 'em off. This war what I war waitin' for, an' I sent another chunk o' cold lead atween his ribs. But he didn't seem to mind it at all; an', arter beating off the dogs, he started agin for the trapper. "Ole Bill had made mighty good use of his time, an' the way he stuck his heels into his hoss' sides war a thing to look at. He tried to load up his rifle, but the bushes war so thick that he had to lay close along his hoss, to keep from bein' swept off by them. "I drawed up long enough to ram home a ball, an' then started on agin, an' when I come up with Bill, I found that he had got into a reg'lar laurel brake. The bushes war thicker than ever, an' as tough as green hickory, an' Bill's hoss couldn't hardly make no headway at all. But they didn't seem to bother the varmint any, for he tumbled along as though the bushes hadn't been more'n straws; an' he war gainin' on Bill. "It war a fine sight to see the way the ole feller carried himself then. He held his knife in one hand, an' his clubbed rifle in the other, keepin' his eyes on the bar all the while, an' leavin' his hoss to pick out his own way. He didn't look the least bit skeery, but I knowed he war kalkerlatin' how many clips he could get at the bar afore the varmint could grab him. The dogs war bitin' at the bar's legs all the while, an' purty soon he had to stop agin to fight 'em off. He raised on his haunches, an' struck at the hounds, which war as spry as cats, an' had been in barfights often enough to know how to keep out of his reach. "'Now's your time, Dick,' said ole Bill. 'Shoot close! My hoss ar purty nigh tuckered.' "I war all ready, an' ridin' up purty close, so as to get in a good shot, I drawed a bead on him, an' fired, expectin' to bring him, sure. But a bush atween me an' him glanced the ball, so that I only made an ugly wound in his shoulder. He give an angry growl, an', beatin' off the dogs, he dropped on all-fours, an' made arter me. "'Now,' thinks I, 'Dick Lewis, you're in a blamed ugly scrape;' and so I war. The bar warn't more'n twenty feet from me; and afore my hoss had made three jumps, the bar made a claw at him, an' pulled out half his tail. The animal was doin' his best, but I see that it warn't healthy to stay on his back, an', as we passed under a tree, I grabbed hold of a limb jest above my head, an' swung myself clar off the saddle, jest in time to see the varmint put both paws on my hoss, an' pull him to the ground. But that war his last move, for ole Bill sent a bullet through his brain that throwed him dead in his tracks. "I come down out of my tree, feelin' about as mean as any feller you ever see, for a man might as well be on the prairy without his head as without his hoss, an' mine war one of the best that ever wore a saddle. But the bar had done the work for him, an' no amount of grievin' could fetch me another; so I choked down my feelin's, an' begun to help ole Bill to take off the grizzly's hide. But there war plenty of Injuns about, an' it warn't long afore I had another hoss; an' 'bout a year arter that I ketched one for which many a trapper would have give all the beaver-skins he ever had. But that's another story." CHAPTER X. A Beaver Hunt. The next morning, as soon as they had eaten their breakfast, the trapper went to the door, and, after listening, and looking at the sky a few moments, said: "Youngsters, if we intend to ketch any of them beaver, we had better do it to-day. We are goin' to have a storm as is a storm, an' afore two days the woods will be blocked up so that we can't do no huntin' at all." Frank and George were eager to accompany the trapper, for beaver-hunting was something entirely new to them; but Archie and Harry concluded to make another attempt to capture the black fox; for the trapper's description of his swiftness and cunning had rendered him an object worthy of attention, and made the young hunters more anxious than ever to catch him. Frank and George drew on their overcoats, strapped their blankets fast to their belts, and filled their haversacks. When all was ready, each shouldered his gun and an ax, and followed the trapper from the cabin. About noon they came to a halt on the banks of a large pond that lay hemmed in on all sides by the trees. Near the center of this pond were several objects of a conical shape, looking like drifts of snow. These were the beavers' houses. The boys were entirely at a loss to conceive how they were to go to work to capture the beaver. If they began to cut through the houses, the animals would take the alarm in a moment, and dive under the ice, where they would be safe from all pursuit. "I'll show you how it is done," said the trapper, who perceived that they did not understand it. "In the first place, take your axes and go and pound on every house you can see." "Why, that will frighten out all the beaver," said Frank. "That's jest what I want to do," said Dick; "but you must know that a beaver can't live under the ice any longer than me or you." He then went on to explain that the banks on each side of the pond were supplied with "breathing-holes," which were dug into the bank, and extended upward above the level of the water, and that the beaver, when frightened out of their houses, would seek refuge in these holes, where they could be easily captured. "But how do we know where these holes are?" asked George. "Easy enough," answered Dick. "All you have got to do is to go along the bank an' strike the ice with an ax, an' you can tell by the sound where they are. But I fixed all that when I first diskivered this pond. I know jest where the holes are. Now, you go an' pound on them houses, an' drive out the beaver." The boys accordingly laid down their guns, and commenced an attack on the dwellings of the beaver, when the animals at once plunged into the water under the ice. After every house had been visited, and the boys were satisfied that they had made noise sufficient to drive out all the beaver, they returned to the place where they had left the trapper, and found him engaged in cutting a hole in the ice close to the bank. As the boys came up, he directed one of them to fasten his hunting-knife to a long sapling for a spear, and the other to chop a hole in the bank directly opposite to the one he had cut in the ice. By the time the spear was finished, an opening had been cut down into the "breathing-hole," and the hunters discovered three beaver crouching in the furthest corner. Useless thrust his head into the hole, and contented himself with barking at the game; but Brave squeezed himself down into the opening among the beavers, and attacked them furiously. The animals made a desperate resistance, and in a few moments Brave backed out of the hole, with his ears and nose bleeding from several wounds, which showed that the long teeth of the beaver had been used to a good advantage. Frank gazed in surprise at the dog's lacerated head, and exclaimed: "There's something besides a beaver in there." "No, I reckon not," replied the trapper. "Your dog is jest about as keerless as you be, an' hasn't got no more sense than to pitch into every wild varmint he comes acrost. You must understand that a beaver can get up a tarnal good fight if he onct makes up his mind to it. An' when you get one of 'em cornered up, it takes somethin' besides a 'coon dog to whip him." Frank made no reply, and the trapper reached down with his long spear, when one after the other of the beavers were killed and pulled out on the bank. The attack on the houses was then renewed, to drive out any of the animals which might have returned. In the next breathing-hole two beavers were found, but only one was secured, the other making his escape by plunging back under the ice. While they were cutting into the next hole, a large mink suddenly popped out from under the roots of a tree into which the trapper was chopping; and although George made a frantic blow at him with the handle of his ax, he succeeded in getting past him, and started across the pond toward the opposite shore. The boys immediately went in pursuit, George leading the way, and Frank following close behind him, brandishing his spear, and shouting to the dogs, which were close upon the mink's heels. The little animal made headway through the snow with a rapidity that was surprising; but the long bounds of the dogs were rapidly diminishing the distance between them, and when about half way across the pond, Useless overtook and seized him. The boys increased their speed, fearful that the dog might spoil the skin, which was one of the finest they had ever seen. "Useless!" shouted George, "get out! Drop that"---- He did not finish the sentence; for suddenly there was a loud crack, and the ice opened beneath him, and he sank out of sight in the cold water. Frank, as we have said, was following close behind him, and at the rate of speed at which he was running, it was impossible to stop; and the trapper, who had been watching the race, and had witnessed the accident with an expression of great concern depicted on his weather-beaten countenance, expected to see Frank disappear also. But the young naturalist always had his wits about him, and summoning all his strength, he sprang into the air, and cleared the hole into which George had fallen, by an extraordinary leap, and landed on the firm ice on the opposite side. George rose almost instantly, for he was an expert swimmer; but his sudden immersion into the cold water seemed to have paralyzed his limbs, and rendered him incapable of action. Frank turned immediately and made a desperate clutch at George's long hair; but he was too late, for the unfortunate young hunter again sank slowly out of sight. Frank's mind was made up in an instant, and hastily pulling off his fur cap and comforter, he unbuckled his belt and began to divest himself of his overcoat. "Take care now, youngster," exclaimed the trapper, who at this moment came up. "Don't let George get a hold of you, or you'll both go down together;" and Dick threw himself on his knees, and stretched his long arm out over the water ready to catch George if he should come up within his reach, while Frank stood upon the edge of the ice, ready to plunge into the water the moment his companion should rise again. But his intentions were anticipated; for at this moment Brave came bounding to the spot, carrying the mink in his mouth. Understanding, in an instant, that something was wrong, he dropped his game and sprang into the water. At this moment George's head appeared at the surface, and the dog seized him, when, to the horror of the hunters, both disappeared together. But they arose a moment afterward, and Brave, holding the rescued hunter by the collar of his coat, swam toward his master, and George was drawn out on the ice, in a state of insensibility. "Here! here!" exclaimed Dick, running around to the place where Frank was kneeling, holding George in his arms; "give him to me, an' you run back an' get the axes." The trapper raised his young companion in his arms as easily as though he had been an infant, and started toward the bank at the top of his speed; while Frank, after pulling Brave out of the water, ran back after the axes, as Dick had directed. When he again found the trapper, he was on the bank, kneeling beside George, and engaged in chafing his hands and temples. "Now, youngster!" he exclaimed, hurriedly, "if you ever worked in your life, work now. Build a fire and throw up a shantee. We must get his wet clothes off him to onct." Frank, as may be supposed, worked with a will, knowing that the life of his companion depended on his exertions. In a short time a roaring fire was started, and a rude shelter erected, when George's wet and frozen clothes were pulled off and hung up to dry, and he was warmly wrapped up in blankets. The rubbing was continued a few moments longer, when they had the satisfaction of seeing him open his eyes and gaze about him. Dick now left the hut. In a short time he returned, with a bunch of herbs in his hand, and soon afterward a cup of strong, nauseating tea was pressed to George's lips, and he was compelled to swallow the whole of it. He was then enveloped in more blankets, and ordered to "go to sleep." While Frank and the trapper were seated beside the fire, talking over the accident, they heard the noise of approaching footsteps on the crust, and presently Archie and Harry hurried up to the hut. "What's the matter with George?" inquired the latter, hurriedly, for he saw that Dick and Frank were the only ones at the fire. "O, he got a duckin' in the pond, that's all," replied the trapper. "Don't be alarmed. He's sleepin' nicely now." "We thought somebody was drowned, sure," said Archie, "for we saw the hole in the ice, and your guns and overcoats scattered about, as though they had been thrown down in a great hurry." In about an hour George awoke, and, of course, was immediately assailed with innumerable questions. Among others, his brother asked him why he didn't swim when he fell into the water. "Why didn't I swim!" repeated George; "I couldn't move. It seemed as though every drop of blood in my body was frozen solid as soon as I touched the water. But where's the black fox you were going to bring back with you? Did you catch him?" Archie replied in the negative; and then went on to tell how they had found the trail in the gully, followed it for a mile, then suddenly lost it again, all efforts to recover it proving unsuccessful. About the middle of the afternoon, George, declaring that he was able to travel, was allowed to put on his clothes, and the hunters shouldered their guns and started for home. The sight of their snug little cabin was a pleasant thing to the eyes of the trappers that evening, for the day's hunt had been a hard as well as a profitable one. A fire was quickly started, and, while their supper was cooking, George changed his wet clothes; and a strong cup of coffee, as the trapper remarked, "set _him_ all right again." After supper, how soft and comfortable their blankets felt! They lay for a long time in silence, watching the sparks as they arose slowly toward the opening in the roof that served as a chimney, and listening to the whistling of the wind and the sifting of the snow against the walls of the cabin; for the storm that the trapper had predicted had already set in. CHAPTER XI. Breaking up a Moose-Pen. On awaking the next morning, they found that the cabin was almost covered with snow, and the woods were filled with drifts, that rendered it impossible for them to resume their hunting. The two days that followed were passed in-doors, curing the skins of the animals they had taken, and listening to the trapper's stories. On the third day, a heavy thaw set in, and at night the wind changed around to the north, and covered the snow with a crust that would easily bear a man. Early the next morning the hunters set out. George and Frank accompanied the trapper, to assist in breaking up a moose-pen, which the latter had discovered a few days previous to the storm, and Archie and Harry determined to again attempt the capture of the black fox. The trapper led his young companions through the woods, and across the pond where George had met with his accident. About a mile further on, he came to a halt, and said, almost in a whisper: "Now, youngsters, we are a'most to the moose-pen. You stay here, George; an' remember, don't go to movin' up on the game till you hear me shoot." "I don't see any moose," said George. "In course you don't," said the trapper. "But they are in the woods here, an' me and Frank will go an' surround them. It'll take mighty keerful steppin', though," he continued, turning to Frank, "for moose have got an ear like an Injun's. Be keerful now how you walk." So saying, the trapper shouldered his heavy rifle, and moved off through the woods, accompanied by Frank. About half a mile further on, the latter was stationed on the banks of a deep ravine; and Dick, after repeating his instructions, continued on alone. The stalwart form of the trapper had scarcely disappeared, when Frank heard a noise in the bushes, and presently a large moose appeared, leisurely wading through the deep snow, and cropping the branches as he approached. As if by instinct, Frank's gun was leveled; but remembering the trapper's instructions, the weapon was lowered, and the young hunter stepped back into the bushes, and watched the motions of the animal. He was a noble fellow--very much like the one with which Frank had engaged in that desperate struggle in the woods--with antlers fully four feet in length. The animal appeared totally unconscious of danger, and, after browsing about among the bushes for a few moments, walked back into the woods again, but almost instantly reappeared, and made for the ravine at the top of his speed. At this moment, the well-known report of the trapper's rifle echoed through the woods. It was followed by a crashing in the crust, and presently another moose appeared, and, like the former, ran toward the ravine. A short distance behind him came the trapper, holding his rifle in one hand and his huge hunting-knife in the other, and rapidly gaining on the deer, which sank through the crust into the deep snow at every step. Frank and Brave immediately joined in the pursuit, and the moose had not run far before he was overtaken and seized by the dog. Frank, remembering his first experience in moose-hunting, halted at a safe distance, and was about to "make sure work" of the game, when the trapper darted past him, exclaiming: "Don't shoot, youngster. That's a young moose; an' if you can ketch him, he'll be worth more nor all the stuffed critters you've got at home." Here was an opportunity which, to Frank, was too good to be lost. Hastily dropping his gun, and producing a piece of rope from the pocket of his overcoat, he ran up to the game, and, after a brief struggle, succeeded in fastening it around his neck. The dog was then ordered to let go his hold, when the moose instantly sprang to his feet and started to run. Frank was thrown flat in the snow, but he clung to the rope with all his strength. After a short time the young moose, wearied with his useless efforts to escape, ceased his struggles, and his captors led, or rather pulled, him along through the woods toward the place where the game had first been started. "Now," said the trapper, "you've got a pet that is worth something. He's jest the thing you want. You won't have to drag your sleds home now." "Why not?" inquired Frank. "Cause this yere moose can pull you four fellers further in one day than you can travel in two. I knowed a trader at Fort Laramie that had one o' them critters, and he used to hitch him up to a sled, an' think nothin' o' travelin' sixty miles a day." While they were talking, George came up, and, after the hunters had collected their game, Dick led the way toward home, while Frank brought up the rear, leading the young moose. Meanwhile, Archie and Harry were in hot pursuit of the black fox. They found the trail, as before, in the gully, and Sport started off on it, and met with no difficulty until they arrived on the banks of a small stream that ran a short distance from the cabin. Here the trail came to an abrupt termination, and all efforts to recover it were unavailing. This was the identical spot where they had lost it before. For almost an hour they continued, but without any success; and Harry exclaimed, as he dropped the butt of his gun to the ground, and leaned upon the muzzle with rather a dejected air: "It's no use. We're fooled again. That fox has got his regular run-ways, and we might as well call off the dogs, and go home." "Not yet," said Archie; "I can't give up in this way; neither do I believe that any fox that ever lived can fool Sport. Hunt 'em up! hunt 'em up!" he continued, waving his hand to the dog, which was running about, tearing the bushes with his teeth, and whining, as if he, too, felt the disgrace of being so easily defeated. The obedient animal sprang upon the trail and followed it to its termination, and then commenced circling around through the bushes again; and Archie walked across the stream and examined the banks for the twentieth time, but no signs of a trail could be found. At length, Harry suddenly exclaimed: "Look here, Archie; here's where the rascal went to;" and he pointed to a small tree that had been partially uprooted by the wind, and leaned over until its top reached within ten feet of the ground. "You see," Harry went on to say, "that the tops of all the other trees are almost loaded down with snow, but this one hasn't got a bit on it. The fox must have shaken it off when he jumped up there." Archie, who was ready to catch at any thing that looked like encouragement, hurriedly recrossed the stream, and, after examining the top of the tree, climbed up on it, when he discovered the tracks of the fox in the snow that had fallen on the trunk. He descended to the ground, and the boys ran along up the stream, carefully examining every log and stick that was large enough for a fox to walk upon, and finally, to their joy, discovered the trail, which ran back toward the gully from which it had started. The dogs immediately set off upon it, and the boys, who had learned considerable of the "lay of the land," struck off through the woods, in an almost contrary direction to the one the dogs were pursuing, toward a ridge that lay about three miles distant. Archie led the way at a rapid pace, now and then looking over his shoulder, and exclaiming, "Hurry up, Harry." Half an hour's run brought them to the ridge, and their feelings were worked up to the highest pitch of excitement, when they discovered that the fox had not yet passed. "We're all right now," said Archie, joyfully; "that black fox is ours." "Yes," said Harry, "provided this is his runway." "O, don't begin to throw cold water on our expectations," said Archie. "It'll be too bad if----. There they come, now; get out of sight, quick." As Archie spoke, a long, drawn-out bay came faintly to their ears, and the dogs appeared to be coming up the ridge. The young hunters hastily concealed themselves, and Archie had just cocked his gun, when the black fox broke from the bushes, and, as if suspicious of danger ahead, turned off down the ridge. It was a long shot, but Archie, without a moment's hesitation, raised his gun to his shoulder and fired. "I told you he was ours," he shouted, as the smoke cleared away, and the black fox was seen struggling in the snow. A blow on the head with a stick stilled him, and the boys, after examining their prize, which was the finest of his species they had ever seen, started down the ridge to meet the dogs, and soon arrived at the cabin with their prize, and were delighted to find how successful their comrades had been in capturing the moose. Frank and Archie immediately set to work to break the young moose to harness. He proved very tractable, and soon learned to draw the boys in a sled, over the ice, with all the regularity of a well-broken horse, more than compensating them for all the care they had bestowed upon him. CHAPTER XII. The Moose Shows his Qualities A severe storm having set in, rendering hunting or trapping impossible, the hunters passed a few succeeding days in-doors, and busied themselves in making a sled and harness for the moose, which, since his capture, had received a large share of Frank's attention. He had been hitched to a sled regularly every day, and had been trained until he had learned to obey almost as well as a horse. He was very much afraid of a whip, and his only fault was a desire to get over the ground as fast as possible. Sometimes, when fairly started, it was a difficult task to restrain him. But the boys, far from considering this a failing, looked upon it as a quality worth cultivating; and their horned horse was always allowed to show off his speed to the very best advantage. One morning, after the weather became settled, Archie proposed taking a ride up the creek, to which the others readily agreed. The moose was brought from the barn, and after considerable trouble--for the new harness had been made too small--he was finally hitched to the sled. It was their intention to camp in the woods and eat their dinner. After providing the necessary articles, an ax, plenty of ammunition, a supply of coffee, salt, and pepper, a camp-kettle and frying-pan, they sprang into the sled, and waving their hands to Uncle Joe and the trapper, who stood in the door, watching their departure, they shouted to their horned horse, which set off up the creek at a rapid pace. "Let him out now!" shouted Frank to his cousin, who was driving. "Let him out. We've got all day before us, and let us see how fast he can go." Archie pulled his cap down over his ears, and commenced shouting to the moose, which almost redoubled his pace, and whirled them over the snow at a rate the boys had never seen equaled by a living animal. His gait was an awkward, shambling trot; and as the boys watched his movements, they could not help laughing outright, whereupon the dogs joined in the chorus, yelping and barking furiously. This frightened the moose, which uttered a loud snort, and throwing back his head, ran faster than ever; and Archie, who began to fear that he was running away with them, pulled and jerked at the lines, but all to no purpose; the moose ran faster and faster, and the boys, who did not pause to consider the danger they might be in, laughed and shouted until they were hoarse. At length Frank exclaimed: "You had better check him up a little. The first thing you know, the concern will run away with us." "I believe that is what the rascal is trying to do now," answered Archie, pulling with all his strength at the reins. "He has got a mouth like iron." "Well, let him go then, until he gets tired," said George; "he can't run this way all day, and besides, if we are obliged to spend a night in the woods, it will be no new thing to us. Get up there! Hi! hi!" Archie, finding that it was impossible to stop the "concern," as Frank had called it, turned his entire attention to keeping him in the creek, in which he succeeded very well, until, as they came suddenly around a bend, they discovered before them a huge log, lying across the ice. To avoid it was impossible, for the log reached entirely across the creek. "Stop him! stop him!" shouted Harry. "If he hits that log he'll break the sled all to smash. Stop him, I tell you!" "I can't," replied Archie, pulling at the reins. "Let him go, then," said Frank. "Lay on the whip, and perhaps he will carry us, sled and all, clean over the log." This was a desperate measure; but before Archie had time to act upon the suggestion, or the others to oppose it, they reached the log. The moose cleared it without the least exertion, but the next moment there was a loud crash, and Frank, who had seated himself on the bottom of the sled, and was holding on with both hands, suddenly arose in the air like a rocket, and pitching clear over his cousin, turned a complete somersault, and landed on the crust with such force, that it broke beneath his weight, and he sank out of sight in the snow. The next moment he felt a heavy weight upon him, and heard a smothered laugh, which he knew was uttered by Archie. The latter regained his feet in an instant, and making a blind clutch at his cousin--for his face was so completely covered up with snow that he could not see--inquired, as he helped him to his feet: "Who's this?" "It is I," answered Frank. "But where is the moose?" "Gone off to the woods, I suppose," answered Archie. "It's just our luck. Eh! what? No, he hasn't--he's here, safe." He had succeeded in clearing his eyes of the snow, and saw the moose struggling desperately to free himself from the sled, which had caught against the log, and was holding him fast. Frank and his cousin at once sprang to secure him, and, while the former lifted the sled over the log, Archie seized the lines, and, in order to render escape impossible, made them fast to a tree. By this time George and Harry had come up, and at once commenced searching about in the snow for their weapons, and the others busied themselves in repairing the runners of the sled, both of which were broken. In a short time every thing was ready for the start. George volunteered to act as driver, provided the dogs could be kept quiet, and, after a few objections from Harry, who "didn't like the idea of riding after that moose," they again set out. Fortunately no one was injured in the least--not even frightened--the only damage sustained by the establishment being the breaking of the runners. Boy-like, they gave not one thought to the danger they had been in, but amused themselves in laughing at the comical figures they must have cut, as they all "pitched head-over-heels out of the sled together." The dogs, however, did not seem to regard it in the light of an amusing adventure, for they could not be induced to enter the sled again. They ran along behind it, keeping at a respectful distance, and the moment the sled stopped, and their masters began trying to coax them in, they would retreat precipitately. The moose now seemed to have become quieted. Whether it was for the reason that the dogs were kept still, and there was less noise behind him, or that he had been fatigued by his sharp run, the boys were unable to decide. He trotted along at an easy gait, but still going as fast as they wished to travel, until Harry announced "that it was half past eleven o'clock, and high time that they were looking up a place to eat their dinner." A suitable spot for an encampment was soon selected, and, after the moose had been unharnessed and fastened to a tree, Frank and Harry set out to procure something for dinner, leaving the others to attend to the duties of the camp. The Newfoundlander, which accompanied the hunters, was sent on ahead to start up any game that might be in his way. After he had led them about a mile from the camp, his loud barking announced that he had discovered something. The boys hurried forward, and found the dog seated on his haunches at the foot of a tall hemlock, barking furiously at something which had taken refuge among the branches. "It's a bear," exclaimed Harry, as soon as he could obtain a view of the animal. "Yes, so I see," answered Frank, coolly pouring a handful of buck-shot into each barrel of his gun. "We'll soon bring him down from there. You be ready to finish him, in case I should miss." "Shoot close, then," answered Harry; "for if you only wound him, he will prove a very unpleasant fellow to have about." Frank, in reply, raised his gun to his shoulder, and a loud report echoed through the woods, followed by a savage growl. The shot was not fatal, for, when the smoke cleared away, they discovered the bear clinging to the tree, apparently none the worse for an ugly-looking wound in his shoulder. "Shoot me if the rascal isn't coming down!" exclaimed Harry. "Try the other barrel, Frank, quickly." It was as Harry had said. The bear was beginning to descend the tree, and his whole appearance indicated that he meant fight. Frank was a good deal surprised at this, for he had great confidence in his double-barrel, and in his skill as a marksman, and had been sanguine of either killing or disabling him at the first shot; but the celerity of the animal's movements proved that his wound did not trouble him in the least. It was evident that their situation would soon be any thing but a pleasant one, unless the other barrel should prove fatal. Frank could not pause long to debate upon the question, for the bear was every moment nearing the ground, now and then turning toward his enemies, and displaying a frightful array of teeth, as if warning them that it was his intention to take ample revenge on them. Again he raised his gun to his shoulder, his nerves as steady as if he were about to shoot at a squirrel, and carefully sighting the head of their shaggy enemy, pulled the trigger. The bear uttered another of his terrific growls, and after trying in vain to retain his hold upon the tree, fell to the ground. Brave was upon him in an instant, but the bear, easily eluding him, raised on his haunches, and seized the dog in his paws. One smothered howl came from Brave's throat, and Frank, clubbing his gun, was rushing forward to the rescue of the Newfoundlander, whose death now seemed inevitable, when another charge of buck-shot, from Harry's gun, rattled into the bear's head, and again brought him to the ground. Brave was released from his dangerous situation, and the moment he regained his feet he attacked the bear with redoubled fury; but the animal easily beat him off, and rushed, with open mouth, upon Frank. "Run! run!" shouted Harry; "the rascal isn't hurt a bit." But with Frank, retreat was impossible; the bear was close upon him, and he would have been overtaken in an instant. Bravely standing his ground, he struck the animal a powerful blow, which staggered him for an instant; but, before he had time to repeat it, his gun went flying out of his hands, and he was stretched, stunned and bleeding, on the snow. The bear, no doubt, considered him disposed of, for he kept on after Harry, who, being unable to fire for fear of wounding either Frank or the dog, had been compelled to witness the struggle, without having the power of lending any assistance. The bear had struck Frank a severe blow, which, for a few seconds, rendered him incapable of action; but as soon as he had recovered, he ran for his gun, and while he was ramming home the charge, he saw Harry's coat-tails disappearing in a thicket of bushes, and the bear, seated on his haunches, engaged in fighting the dog, which, having experienced some pretty rough handling, had learned to keep out of reach of the dangerous claws. As soon as Frank had loaded his gun, he hurried forward to put an end to the fight, when a sheet of flame shot out from the bushes, and the bear ceased his fighting, and lay motionless on the snow. A moment afterward Harry appeared, and, upon seeing Frank, exclaimed: "I've finished the job for him! But he gave you fits, didn't he? Your face is all bloody. I guess he made your head ache!" "I guess he did, too," replied Frank. "I tell you, he hit me an awful crack. I had as soon be struck with a sledge-hammer." Fortunately, there were no bones broken. After Frank's wounded head had been bandaged with his handkerchief, the boys proceeded to remove the skin of the bear, which was the largest of his species they had ever seen. Selecting some of the choice parts of the meat, they then started toward the camp. Their appearance relieved the anxiety the others had begun to feel at their prolonged absence. The story of their adventure afforded abundant material for conversation while they were eating their dinner, which Frank, who had experienced no serious inconvenience from the blow he had received, speedily served up; and many were the speculations in regard to the lecture they would be certain to receive from the trapper, for their "keerlessness." It was nearly four o'clock in the afternoon before the boys started for Uncle Joe's cabin. As it promised to be a fine, moonlight night, they were in no hurry. Allowing the moose to trot along at an easy gait, they sat in the bottom of the sled, enveloped in furs, amusing themselves in shouting and singing, when Archie suddenly exclaimed: "Look there, boys! Now, see me make that varmint jump." The boys looked in the direction indicated, and saw a large, gaunt wolf standing on the bank of the creek, regarding them attentively, and seeming to be not the least concerned about their approach. As Archie spoke, he raised his gun; but the wolf, as if guessing his intention, suddenly turned, and disappeared in the bushes. "Boys," said Frank, "that little circumstance has set me to thinking. Supposing that a pack of those fellows should get after us to-night, wouldn't we be in a fix?" "That's so," answered the others, in a breath, their cheeks blanching at the very thought. "I never thought of that," said Archie. "Hurry up, Harry. Lay on the goad, and let's get home as soon as possible." The joking and laughing instantly ceased, and the boys bent suspicious glances on the woods, on each bank of the creek, over which darkness was fast settling, and their hands trembled as they reached for their guns, and placed them where they could be found at a moment's warning. Harry urged on the moose, intent on reaching the tree where the accident had happened in the morning, if possible, before dark. That passed, they would feel comparatively safe; for if the wolves should overtake them before they reached the tree, escape would be impossible. The moose shuffled over the snow at a rapid rate, as if he, too, knew that they were in danger; but Harry kept him completely under his control, and in less than half an hour the tree was in sight. After considerable exertion, the sled was lifted over the obstruction, and as the boys resumed their seats, they felt relieved to know that the worst part of the ride had been accomplished; but they had not gone far when, faintly, to their ears came the sound for which they had been waiting and listening--the mournful howl of a wolf. The moose heard it too, for, with a bound like a rocket, he set off on that break-neck pace that had so amused the boys in the morning. But it was far from a laughing matter now. The moose was not running from a harmless noise behind him, but from a danger that threatened them as well. Presently the dreadful sound was repeated from another part of the woods, still distant, but nearer than before. The boys had often heard the same sound, when seated around their blazing camp-fire, and had smiled to think what a momentary horror would seize upon them as the sound first came pealing from the depths of the woods. But they had no camp-fire to protect them now; nothing but the speed of their horned horse and their own bravery could save them. In a few moments, another and another joined in the hideous chorus, each nearer and more fearfully distinct than the others. The wolves were closing in behind them from all sides; but with their usual cowardice, were delaying the attack, until a sufficient force could be collected to render an easy victory certain. Up to this time not a wolf had been seen, save the one that Archie had first discovered; but in a few moments they could be heard dashing through the bushes on either side of the creek, and, soon after, the boldest began to show themselves on the ice behind them. To describe the thoughts that ran with lightning speed through the minds of the terrified boys were impossible. In spite of the piercing cold, so intense were their feelings of horror, that they were covered with perspiration, and every thing they had done in their lives--minute incidents, long since forgotten--seemed spread out before their eyes like a panorama. Rapidly ran the terrified moose; but nearer and nearer came their dreadful pursuers, each moment increasing in numbers, and growing more bold. The moment was fast approaching when they would make the attack. "Let us commence the fight, boys," said Frank, in as firm a voice as he could command. "We must kill as many of them as we can, before they close on us. George, take Harry's gun. Archie, you and I will fire first. Remember now, no putting two charges into one wolf. Harry, keep on the ice. Ready--now!" The guns cracked in rapid succession, and the howls which followed proved that the ammunition had not been thrown away. The wolves sprang upon their wounded comrades and commenced to devour them, and George seized the opportunity to put in two excellent shots. During the delay thus occasioned, short as it was, the wolves were left far behind, and the boys had ample opportunity to load their guns. Harry, although generally very timid, when he found himself placed in danger, was the most cool and collected one of the party; and it was well that it was so, for it required all his presence of mind and power of muscle to keep the moose on the ice. He was struggling desperately, first to relieve himself of the weight of the sled, and, failing in this, he would make frantic endeavors to turn into the woods. If any part of the harness should break, they would be left at the mercy of their pursuers. Again and again did the fierce animals overtake them, and as often were some of their number stretched on the snow. At length, a loud hurrah from Harry announced that they were nearing home; and a few moments afterward, just as the wolves were closing around them again, the sled entered Uncle Joe's "clearing." The noise of purling waters to the desert-worn pilgrim never sounded sweeter than did the sharp crack of rifles and the familiar voices of the trapper and his brother, to the ears of the rescued boys. The inmates of the cabin had heard the noise of the pursuit, and had rushed out to their assistance. The moose was speedily unhitched from the sled, and after the boys had closed and fastened the doors of the cabin, they began to breathe more freely. CHAPTER XIII. The Black Mustang. Supper over, the hunters drew their chairs around the fireplace, and Dick, after filling his pipe, and drawing a few puffs by way of inspiration, said: "I believe I onct told you 'bout havin' my hoss pulled out from under me by a grizzly bar, didn't I? Wal, I told you, too, that I ketched another, an' I had a job to do it, too--to ketch the one I wanted; an' the time you've had tryin' to ketch that black fox reminds me of it. You know, I s'pose, that large droves of wild hosses roam all over the prairy, an' them droves ar allers led by some splendid animal--allers a stallion--one that has got the legs to go like lightnin', an' the wind to keep it up. An' he's allers the cock o' the walk, too--the best fighter in the drove; an' when he moves round, it would make you laugh to see the other hosses get out of his way. He holds his place until he dies, unless some other hoss comes along an' wallops him. Then he takes his place with the common fags o' the drove, an' the new one is king till he gets licked, an' so on. It ar a mighty hard thing to capture one o' them leaders. You can ketch one o' the others easy enough, but when it comes to lassoin' the 'king,' it's a thing that few trappers can do. Jest arter my scrape with the grizzly bar, Bill Lawson an' me fell in with a lot o' fellers that war goin' to spend a season on the Saskatchewan, an' they wanted me an' Bill to join 'em; so I bought me a hoss of an ole Injun for a couple o' plugs o' tobacker--reg'lar Jeems River it war, too--an' we started out. My new hoss was 'bout as ugly a lookin' thing as I ever happened to set eyes on. He war big as all out-doors, an' you could see every bone in his body. An' he war ugly actin', too; an' if a feller come within reach of his heels, the way he would kick war a caution to Injuns. But I hadn't been on the road more'n a day afore I diskivered that he could travel like a streak o' greased lightnin'. That war jest the kind of a hoss I wanted, an' I didn't care 'bout his ugly looks arter that. "For more'n three year, me an' Bill had been keepin' an eye on a hoss that we wanted to ketch. He war the leader of a large drove. He war a sort o' iron-gray color, with a thick, archin' neck--a purty feller; an' the way he could climb over the prairy was a caution to cats. We warn't the only ones arter him, either, for a'most every trapper in the country had seed him, an' had more'n one chase arter him. But, bars and buffaler! It war no use 't all, for he could run away from the fastest hosses, an' not half try; an' many a poor feller, who straddled a hoss that every body thought couldn't be tuckered out, had left his animal dead on the prairy, an' found his way back to his camp on foot. We war in hopes that we should see him, for we war travelin' right through his country; an' I knowed that if we did find him, I would stand as good a chance o' ketchin' him as any one, for my ugly-lookin' hoss was the best traveler in the crowd. "One night we camped on a little stream, called Bloody Creek. We called it so from a fight that a party of us fellers had there with the Injuns. About an hour arter supper, while we war all settin' round the fire, smokin' an' telling stories, ole Bob Kelly--the oldest an' best trapper in the country--started up off his blanket, an', cockin' his ear for a moment, said, 'Somebody's comin', boys.' An', sure 'nough, in a few minits up walked a stranger. "It ar a mighty uncommon thing to meet a teetotal stranger on the prairy, an' a man don't know whether he is a friend or foe; but we war mighty glad to see him, and crowded round him, askin' all sorts o' questions; an' one took his rifle, an' another pulled off his powder-horn an' bullet-pouch, an' a big feller dragged him to the fire, where we could all get a good look at him, an' made him drink a big cup o' coffee. "'Whar do you hail from, stranger?' inquired ole Bob Kelly, who allers took them matters into his own hands, an' we little fellers had to set round an' listen. "'I b'long anywhere night ketches me,' answered the stranger. 'I'm an ole trapper in these yere parts.' "'Whar's your hoss?' asked ole Bob. "'I left him dead on the prairy--dead as a herrin'. I rid him a leetle too hard, I reckon. I war chasin' up the black mustang.' "If I should live to be a hundred year older 'n I'm now, an' should live among the Blackfoot Injuns the hull time, I shouldn't expect to hear another sich a yell as 'em trappers give when the stranger mentioned the black mustang. They crowded round him like a flock o' sheep, all askin' him questions; an' he tried to answer 'em all to onct; an' sich a row as there war round that camp-fire for a few minits! It war wusser nor any Injun war-dance I ever seed. Now, me an' Bill hadn't never seed the black mustang, nor heerd o' him afore, 'cause we hadn't trapped in that part o' the country for a'most three year, but we knowed in a minit that it must be the leader o' some drove. But Bill had lived among the Injuns so much that he had got kinder used to their ways, an' he didn't like to see them trappers carryin' on so, an' actin' like a parcel o' young'uns jest turned loose from school; so, as soon as he could make himself heered, he yelled: "'What in tarnation's the matter with you fellers? As soon as you git through hollerin', me an' Dick would like to know what all this yere fuss is about.' "'Why, the black mustang has been within ten mile of this yere camp to-night,' said one of the trappers. "'Wal, an' what o' that?' said Bill. 'Ar the black mustang any better hoss than the gray king?' "They all set up another yell at this, an' one of 'em said: "'Why, the gray ain't nothin' 'long side o' the black mustang. He could run away from him in less'n two minits. I guess you hain't hearn tell of him, have you?' "'In course I hain't,' said Bill. "'Then you ain't no great shakes of a trapper,' said another. "Now, the rascal knowed that war a lie, for there warn't no trapper in the country that could lay over Bill, 'cept ole Bob Kelly, an' every one said as how he war the best trapper agoin'; an' the way Bill eyed the feller, made him kinder keerful of his we'pons for a day or two arterward. "Arter talking a little while, we found out the black mustang war the leader o' the largest drove on the prairy. He had been round for 'bout a year, an' every trapper in that part of the country had had a chase arter him; but it war like chasin' the wind; an' besides this, he could run all day, an' be jest as fresh at night as when he started in the mornin'. "'Wal,' thinks I, 'Dick, here's a good chance for you to try your hoss's travelin' qualities;' an' I made up my mind that I would start off an' foller the black mustang till I ketched him, if it tuk me my lifetime. "The next mornin', arter breakfast, one o' the trappers proposed that we should spend three or four days in huntin' up the mustang, an', in course, we all agreed to it. The stranger wanted to go, too, but we had no hoss to give him; so, arter biddin' us all good-by, he shouldered his rifle an' started out alone acrost the prairy. Wal, we spent a week tryin' to find that hoss, but didn't even get a sight at him; so one mornin' old Bob Kelly concluded that we had better make another strike for the Saskatchewan. We packed up an' got all ready to start, when I tuk them a good deal by surprise by tellin' 'em that I war goin' to stay an' hunt up the black mustang. How they all laughed at me! "'Laugh away, boys,' says I, as I got on to my hoss. 'I'll see you on the Saskatchewan in a month or so, an' I'll either bring the mustang with me, or he'll be a dead hoss. If I can't ketch him, I can shoot him, you know; an' I won't see you agin till I do one or the other. Good-by, fellers.' An' I turned my hoss an' rode away from the camp. "Wal, I rode all over them prairies for a'most six weeks, without seein' the sign of a hoss; an' one arternoon I stopped on the top of a high swell to take my reckonin'. I found myself on the east side o' the Black Hills, an' I knowed that my first job was to get on the _other_ side; the mustang had prob'bly struck off toward the mountains. So I began to look around for a good place to get over. The hills rose from the prairy reg'lar bluff-like--sometimes a hundred feet high, an' so steep that a sheep couldn't climb up 'em. Jest as it begun to grow dark, I come to a deep ravine, that seemed to run up into the hills a good way; an' the bottom of this yere ravine was as hard an' smooth as a floor, an' looked as if it had been traveled over a good deal. But I war kinder tired with my day's tramp, an' didn't notice it much, for I thought it war nothin' more'n a buffaler road; so I picked out a good place an' camped for the night. "'Arly the next mornin' I set out agin; but as soon as I got on the road I knowed that no buffaler had made them tracks; they war mustangs, an' there war the prints of their hoofs in the dust, plain as a bar's ears. When I come to examine the signs, I found, as nigh as I could kalkerlate, that there war about three hundred hosses in the drove, an' I knowed, from the looks of the tracks, that they had been along lately; so I pushed ahead as fast as my hoss could carry me, an' that wasn't slow, I tell you. I rid him all day at a tearin' rate, an' at dark he seemed as willin' to go as when I started out. This put me in high spirits, an' I made up my mind that if me and my hoss ever got arter that black mustang, he would have to pick up his feet mighty lively to get away from us. The next day, about noon, I war riding along at a thumpin' rate, when all to onct I come to a place where the ravine opened into a small prairy, and scattered all over it war the wild hosses, feedin' away as peaceably as if no one had ever thought of disturbin' them there. I pulled up so quick that it a'most brought my hoss on his haunches; but the mustangs had seed me, an' the way they snorted an' galloped about war a purty thing to look at. I drawed off into the bushes as quick as I could, an' gathered up my lasso, which I allers carried at my saddle-bow, an' then looked toward the drove agin. The first hoss I seed was the black mustang. He war runnin' about, tossin' his head an' snortin' as though he didn't hardly understand the matter. He war the purtiest hoss I ever sot eyes on; but I couldn't stop to examine his pints then. Then I tuk a look round the prairy, an' saw that the hills rose on all sides of it; there was but one way the hosses could get out, an' that war through the ravine. I war in luck for onct in my life. Now, you boys, if you had been there, would, most like, run out into the prairy to onct, an' tried to ketch him, but that would have been a reg'lar boy trick, and would have spiled it all. I knowed that I had the black hoss surrounded, but if I begun to race him round that prairy, he would dodge me, an' be off down the ravine like a shot; so I kept still in the bushes; an' my hoss knowed his own bisness, and stood as though he war made of rock. "Purty soon the hosses begun to get over their skeer an' commenced comin' toward me--the black hoss leadin' the way. He would come a few steps, an' then stop an' paw the ground, an' then come a little nearer, an' so on, till he come within 'bout half a lasso-throw, when, all of a sudden, I give my hoss the word, an' he jumped out o' them bushes like a streak o' lightnin'. It would have made you laugh to see the way them hosses put off; the black hoss, seemed to me, war on wings; but he hadn't made three jumps afore my lasso war around his neck. _The black mustang war mine!_ "In about three weeks I reached the Saskatchewan, an' if you could have heard the yell them trappers give when I rode up to the camp on the mustang, it would have done your heart good. I had kept my promise." CHAPTER XIV. A Brush with the Greasers. Dick replenished his pipe and prepared to rest, after his tale was completed, when Frank suddenly inquired: "Dick, how came that scar on your face?" The "scar" Frank had reference to, was an ugly-looking wen, extending entirely across the trapper's face, and completely "spilin' his good looks," as he sometimes used to remark. "That war done in a fight with some tarnal Greasers," answered Dick. "I come mighty nigh havin' my neck stretched that night, an' the way it happened war this:" After a few whiffs at his pipe, he continued: "When our government war settlin' our little dispute with the Mexikin Greasers, I, like a good many other trappers, thought that I should like to take a hand in the muss. I hate a Greaser wusser nor I do an Injun. So, arter a little talk, me an' Bill jined a company o' Rangers that war raised by an ole trapper we used to call Cap'n Steele. A'most every man in the company war a trapper or hunter, for the cap'n wouldn't take only them as could show the claws o' three or four grizzlies they had rubbed out, an' as many Injun scalps. "Wal, when we got together, I reckon we war about the roughest lookin' set o' men you ever see. Each one dressed as suited him best, an' all armed with rifles, tomahawks, an' huntin'-knives. But our looks didn't seem to set ole Gen'ral Taylor agin us, for when we rode up to his camp, an' our cap'n had told him what we war, an' what we could do, he seemed mighty glad to see us; and we war sent to onct to the quarter-master, an' detailed to take care o' his cattle an' hosses, fight guerrillas, an' carry letters from one place to another. We knowed the country purty well, for there were few of us that hadn't traveled over it more'n onct in our lives; but whenever we war sent off anywhere we used to have a Mexikin guide, who showed us the short cuts through the mountains. "Wal, just arter the battle o' Monterey, our company war cut up into little squads, an' scattered all over the country; some went with the gen'ral, an' some war put in Cap'n Morgan's company, an' sent scoutin' around, an' four of us war left at Monterey with the quarter-master. "One day ole Bill come to me an' said: "'Dick, the kurnel wants to see you. I guess he's got some business for you to 'tend to.' "I went up to the head-quarters, an' the kurnel told me that he had some very important letters which he wanted to send to Major Davis, who was then stationed at a little town called Alamo, an' as I had the finest hoss in the town, he thought it best to send me. Alamo war on the other side o' the mountains, an' about a hundred an' fifty miles off. As the kurnel had said, I had the best hoss in the hull camp, an', in course, it wouldn't have been no trouble to have gone there if the country had been clear--the ride wasn't nothin'; but the Mexikins war comin' down toward Monterey, an' the kurnel thought that they war goin' to try to take the city from us agin. I knowed there war danger in it, but I didn't mind that. I war used to it, an' if I got into a scrape, it wouldn't be the first one I war in; so I started off arter my hoss, an' in a few minits I war ready an' waitin' at the kurnel's door for the letters. Purty soon he come out an' give 'em to me, sayin': "'Now, Dick, be mighty keerful of 'em, 'cause there's some news in 'em that I shouldn't like to have the Mexikins get hold of. This man,' pintin' to a Greaser that stood a little behind me, holdin' his hoss, 'will be your guide. He knows all about the mountains.' Then, movin' up a little closer to me, he whispered: 'He'll bear watchin', I think; I don't know much about him, but he is the only man I have got to send with you, an' them letters must be in Major Davis's hands by to-morrow night.' "'All right, kurnel,' I answered; 'I'll look out for him. I never see a Greaser yet that could pull the wool over my eyes. I'll give the letters to Major Davis afore this time to-morrow. Good by.' An' me an' the guide rid off. "As soon as I had got out of the city, I turned to have a look at my guide, an' I thought, as the kurnel had said, that he would bear watchin'. He war the most villainous lookin' Mexikin I ever sot eyes on. He war a young feller, not more'n twenty-two or twenty-three year old; but he had an eye that looked like an eagle's, an' it wasn't still a minit. He war dressed in a reg'lar Greaser's rig, with a slouch hat, short jacket, all covered with gold lace, an' pantaloons, wide at the bottom, an' open on the side as far as his knees. He had a splendid hoss, an' war armed with a carbine, short saber, an' a lasso; an' I knowed that if me an' him got into a muss, that lasso would bother me more'n his sword or shootin'-iron. The Greasers, as a gen'ral thing, ain't no great shakes at shootin', an' in a rough-an'-tumble fight they ain't nowhere; but them ar raw-hide lassoes ar the meanest things in the world to fight; they'll have one of 'em around your neck afore you know it. I had a little experience in that line afore I got back. Arter we had got outside o' the pickets a little way, he turned in his saddle, an' tried to commence a talk with me in Spanish; but I made him believe that I couldn't understand a word he said. I thought that if I should tell him that I couldn't talk his lingo, it would make him a little keerless; an' so it did. "We rid all day as fast as our hosses could travel, an' afore dark we got acrost the mountains, an' stopped afore a little house, where the guide said would be a good place to pass the night. I didn't much like the idee; had rather camp right down in the woods; but, in course, that would only put him on the look-out, an' I knowed that the best way to do war to act as though I thought every thing war all right. A man come to the gate as we rid up, an', as soon as he see my guide, he touched his hat to him in reg'lar soldier style. The guide answered the salute, an' asked the man, in Spanish: "'Are you alone, José?' "'Yes, gen'ral,' answered the man. Then making a slight motion toward me, which, I made believe I didn't notice, he asked: "'But the American?' "'O, he can't understand Spanish,' said my rascally guide. 'No fear of him; he thinks it's all right. Did you receive my letter?' "'Yes, gen'ral,' answered the man, touching his hat agin. "'Don't make so many motions, you fool,' said my guide; 'the American is not blind. You got my letter all right, you say? Then Bastian, with five hundred men, will be here at midnight?' "'Yes, gen'ral.' "The guide seemed satisfied, for he got off his hoss, an' motioned me, with a good many smiles an' grimaces, to do the same. I could see that I war in a purty tight place, an' I had a good notion to draw one o' my six-shooters an' kill both o' the rascals where they stood. But, thinks I, there may be more of these yere yaller-bellies around here somewhere, an' besides, if I wait, I may get a chance to capture the gen'ral, for my guide war none other than Gen'ral Cortinas, an' one o' the best officers the Mexikins had. He had bothered us more'n their hull army, an' the kurnel had offered to give a thousand dollars for him alive, or five hundred for his scalp. I didn't care a snap for the money, 'cause it warn't no use to me on the prairy; all I wanted war a good Kentucky rifle, plenty o' powder an' lead, an' a good hoss, an' I war satisfied. But I wanted to capture that gen'ral, an' take him into camp, for he war a nuisance. In battle he never showed no quarter, an' if he tuk any prisoners, it war only that he might let his men try their hands at shootin'. He seemed to understand fightin' better nor the rest o' the Mexikins, an' it showed that he war a brave feller when he would come right into camp, with sich a price sot on his head. "I warn't long in makin' up my mind what I ought to do, an' I got down off my hoss, as though there warn't a Greaser within a hundred miles o' me; but, instead o' givin the hoss into charge o' the man, I hit him a cut with my whip that sent him flyin' up the road. I knowed that he wouldn't be far off when I wanted him, an' I knowed, too, that my saddle an' pistols war safe, 'cause nobody couldn't ketch him besides me. Arter goin' a little way up the road, he turned an' looked back, an' then jumped over a hedge into a field, an' begun to eat. I could see that the Mexikins didn't like it a bit, for they looked at each other an' scowled, an' José said: "'_Carrajo!_ do you s'pose the American suspects any thing, gen'ral?' "'It don't make no difference whether he does or not, said my guide, turnin' on his heel, an' motionin' me to follow him to the house; 'he's in our power, an' don't leave this place alive.' "Now, you wouldn't have called that very pleasant news, I take it. Wal, it did make me feel rather onpleasant; but I didn't exactly believe what the ole rascal had said about my not goin' away alive. Thinks I, shootin' is a game two can play at, an' as long as you don't bring them tarnal lassoes round, I'm all right. I had never seed a six-shooter afore I went into the army, but I had l'arnt to use 'em a'most as well as I could my rifle. I found that they war mighty handy things in a fight. I had four of 'em, two in my huntin'-shirt, and two had gone off with my hoss; an' I knowed that when the time come I could get up a nice little fight for the Greasers. "There war only two women in the house, an' they seemed mighty glad to see him, an' sot out a cheer for him; but they scowled at me, an' left me to stand up. But that didn't trouble me none, for I helped myself to a seat, an' listened to what my guide war sayin' to 'em. He war mighty perlite, an' talked an' laughed, an' told the women as how he war goin' to rub me out as soon as his men come; an' then he war goin' to pitch into Cap'n Morgan, who war out scoutin' with his company, an' had camped a little piece back in the mountains. "It war the kurnel's order that I should see him as we passed through the mountains, an' send him to Monterey to onct, afore the Mexikins could ketch him. But my rascally guide had heered the order, an' had led me out o' my way, so that I shouldn't see him. I listened with both my ears, an' arter I had heered all the rascal's plans, which were purty nicely laid out for a boy, I made up my mind that he would be a leetle disappointed when he tried to ketch Cap'n Morgan. "In a little while the man that had tuk charge o' the gen'ral's hoss come in, an' I soon found out that he war the man that war expected to do the business of cuttin' my throat. But the gen'ral told him not to try it till midnight, when he would have plenty of men to back him up. This showed me that, brave as the young Greaser war when leadin' his men, he didn't like the idee o' pitchin' into an American single-handed. I guess he knowed by my looks that I could do some purty good fightin'. "Arter eatin' a hearty supper, an' smokin' a cigar with the gen'ral, I wrapped myself up in my blanket, which I had tuk from my saddle afore lettin' my hoss go, an' laid myself away in one corner of the room. The Mexikins didn't like this, an' one o' the women made me understand by signs that there war a bed for me up stairs. But I thought that my chances for escape would be much better where I war; so I motioned her to go away, an' pretended to go to sleep. The gen'ral an' his man had a long talk about it, an' I expected every minit to hear him tell the feller to shoot me. If he had, it would have been the signal for his own death, for I had both my revolvers under my blanket. But no sich order war given, an' finally the gen'ral, arter tellin' the man to keep a good watch on me, went into another room an' went to bed, an' his man stretched himself out on his cloak, right afore the door. "Wal, I waited about two hours for him to go to sleep, an' then made up my mind that I might as well be travelin'. So I throwed off my blanket an' war risin' to my feet, when 'bang' went the feller's pistol, an' the bullet whizzed by my head an' went into the wall. I warn't more'n ten feet from him, an' I'll be blamed if he didn't miss me. The next minit I had him by the throat, an' a blow from the butt of one o' my six-shooters done the work for him. I dragged him away from the door, jumped down the steps, an' made tracks through the garden. "The night war purty dark, but I knowed which way to go to get out o' the yard, which war surrounded by a palin' eight foot high. You'd better believe I run _some_; but I hadn't gone twenty yards from the house afore I run slap agin somebody. I thought at first that it war the gen'ral, an' I muzzled him. '_Carrajo!_ what does this mean?' said the Mexikin, in Spanish. As soon as I heered his voice, I knowed that he warn't the feller I wanted; most likely he war one o' the men the gen'ral had been expectin'; so I give him a settler with my knife, an' tuk to my heels agin. "The pistol that the Mexikin had fired in the house had set the women a goin'; an', when I reached the fence, I heered 'em yellin' an' wailin' over the feller I had knocked down. I didn't stop to listen to 'em, but jumped over into the field where my hoss war, an' commenced whistlin' for him. I thought he war a long while a coming an' I ran along whistlin', an' wonderin' where he had gone to. Purty soon I heered his whinny, an' see him comin' toward me like mad; an' right behind him war three or four Mexikins, with their lassoes all ready to ketch him. But my hoss war leavin' 'em behind fast; for the way he could climb over the ground when he onct made up his mind to run, war a caution to them Greasers. He come right up to me, an' in a minit I war on his back. "I now felt safe. The first thing I did war to pull out my huntin'-knife an' fasten it to my wrist with a piece o' buckskin; then, drawin' one o' my revolvers, I turned in my saddle, an' thought I would stir up the Greasers a little, when all to onct somethin' struck me in the face like a club, an' I war lifted from my saddle clean as a whistle, and the next minit I war bumpin' an' draggin' over the ground in a mighty onpleasant kind of a way. One o' the Greasers had slipped his lasso over me, an' war pullin' me along as fast as his hoss could travel. I fell right flat on my face, an' every step the Greaser's hoss tuk plowed my nose in the ground, an' my eyes war so full o' dirt an' blood that I could scarcely see. "But I war not quite so fast as the Greaser had thought for. The lasso hadn't gone down round my neck, but had ketched jest above my chin. I hadn't never been in sich a mighty onpleasant fix afore, but I warn't long in gettin' my wits about me. Reachin' up with my huntin'-knife, I made a slash at the lasso, an' the next minit wor standin' on my feet agin. I had hung onto my revolver, an', drawin' a bead on the Greaser that had ketched me, I tumbled him from his saddle in a twinklin'. My hoss hadn't run an inch arter I war pulled off his back, an' I war soon in the saddle agin. "I knowed I war safe now, for, as I galloped over the field, I see the Greasers travelin' down the road as though Gen'ral Taylor's army war arter 'em. They war three to my one, but didn't think themselves a match for a single American." CHAPTER XV. Caught at Last. "But that isn't all the story," said the trapper, again filling his pipe. "As soon as the Greasers had got out o' sight, I galloped back toward the road an' tuk the back track, intendin' to find Cap'n Morgan, an' tell him that the Mexikins were kalkerlatin' on ketchin' him, an' then go on with my dispatches. "I had paid purty good attention to what the gen'ral had told the women, an' I knowed exactly what road to take to find the cap'n's camp; an' you'd better believe I rid _some_. Purty soon some one yelled out: "'Who goes there?' "'Friend!' I shouted, 'an' I want to see Cap'n Morgan to onct. I've got some news for him.' "You'd better believe the ole cap'n opened his eyes when I told him my story; an' arter furnishin' me with a fresh hoss--the best one in the camp--he set to work gettin' ready for the Greasers. I didn't much like the idee o' startin' out agin, for I didn't know the short cuts through the country as well as I ought to, an' the cap'n had no guide to send with me. But I knowed that them letters must be in Alamo by night, an' I shouldn't ever be able to look ole Bill Lawson in the face agin if I didn't obey my orders; so, arter biddin' the boys good-by, an' wishin' 'em good luck in fightin' the Mexikins, I set out. "I did plenty of doublin' an' twistin' to get clear o' the Greasers, for I met 'em about half way atween the mountains an' the house where we had stopped, goin' up to ketch the cap'n. They war in high spirits, but when they come down agin, about two hours arterward, they were runnin' like white-heads, an' the Texas boys were close at their heels. "I war used to hard work, but when I got off my hoss that night in Alamo, I war about as tired a man as you ever see. Two days arterward I war back in Monterey agin. Ole Bill didn't know me, for my face war purty well cut up. I told him the story of the Mexikin gen'ral, an' arter talkin' the matter over, me an' him concluded we would capture that Greaser, an' started up to head-quarters to have a talk with the kurnel about it. "'You can't do it, boys,' says he. 'If Cortinas war an Injun, you would be jist the fellers to do it; but you don't know enough about soldierin'. Howsomever, you can try.' "The next mornin', when me an' Bill rid up to the kurnel's head-quarters to bid him good-by, you wouldn't a knowed us. We had pulled off our huntin'-shirts an' leggins, an' war dressed in reg'lar Mexikin style. We left our rifles behind, an' tuk carbines in their place. We didn't like to do this; but if we had carried our long shootin'-irons into a Mexikin camp, any one would a knowed what we war. We had our six-shooters and huntin'-knives stowed away in our jackets. "'Good-by, kurnel,' said Bill, shakin' the ole soldier's hand. 'We'll ketch that Greaser, or you'll never see us agin.' "'Do your best, boys,' said the kurnel. 'Bring back the Greaser, an' the thousand dollars are yourn.' "We follered the same path that the gen'ral had led me--takin' keer not to ride too fast, 'cause we didn't know what we might have for our hosses to do--an' afore dark we come to the house where me an' my guide had stopped, an' knocked at the gate. When it war opened we could see that the place war full o' Greasers; but that didn't trouble us any, for we knowed that we should have to go into their camp if we wanted to ketch the gen'ral. We told the Greaser that come to the gate, that we were Mexikin soldiers, an' wanted to stay there all night, an' he war as perlite as we could wish--asked us to walk in, an' sent a man to take keer of our hosses. "This war the first time we had met a soldier in our new rig, an' we were a little afeered that he might diskiver who we were; but we could both talk Spanish as well as he could, an' the rascal didn't suspect us. "We asked to see the commandin' officer, an' when we found him we reported to him as scouts belongin' to Gen'ral Santa Anna's head-quarters, an' that we had come with very important news for Gen'ral Cortinas. What that news was we didn't know ourselves; but we knowed that we could get up a purty good story when the time come. "'All right,' said the Greaser cap'n. 'I'm goin' up to Gen'ral Cortinas' camp to-morrow, an' you can ride right up with me.' "We touched our hats to him an' left the room. I hated mighty bad to salute that dirty Greaser jest as I would my kurnel. I had rather put a bullet in his yaller hide; but we war in for it, an' we knowed that the hull thing depended on our behavin' ourselves properly. As we passed out o' the house we met the women, an' I begun to shake in my boots agin, 'cause I knowed them women had sharp eyes, an' I war afeered it war all up with us. But they didn't suspect nothin', an' I knowed that we war safe; 'cause if they couldn't see through the game we war playin', nobody could. "Wal, we went out into the yard an' eat supper, an' lay down around the fire with them ar dirty Mexikins, an' listened to their insultin' talk agin the Americans, an', in course, jined in with 'em. They thought me an' ole Bill war lucky dogs in bein' with a great gen'ral like Santa Anna; but I couldn't see what there war great in a man who, with an army o' fifty thousand men, would run from six thousand. But we told 'em a good many things about the gen'ral that I guess they never heered afore, an' we hadn't heered of 'em neither; but they believed every thing we said war gospel truth, an' we made our kalkerlations that in less nor a month the American army would all be prisoners. "The next mornin' we made an 'arly start, an' that arternoon drew up in the Mexikin camp. It war a purty sight, I tell you--nothin' to be seen but white tents as far as our eyes could reach. There warn't less nor a hundred thousand men in that ar camp, an' I begun to feel rather shaky when I thought of our small army at Monterey. While me an' Bill war lookin' about, a spruce little Greaser come up, an' said that Gen'ral Cortinas war waitin' to see us. We found the rascal in a large tent, with a sentry afore the door, an' when I sot eyes on him, my fingers ached to ketch him by the throat. He looked jest as he did when me an' him set out from Monterey together, only he had on a blue uniform. "'Wal, boys,' said he, smilin' an' motionin' us to set down, 'I understand that you're from Gen'ral Santa Anna, an' have news for me.' "'Yes, gen'ral,' said ole Bill, takin' off his slouch-hat, an' scratchin' his head as if thinkin' what to say. 'We've got news for you. If you want to ketch Cap'n Morgan an' his band o' cutthroats, I'll tell you jest how you can do it.' "'How can it be done, my good feller,' said the gen'ral, rubbin' his hands. 'I thought I should capture him the other night, but he had too many men for me.' "'Wal,' said ole Bill, 'me an' this feller here'--pintin' to me--'war in Monterey yesterday, an' heered an order read to Cap'n Morgan to march out o' the city at midnight, an' jine Cap'n Davis at Alamo. Now, if you want to ketch him, all you have got to do is to take fifty men, an' wait for him in the mountains. He has got jest twenty-eight men in his company.' "'I'll do it,' said the Greaser. 'But I'll take a hundred men, to make sure of him. Which road is he going to take?' "'That's what we can't tell exactly,' said ole Bill. 'But me an' this feller thought that we would come an' tell you, so that you could have every thing ready, an' then go back and find out all their plans.' "'Very well,' said the Greaser; an', arter writin' somethin' on a piece o' paper, he handed it to ole Bill, sayin': 'Here's a pass for you an' your friend to go in an' out o' the lines whenever you please. Now, you go back to Monterey, an' find out all Cap'n Morgan's plans, an' I'll go out with a hundred men an' ketch him.' "This war exactly what me an' Bill wanted. We were afeered at first that he would send some one else instead o' goin' himself; but now we knowed that we war all right; the gen'ral war ourn, an' no mistake. "As soon as we got out o' sight o' the camp, we made good time, an' afore midnight we war in the kurnel's head-quarters. As soon as he heered our story, he sent for one o' his officers, an' told him to march 'arly the next evenin' with eighty men, an' draw up an ambush, in a deep gorge, through which ran the road that led to Alamo. An' he ordered Cap'n Morgan, who had reached Monterey the day afore, to be ready to march through that gorge at midnight. "Arter me an' Bill had rested a little while, we set out on fresh hosses, an', in a few hours, were back in the Mexikin camp agin. That arternoon we rid out, side by side, with Gen'ral Cortinas, an' about ten o'clock in the evenin' we reached the gorge. Every thing war as silent as death; but I knowed that eighty Western rifles war stowed away among the trees, on each side o' the road, an' behind 'em war sturdy hunters an' trappers, achin' to send a bullet in among us. "Arter the gen'ral had fixed his men to suit him, we drawed back into the bushes, an' waited for Cap'n Morgan to come up. Jest a little afore midnight we heered a faint tramp, an' in a few minits the rangers swept down into the gorge. For a minit nothin' war heered but the noise o' their hosses' hoofs on the road. It war a fine sight to see them brave men ridin' right down into that ambush, knowin', as they did, that death war on each side o' them. Nigher an' nigher they come; an' the gen'ral war about to give the order to fire, when, all to onct, a yell like an Injun's burst from among the trees, an' the reports of eighty rifles echoed through the mountains. You never seed a more astonished Greaser nor that Gen'ral Cortinas war about that time. "'_Carrajo_,' he yelled, 'you have betrayed me.' "'Shouldn't wonder if we had, you tarnal yaller-hided scoundrel,' said ole Bill; an' afore the Greaser could make a move, we had him by the arms, an' two six-shooters were lookin' him in the face. His cowardly men didn't fire a shot, but throwed down their guns, an' run in every direction. But our boys closed up about 'em, an' out o' them ar hundred men that come out to ketch Cap'n Morgan, not half a dozen escaped. The only prisoner we tuk back to Monterey war the gen'ral." After Dick had got through his tale, the hunters held a consultation over the state of their larder. As their coffee, bread, and other supplies were exhausted, and they did not like the idea of living on venison and water, they concluded to break up camp. The next morning they packed their baggage into the sled, and, taking a last look at the place where they had spent so many happy hours, set out for Uncle Joe's cabin, which they reached a little before dark. CHAPTER XVI. The Lost Wagon-Train. Uncle Joe met them at the door, and, while they were relieving themselves of their overcoats and weapons, asked innumerable questions about their sojourn in the woods. Dick took the part of spokesman, and described, in his rude, trapper's style, the scenes through which they had passed, dwelling with a good deal of emphasis on the "keerlessness" displayed by the Young Naturalist in attacking the moose, and in starting off alone to fight the panther. The trapper tried hard to suppress the feelings of pride which he really felt, and favored the young hunter with a look that was intended to be severe, but which was, in fact, a mingling of joy and satisfaction. Frank bore the scolding which Uncle Joe administered with a very good grace, for he knew that he deserved it. "I'd like to take the youngster out on the prairy," said Dick, seating himself before the fire, and producing his never-failing pipe. "I'll bet that, arter he had follered me and Useless a year or two, he wouldn't be in no great hurry to pitch into every wild varmint he come acrost." Frank made no reply, but taking the cubs from the pockets of his overcoat, allowed them to run about the cabin--a proceeding which the dogs, especially Brave, regarded with suspicion, and which they could not be persuaded to permit, until they had received several hearty kicks and cuffs from their masters. "You can't blame the critters," said the trapper, puffing away at his pipe. "It's their natur', an' I sometimes think that them dogs have a deal more sense than their human masters, an'"---- "Supper's ready," interrupted Bob, the cook and man-of-all-work, and this announcement put an end to all further conversation on the subject. The boys were highly delighted to find themselves seated at a well-filled table once more, and Uncle Joe's good things rapidly disappeared before their attacks. It made no difference to the trapper, however. With him a few weeks "roughing it" in the woods was, of course, no novelty. A log for a table, and a piece of clean bark for a plate, answered his purpose as well as all the improvements of civilization, which those who have been brought up in the settlements regard as necessary to their very existence. After supper, they drew their chairs in front of the fire, and Uncle Joe and his brother solaced themselves with their pipes, while Bob busied himself in clearing away the table and washing the dishes. "This Bill Lawson," said the trapper, after taking a few puffs at his pipe, to make sure that it was well lighted, "used to take it into his head onct in awhile to act as guide for fellers as wanted to go to Californy. He knowed every inch of the country from St. Joseph to the mines, for he had been over the ground more'n you ever traveled through these yere woods, an' he was called as good a guide as ever tuk charge of a wagon-train. In course, I allers went with him on these trips, as a sort o' pack-hoss an' hunter, cause ole Bill couldn't think o' goin' anywhere without me; an' I have often thought that the reason why he made them trips as guide, was jest to get a good look at the folks; it reminded him o' the time when he had parents, an' brothers an' sisters. He never laughed an' joked round the camp-fires, as he used to do when me and him war off alone in the mountains. He hardly ever said a word to any body besides me, an' allers appeared to be sorrowful. This give him the name of 'Moody Bill,' by which he was knowed all through the country. Every trader on the prairy war acquainted with him, an' he allers tuk out a big train. I never knowed him to lose but one, an' he lost himself with it. The way it happened war this: "One night, arter we had got about a week's journey west of Fort Laramie, we stopped in a little oak opening, where we made our camp. It war right in the heart o' the wust Injun country I ever see, an' near a place where me an' ole Bill had often _cached_ our furs an' other fixins, an' which we used as a kind o' camp when we war in that part o' the country trappin' beaver an' fightin' Injuns. It war a cave in the side of a mountain, an' the way we had it fixed nobody besides ourselves couldn't find it. We never went in or come out of it until arter dark, 'cause the Comanches were a'most allers huntin' 'bout the mountains, an' we didn't want em to break up our harborin' place. We had made up our minds that, arter we had seed our train safe through, we would come back to our 'bar's hole,' as we called it, an' spend a month or so in fightin' the Comanches an' skrimmagin' with the grizzlies in the mountains. "Wal, as I war sayin' we made our camp, an' while I war dressin' a buck I had shot, ole Bill, as usual, leaned on his rifle, an' watched the emigrants unpack their mules an' wagons, an' make their preparations for the night. Arter supper he smoked a pipe, an' then rolled himself up in his blanket an' said----'Dick, you know this place, but you ain't no trapper;' an', without sayin' any more, he lay down and went to sleep, leavin' me to station the guards, an' see that every thing went on right durin' the night. "I knowed well enough what ole Bill meant when he said, 'Dick, you ain't no trapper.' He had seed Injun sign durin' the day, an' war pokin' fun at me, cause I hadn't seed it too. I don't know, to this day, how it war that I had missed it, for I had kept a good look-out, an' I had allers thought that I war 'bout as good an Injun hunter as any feller in them diggins, (allers exceptin' ole Bill and Bob Kelly;) but the way the ole man spoke tuk me down a peg or two, an' made me feel wusser nor you youngsters do when you get trounced at school for missin' your lessons. "Wal, as soon as it come dark, I put out the guards, an' then shouldered my rifle, an' started out to see if I could find any sign o' them Injuns that ole Bill had diskivered. It war as purty a night as you ever see. The moon shone out bright an' clear, an', savin' the cry of a whippoorwill, that come from a gully 'bout a quarter of a mile from the camp, an' the barkin' o' the prairy wolves, every thing war as still as death. You youngsters would have laughed at the idea o' goin' out to hunt Injuns on such a night; but I knowed that there must be somethin' in the wind, for ole Bill never got fooled about sich things. Here in the settlements he wouldn't have knowed enough to earn his salt; but out on the prairy he knowed all about things. "Wal, I walked all round the camp, an' back to the place where I had started from, an' not a bit of Injun sign did I see. There war a high hill jest on the other side of the gully, an' I knowed that if there war any Injuns about, an' they should take it into their heads to pounce down upon us, they would jest show themselves in that direction; so I sot down on the prairy, outside o' the wagons, which war drawn up as a sort o' breastwork round the camp, and begun to listen. I didn't hear nothin', however, until a'most midnight, and then, jest arter I had changed the guards, an' was goin' back to my place, I heered somethin' that made me prick up my ears. It war the hootin' of an owl, an' it seemed to come from the hill. "Now, you youngsters would'n't have seed any thing strange in that; but a man who has spent his life among wild Injuns and varmints can tell the difference atween a sound when it comes from an owl's throat, and when it comes from a Comanche's; an' I to onct made up my mind that it war a signal. Presently from the gully come the song of a whippoorwill. It didn't sound exactly like the notes I had heered come from that same gully but a few minits afore, an' I knowed that it war another signal. When the whippoorwill had got through, I heered the barkin' of a prairy wolf further up the gully to the right o' the camp; an' all to onct the wolves, which had been barkin' an' quarrelin' round the wagons, set up a howl, an' scampered away out o' sight. This would have been as good a sign as I wanted that there war Injuns about, even if I hadn't knowed it afore; so I sot still on the ground to see what would be the next move. "In a few minits I heered a rustlin' like in the grass a little to one side of me. I listened, an' could tell by the sound that there was somebody in there, crawlin' along on his hands an' knees. Nearer an' nearer it come, an' when it got purty clost to me it stopped, an' I seed an' Injun's head come up over the top o' the grass, an' I could see that the rascal war eyein' me purty sharp. I sot mighty still, noddin' my head a leetle as if I war fallin' asleep, keepin' an' eye on the ole feller all the time to see that he didn't come none of his Injun tricks on me, and finally give a leetle snore, which seemed to satisfy the painted heathen, for I heered his 'ugh!' as he crawled along by me into camp. "What made you do that?" interrupted Archie, excitedly. "Why didn't you muzzle him?" "That the way you youngsters, what don't know nothin' about fightin' Injuns, would have done," answered the trapper, with a laugh, "an' you would have had your har raised for your trouble. But, you see, I knowed that he had friends not a great way off, an' that the fust motion I made to grab the rascal, I would have an arrer slipped into me as easy as fallin' off a log. But I didn't like to have the varlet behind me; so, as soon as I knowed that he had had time to get into the camp, I commenced noddin' agin, an' finally fell back on the ground, ker-chunk. "I guess them Injuns that were layin' round in the grass laughed _some_ when they see how quick I picked up my pins. I got up as though I expected to see a hull tribe of Comanches clost on to me, looked all round, an', arter stretchin' my arms as though I had enjoyed a good sleep, I started along toward the place where one o' the guards war standin'. I walked up clost to him, an' whispered: "'Don't act as though you thought that any thing was wrong, but keep your eyes on the grass. There's Injuns about.' "The chap turned a leetle pale when he heered this; but although he was as green as a punkin, as far as Injun fightin' war consarned, he seemed to have the real grit in him, for he nodded in a way that showed that he understood what I meant. I then dropped down on all-fours, an' commenced crawlin' into the camp to find the Injun. The fires had burned low, an' the moon had gone down, but still there war light enough for me to see the rascal crawlin' along on the ground, an' making toward one of the wagons. When he reached it, he raised to his feet, an', arter casting his eyes about the camp, to make sure that no one seed him, he lifted up the canvas an' looked in. Now war my time. Droppin' my rifle, I sprung to my feet, an' started for the varlet; but jest as I war goin' to grab him, one o' the women in the wagon, who happened to be awake, set up a screechin'. The Injun dropped like a flash o' lightnin', an', dodgin' the grab I made at him, started for the other side o' the camp, jumpin' over the fellers that were layin' round as easy as if he had wings. I war clost arter him, but the cuss run like a streak; an finding that I war not likely to ketch him afore he got out into the prairy, I jumped back for my rifle an' tuk a flyin' shot at him, jest as he war divin' under a wagon. I don't very often throw away a chunk o' lead, an', judgin' by the way he yelled, I didn't waste one that time. He dropped like a log, but war on his feet agin in a minit, an', without waitin' to ax no questions, set up the war-whoop. I tell you, youngsters, the sound o' that same war-whoop war no new thing to me. I've heered it often--sometimes in the dead o' night, when I didn't know that there war any danger about, an' it has rung in my ears when I've been runnin' for my life, with a dozen o' the yellin' varlets clost to my heels; but I never before, nor since, felt my courage give way as it did on that night. Scarcely a man in the hull wagon-train, exceptin' me an ole Bill, had ever drawed a bead on an Injun, an' I war a'most sartin that I should have a runnin' fight with the rascals afore mornin'. "The whoop war answered from all round the camp, an' the way the bullets an' arrers come into them ar wagons warn't a funny thing to look at. My shot had 'wakened a'most every one in the camp, but there warn't much sleepin' done arter the Injuns give that yell. Men, women, an' children poured out o' the wagons, an' run about, gettin' in everybody's way; an' sich a muss as war kicked up in that ar camp I never heered afore. There war about seventy men in the train, an' they war all good marksmen, but there war scarcely a dozen that thought o' their rifles. They kept callin' on me an' ole Bill to save 'em, an' never onct thought o' pickin' up their we'pons an' fightin' to save themselves; an', in spite of all we could do, them ar cowardly sneaks would get behind the women an' children for protection. It war enough to frighten any one; an' although that ar warn't the fust muss o' the kind I had been in, I felt my ole 'coon-skin cap raise on my head when I thought what a slaughter there would be when them Comanches onct got inside o' the camp. There war only a few of us to fight 'em, an' we did the best we could, sendin' back their yells, an' bringin' the death-screech from some unlucky rascal at every shot. But the Injuns warn't long in findin' out how the land lay, an', risin' round us like a cloud, they come pourin' into camp." CHAPTER XVII. The Struggle in the Cave. "Me an ole Bill warn't hired to run away, an' we wouldn't need to have done it if them ar cowards had stood up to the mark like men; but when I seed them Injuns comin', I knowed that the game war up--it warn't no use to fight longer. I jest ketched a glimpse of ole Bill makin' for his hoss, an' I did the same, 'cause I knowed that he would stay as long as there war any chance o' beatin' back the Injuns. "To jump on my hoss, an' cut the lasso with which he war picketed, warn't the work of a minit, an' then, clubbin' my rifle, I laid about me right an' left, an' my hoss, knowin' as well as I did what war the matter, carried me safely out o' the camp. "As I rode out on to the prairy, the Injuns started up on all sides o' me, but my hoss soon carried me out o' their reach. As soon as I thought I war safe, I hauled up to load my rifle, an' wait for ole Bill. I felt a leetle oneasy about him, 'cause, if the Comanches should onct get a good sight at him, they would be sartin to know who he war, an' wouldn't spare no pains to ketch him; an' if they succeeded, he couldn't expect nothin' but the stake. "Wal, arter I had loaded up my rifle, an' scraped some bullets, I started back toward the camp, to see if I could find any thing o' Bill; an' jest at that minit I heered a yell that made my blood run cold. By the glare o' the camp-fires, which the Comanches had started agin, I seed the cause of the yell, for there war ole Bill on foot, an' makin' tracks for the gully, with a dozen yellin' varlets clost at his heels. In course I couldn't help the old man any; an', besides, I knowed that they would take him alive at any risk, an' that, if I kept out o' the scrape, I might have a chance to save him. Wal, jest at the edge o' the gully he war ketched, an' arter a hard tussle--for the ole man warn't one of them kind that gives up without a fight--he war bound hand an' foot, an' carried back to the camp. "In course the news spread among the Comanches like lightnin', an' it had the effect o' stoppin' the slaughterin' that war goin' on, for the Injuns all wanted to have a look at the man who had sent so many o' their best warriors to the happy huntin'-grounds. "Finally, some o' the varlets yelled out my name--the rest took it up, an' clouds of the warriors went scourin' through the camp an' over the prairy to find me; 'cause they knowed that whenever the ole man war to be found, I warn't a great way off. It begun to get mighty onhealthy for me in them diggins, so I turned my hoss, an' made tracks acrost the prairy. I rid _some_, now, I reckon, an', in a short time, war out o' hearin' o' the yells o' the savages. "As soon as I thought I war safe, I camped down on the prairy, an', with my hoss for a sentinel, slept soundly until mornin'. I then started for the camp, or, rather, the place where the camp had been, for when I got there, I found nothin' but its ruins. The Injuns had burned every thing they did not want or could not carry away, an' made off with their prisoners. Their trail war plain enough, an' I to onct commenced follerin' it up, determined that I would either save ole Bill or die with him; an', on the fourth day, durin' which time I had lived on some parched corn I happened to have in the pockets o' my huntin'-shirt, an' war in constant danger of being ketched by stragglers, I seed the Injuns enter their camp. In course there war a big rejoicin' over the prisoners an' plunder they had brought in, an' it war kept up until long arter dark. "The camp, which numbered 'bout fifty lodges, war pitched in a small prairy, surrounded on three sides by the woods. The nearest I could get to it without bein' diskivered war half a mile; an' here I tied my hoss in the edge o' the woods, an' lay down to sleep. "'Arly the next mornin' I war aroused by a yellin' and the noise o' drums, an' found the hull camp in motion. Near the middle o' the village war a small clear spot, where the prisoners war stationed. They war not bound, but a single glance at a dozen armed warriors, who stood at a little distance, showed that escape warn't a thing to be thought of. All except two o' the prisoners sot on the ground, with their heads on their hands, as if they wished to shut out all sights an' sounds o' what war going on around 'em. The two who were standin' seemed to take matters more easy. They stood leanin' against a post with their arms folded, an' watched the motions o' the Injuns as though they war used to sich sights. One o' these I picked out as ole Bill, but, in course, I couldn't tell sartin which one war him, it war so far off. "A little way from the prisoners were the principal chiefs o' the tribe, holdin' a palaver regardin' what should be done, an' a little further off stood the rest o' the tribe--men, women, an' children--waitin' the word to begin their horrid work. "It war nigh noon afore the council broke up; then one o' the chiefs commenced shoutin' some orders, an' one o' the prisoners was led out o' the camp by two Injuns, while the rest o' the varlets set up a yell, an' armin' themselves with whatever they could lay their hands on, commenced formin' themselves in two lines; the prisoner, whoever he was, must run the gauntlet. While the savages war fixin' themselves, the white chap stood between the Injuns who had led him out, watchin' what war goin' on, an' I could easy tell what he war thinkin' of, 'cause I had been in sich scrapes myself. I knowed that, as he looked through them long lines o' screechin' Injuns, an' seed the tomahawks, clubs, knives, an' whips, all ready to give him a cut as he passed, he thought of every thing he had done durin' his life. But he warn't given much time for thinkin', for, purty quick, the chief set up a yell to let the prisoner know that the time had come. The chap didn't hesitate a minit, but jumped from the place where he war standin', like a streak o' lightnin'. I see him disappear atween the lines, and made up my mind that that chap war a goner, when, all to onct, out he come, all right, and made toward the place where I war standin'. I guess them Injuns never see any thing done quite so purty afore, an' I knowed well enough now who the fellow war, 'cause there warn't but one man livin' that could come through them lines in that way, an' that war Bill Lawson. In course, the hull tribe, yellin' an' screechin' like a pack o' wolves, war arter him in less nor the shake of a buck's tail, and tomahawks, bullets, an' arrers whizzed by the prisoner in a mighty onpleasant kind o' way; but Bill kept jumpin' from one side to the other in a way that made him a mighty onhandy mark to shoot at, an' the way he did climb over that prairy was somethin' for owls to look at. But, fast as he run, I could see that there war one Injun gainin' on him, an' I made up my mind that if the ole man could hold out long enough to fetch him within pluggin' distance o' my shootin'-iron, I would put an end to his jumpin' for awhile. Nearer an' nearer they come, the Injun all the while gainin' purty fast, an' when they got within 'bout forty rod o' me, I could see that the varlet war gettin' ready to throw his tomahawk. I watched him until he raised his arm, an' sent a bullet plumb atween his eyes. The next minit the ole man jumped into the bushes. "There warn't no time for talkin' or sayin' how de do?' for the rest o' the Injuns war comin' up, an' we must put a good stretch o' prairy atween us an' them afore we war safe. "'Bill, says I, there's my hoss. I'm younger nor you be, so jump on him, and be off in a hurry; I'll meet you at the ole bar's hole, Good-by.' "I didn't wait to give the ole man a chance to say a word, 'cause I knowed that he didn't like to take that hoss; but I made off through the bushes. Ole Bill seed that I war gone, an' jumpin' on the hoss, he rode out on the prairy in plain sight, to get the Comanches to foller him, which some of 'em did; but the ole braves, who had heered my shot, an', in course, knowed that there war more'n one feller 'bout, couldn't be fooled easy, an' thinkin' they could ketch a man on foot sooner nor a man on hossback, they kept on arter me. But I war fresh for a long run--a week's travelin' acrost the prairy on foot warn't no new thing for me--an' as I never see the Injun yet that could beat me in a fair race, I felt safe, an' knowed that I should come out all right. I didn't waste time in tryin' to throw 'em off my trail, but kept straight ahead at a steady pace, an' whenever an Injun come in sight, me an' my rifle settled things with him in a tarnal hurry. This made 'em kind o' keerful, an' afore sundown I war out o' hearin o' their yells, an' a greenhorn wouldn't have thought that there war an Injun in them woods. But I war too ole a coon to believe that they had give up the chase, an' it warn't until the next mornin' that I camped to take a leetle sleep, an' eat a squirrel I had shot. "Wal, I traveled for 'bout ten days, durin' which time I didn't see a bit o' Injun sign, an' finally found myself gettin' purty nigh the ole bar's hole. As soon as I come to the woods that run down from the mountain, I tuk to a creek that run clost by the cave, an' walked along in the water, all the while keepin' a good look-out for Injun sign an' for ole Bill. Arter I had gone 'bout a mile, I come to the mouth o' the cave. It war a hole jest large enough for a man to squeeze himself through, an' so covered up with bushes that a feller might hunt a week without findin' it. The cave itself war 'bout as large as this yere cabin; an' right acrost from the entrance war a passage which led up to the top o' the hill. Me an' ole Bill had made this ourselves, so that, in case our harborin' place should be diskivered, we would have a chance for escape. "When I come to the cave it war purty dark; so, arter listenin' awhile for signs of Injuns, if there war any around, I crawled along into the hole, which war, in course, as dark as pitch, an' commenced fumblin' around for a torch that I had left stuck into the wall o' the cave, all ready to be lighted. Arter searchin' 'bout for a long time I found it--not where I had left it, but lyin' on the ground in the middle o' the cave. This seemed suspicious, an' I begun to be afraid that something war wrong. I hadn't seed no Injun sign near the cave, neither had I seed any thing of ole Bill, an' I knowed that that torch couldn't get moved clear acrost that cave without somebody had been foolin' with it. I reckon my hand war none o' the steadiest, as I lifted the torch an' commenced feelin' in my possible-sack for my flint an' steel, thinkin' that as soon as I could strike a light, I would jest examine into things a leetle. "Wal, I hadn't made more 'n one blow at my flint, when the cave echoed with the war-whoop, an' the next minit I found myself lyin' flat on my back, with a big Comanche on top o' me. "When I first heered the yell, I thought the cave war full of Injuns, an' I'll allow it made me feel a heap easier when I found that the feller that clinched me war alone, for I knowed that if any one Injun could master my scalp, he must be a tarnal sight smarter nor any red-skin I had ever met; an', without waitin' to ask no questions, I made a grab at the varmint, an', by good luck, ketched the hand that held his knife; an' then commenced one o' the liveliest little fights I war ever in. "The Injun war mighty strong, an' as wiry as an eel, an', although I could keep him from usin' his knife, I could not get him off me, neither could I get my left arm free, which, in fallin', he had pinned to my side; but I kept thrashin' about in a way that made it mighty onhandy for him to hold me. But findin' that I could do nothin' in that way, I all to onct let go the hand that held the knife, an' give him a clip 'side the head that would have knocked down a buck. It kinder staggered his daylight some, I reckon', for I made out to get my arm free, an', ketchin' the varlet by the scalp-lock, I had him on his back in a minit. He yelled an' kicked wusser nor I I did when he had me down, an' slashed right an' left with his scalpin'-knife; but it didn't take long to settle matters, an' all fears that our harborin' place had been broke up war put at rest by the death o' the Comanche." CHAPTER XVIII. End of the Trapper and Black Mustang. "My first job, arter I war sartin that the Comanche war done for, war to light the torch an' examine the cave. First makin' sure that thar war no more Injuns about, I crawled along up the passage that led to the top o' the hill, where I found that the log which covered the hole had been moved, an' I knowed in a minit that that war the place where the Comanche had come in. I didn't care 'bout showin' myself much, 'cause I didn't know how many more o' the savages there might be about; so I pulled the log over the hole agin' an' crawled back into the cave. I stuck my torch in the ground, an' arter movin' the Comanche up in one corner out of the way, I pulled over a pile of hemlock-boughs, that had many a time served me an' ole Bill for a bed, an' found a kag o' spruce beer, an' enough jerked meat to last a month. Me an' Bill allers took good keer to leave plenty o' provender at the cave when we left, so that if we should get hard pressed by the Injuns, or game should get scarce, we would know where to go to find good livin'. As I hadn't had a good meal since we lost the train, I eat a heap o' that jerked meat, an' then lay down to sleep, hopin' that when I woke I should find ole Bill with me. I warn't much anxious about him, 'cause I knowed he war on as good a hoss as ever tracked a prairy, an' war too ole in Injun fightin' to be ketched easy; an' I went to sleep, sartin that he would turn up all right afore daylight. "Wal, I slept like a top until 'arly the next mornin', but didn't see nothin' of ole Bill. Arter a breakfast on jerked meat an' spruce beer, I smoked a pipe, an' crawled up the passage to the top o' the hill, pushed off the log, an' settled down to listen. For two days, I kept watch at that hole, listenin' an' peepin', but there war no signs of ole Bill. On the second arternoon, I heered the tramp of a hoss in the creek, an' a'most at the same minit a big Comanche poked his head over the bushes not ten foot from where I war, an' looked toward the place where the sound come from. How the rascal got there without seein' me, I didn't stop to think; but, risin' to my feet, I chucked my tomahawk at him, an' there war one Injun less in them woods. Nigher and nigher come the trampin' o' the hoss, an' I war sartin it war ole Bill; so when he got within yellin' distance, I give the gobble of a turkey, jest to let him know that there war danger ahead. The ole man heered it, for the trampin' o' the hoss stopped, an', for a minit, the woods war as still as death; but all to onct I heered the crack of a rifle, follered by the death-screech of a Comanche, an' then the clatter of hoofs an' a loud laugh told me that the ole man war retreatin'. I knowed there warn't no use o' watchin' any more, so I pulled the log over the hole agin, crawled back into the cave, an' went to sleep. It war night when I woke, an' takin' my rifle, I crawled out into the gully an' lay down in the shade o' the bushes. I lay there till near midnight without hearin' any thing, an' had a'most made up my mind that ole Bill warn't comin', when the low hootin' of an owl come echoin' down the gully. I answered it, an', in a few minits, up come Bill an' crawled into the cave. "'Here I am,' said he, 'an' I had mighty hard work to get here, too--the timmer's chuck full o' the outlyin' varlets.' "'Where's my hoss?' I asked. "'He's down in the bushes, all right side up with keer, an' hid away where the rascals will have to hunt a long time to find him. He's worth his weight in beaver-skins, that hoss is. "Ole Bill eat his supper in silence; but, arter fillin' his pipe, said: "'Dick, them 'ar Comanches have got my hoss, an' I'm goin' back arter it.' "Now a feller would think that, arter what Bill had gone through, he wouldn't be in no hurry about goin' back among the Injuns agin. But sich scrapes warn't no new thing to him; an' when he said 'Go,' in course I warn't goin' to stay behind. So, arter takin' another smoke, the ole man tuk the knife and tomahawk o' the Injun I had killed in the cave, an' led the way out into the gully. As he had said, the timmer was full of Injuns, an', as we crawled along on our hands an' knees, we could hear 'em talkin' to each other all around us. But we got past 'em all right, an' as soon as we got out o' the gully, the ole man rose to his feet and said: "'That hoss knows that there's somethin' wrong; he hasn't moved an inch; he knows a'most as much as a human man, he does;' an' pullin' aside the branches of a thicket of scrub pines, I see my hoss standin' as quiet an' still as could be, jest as Bill had left him. He seemed mighty glad to see me agin, an' rubbed his head agin my shoulder, as I fastened on the saddle an' jumped on his back. "It war a good two weeks' work to get back to that camp, for the prairy an' woods war full o' Comanches huntin' around for Bill, an' sometimes we had to go miles round to get out o' their way. "When we reached the camp, we found it nearly deserted by the braves; still, there war enough left to ketch me an' ole Bill, if we should be diskivered. Wal, we lay round in the woods until dark, but not a glimp could we get o' the ole man's mustang. The critter might be in the camp, but more 'n likely as not he war carryin' a Comanche on his back, an' scourin' the prairy in search o' Bill. "As soon as it war fairly dark, the ole man stuck out his hand, and said: "'Dick, I'm goin' now. Good-by.' "I never before felt so bad at partin' from him. Somehow I knowed that somethin' mighty onpleasant war goin' to happen; but it warn't no use to try to keep him from goin'; so I bid him good-by, an' he commenced crawlin' through the grass toward the camp. I watched him as long as he war in sight, an' then settled back agin a tree, an' waited to see what would turn up. For two hours I sot there listenin', an' thinkin' of all the fights me an' ole Bill had been in, an' wonderin' when the time would come when we must part--not as we had now, for a little while, but forever--when all to onct I heered the barkin' of a dog in the camp. In course the hull village war aroused to onct, an' a loud yell told me that ole Bill had been diskivered. The yell was follered by the crack of a rifle, an' the ole man come gallopin' out o' the camp on his own hoss, shoutin': "'Come on now, Dick, I'm even with the rascals. There's one less Comanche in the world.' "The Injuns were clost on to Bill's trail, an' come pourin' out o' the camp on foot an' on hossback; an', seem' one big feller far ahead of the others, I hauled up for a minit, sent him from his saddle, an' then, jumpin' on my hoss, started arter the ole man. In course the yellin' hounds war soon left behind, 'cause there warn't no hosses on them prairies that could hold a candle to ourn; an' we war beginnin' to grow jolly over our good luck, when, the fust thing we knowed, crack went a couple o' rifles, an' Bill throwed his arms above his head an' fell from his saddle. "We had run chuck into a party o' Comanches who had been out huntin' the ole man, an' had give up the chase, an' were 'turnin' to camp. The minit ole Bill fell I war by his side, an', while I war liftin' him from the ground, the rascals charged toward us with loud yells, sartin that they had now got both of us in their power. "'Dick,' said the ole man, a'most in a whisper, 'I've sent a good many o' them screechin' imps out o' the world, an' it's my turn to go now. They have finished me at last. You can't help me--so save yourself; but remember that every Comanche that crosses your trail falls, to pay for this. Leave me.' "'Bill, me an' you have been together too long for that. When I leave you it'll be arter this, said I, an', liftin him in my arms, I got him on my hoss, an' started off agin. The way that little mustang got over the ground carried us ahead of all except two o' the Comanches, who kept bangin' away at us as fast as they could load their rifles. If I hadn't had ole Bill in my arms I would have put an eend to their shootin' an' yellin' in a tarnal hurry. "It war no light load that hoss had to carry, an' I knowed that we must come to closer quarters soon, 'cause he couldn't stand that gait long. But he carried us five mile 'bout as quick as I ever traveled, an' then, all to onct, commenced to run slow. He war givin' out fast. The yellin' varlets kept comin' nearer an' nearer, an' I had only one chance for life, an' a poor one at that. I would stick to the hoss as long as he could step, an' then try it on foot. So I turned toward a strip o' woods which lay 'bout a mile off, but he hadn't made a dozen jumps when one o' the pursuin' Injuns sent a ball through his head, an' we all come to the ground together. "The minit I touched the prairy I dropped ole Bill an', at the crack o' my rifle, one o' the Injuns fell; the other then commenced circlin' round me, 'fraid to come to clost quarters. But I kept my eye on him, an' jest as he war goin' to fire, I dropped behind my hoss, and kept dodgin' 'bout till I got my rifle loaded, and then I settled matters to onct. I war safe--but ole Bill war dead. I tuk him up in my arms agin, and carried him into the woods, where I rolled a log from its place, an' arter scoopin' out some o' the ground, I put him in, an' pulled the log back over him. It war the best I could do for him, an' arter swearin' above his grave that a Comanche should fall for every har on his head, I shouldered my rifle, an', jest as the sun war risin', struck out acrost the prairy, which I knowed I must now tread alone. "Is it a wonder, then, that I hate an Injun? The bones of many a brave that lay scattered 'bout the prairy can tell how well I have kept my oath. Of all the Injuns that have crossed my trail since ole Bill's death, the three that camped in this shantee that night ar the only ones that ever escaped. I am not done with 'em yet; an' when I go back to the prairy, the Comanches will have further cause to remember the night that see the eend of ole Bill Lawson an' the Black Mustang." CHAPTER XIX. The Indians Again. The next morning the boys were up before the sun, and after a hearty breakfast, set out to spend the day in the woods; Frank and Harry, bending their steps toward the creek that ran through the woods, about a mile from the cabin, to set their traps for minks, while Archie and George started toward a ridge--the well-known "fox run-way" as it was called--to engage in their favorite sport. The trapper and Uncle Joe set off in an opposite direction, to cut down a bee-tree, which the latter had discovered a few days before. When Frank and Harry arrived at the creek, the latter said: "Now I want to understand something about this business, before we commence operations We're after minks, and nothing else; and I don't want you to endanger a fellow's life by getting him into any more wolf scrapes, or any thing of that kind." "All right," answered Frank, with a laugh. "I'll not get you into any scrape to-day." This satisfied Harry, and he was ready to begin the hunt. They found plenty of mink tracks on the bank of the creek. After eating their dinner, they commenced following up some of them, and, before night, succeeded, with Brave's assistance, in capturing two large minks, after which they returned to the cabin, well satisfied with their day's work. They found Uncle Joe and his brother seated at the supper-table, and a large plate full of honey, which was rapidly disappearing before their attacks, proved that they also had been successful. Archie and George came in shortly after dark, tired and hungry. A fox-skin, which the former threw down in the corner, bore testimony to the fact that Sport was losing none of those hunting qualities of which his young master so often boasted. The day's hunt had been successful on all hands; and the boys being pretty well tired out, the trapper's stories were omitted, and all the inmates of the cabin sought their couches at an early hour. The next morning the boys were "fresh and fierce" for the woods again, and once more started out in their respective directions, leaving Uncle Joe and the trapper seated before the fire, solacing themselves with their pipes. Frank and Harry, as usual, went together; the latter, as on the previous morning, exacting a promise that Frank would not get him into any "scrapes," to which the latter, as before, readily agreed, little dreaming what was to happen before night. A few moments' walk brought them to the place at which they had set their first trap, in a hollow stump, where they had noticed a multitude of "mink signs," as the trapper would have called them, and as Harry bent down and looked into the stump, Frank exclaimed: "Look at these tracks; somebody besides ourselves has been here." "Yes, some other hunters, I suppose," answered Harry, peering into the stump. "I hope they were gentlemen enough not to interfere with our arrangements here. But where's that trap gone to?" "These tracks were not made by white persons," said Frank, bending over and examining them, "for the hunters in this part of the country all wear boots. These fellows wore moccasins, and the tracks all toe in." "Indians, as sure as I'm alive!" ejaculated Harry; "and, shoot me, if our trap isn't gone." And thrusting his arm into the stump, he commenced feeling around for the article in question, but it could not be found. "Yes, sir," he continued, rising to his feet, "it is gone, and no mistake. Feel in there." Frank accordingly got down on his knees and made an examination of the stump; but the trap, beyond a doubt, had been carried off. "Now, that is provoking!" he exclaimed. "There was a mink in the trap, too," continued Harry, pointing to some bits of fur that lay scattered about over the snow. "I wish the rascals that took it had it crammed down their throats." "It does no good to scold, Harry," said Frank, "for that won't mend the matter. But let us go around and visit the other traps; perhaps they have carried off all of them." The boys accordingly went around to every place where they had left their traps, but not one of them could be found. "Now, there's thirteen dollars gone to the dogs," said Harry, angrily; "for every one of those traps was worth a dollar, at least. I wish Dick was here. We would follow up the scoundrels and recover our property. What shall we do?" "Let's follow them up, any how," replied Frank. "Perhaps we can catch them--the trail seems plain enough. How many of them do you suppose there were?" "There were two Indians and as many dogs," answered Harry. "Here's a track made by a fellow that must have had a foot as big as all out-doors; and here's another, of very respectable size." The boys commenced measuring the tracks, and found, as Harry had said, that there were but two different sizes. As soon as this had been determined, Frank exclaimed: "Well, we mustn't waste any more time. Let's start after the rascals; and if we catch them, we'll make them give up those traps or fight." Harry shrugged his shoulders, and answered: "If you are going in for a fight, just count me out, will you? One of those Indians must be a strapping big fellow, judging by the size of his feet; and the other, although he may be a smaller man, would probably prove a tough customer. If Dick was here, I wouldn't mind it. Let us go after him." "O no," answered the reckless Frank. "I guess we and our double-barrel shot-guns, with Brave's assistance, can recover those traps. If we can't catch the thieves, we'll make the trail, at any rate." Harry made no reply, but ran along after Frank, who commenced following up the trail of the Indians, which, as no care had been taken to conceal it, was very plain. As on the former occasion, it appeared as if the tracks had been made by one person; but, on closer examination, Frank discovered that the larger savage had taken the lead, and that his companion had stepped exactly in his tracks. The trail ran directly away from Uncle Joe's cabin, and then turned abruptly and ran parallel with a ridge for the same distance; and here the boys came to a place where there was a confused mingling of tracks, conspicuous among which were some made by boots. There were also the tracks of two more dogs, and several drops of blood on the snow. "The thieves have received reinforcements here," said Harry. "A couple of white hunters, or else two more Indians, with boots on." "Yes, it looks like it," answered Frank. "And they must have killed some game, for here's blood on the snow." "I guess we've gone about far enough," said Harry. "Four men and four dogs are more than a match for us." "No matter; I'm going to see the end of it now. You won't leave me to go on alone!" "O no. If you are bound to go on, I shall stick to you." Frank immediately set off on the trail, which turned suddenly to the left, and led toward a ravine. After running a short distance, he said: "These last fellows that joined them are not Indians, Harry, because they didn't step in each other's tracks." The trail led directly through the gully, and up the other side; and while the boys were climbing up the bank, they heard the angry barking of dogs, followed by the report of a gun, and a yell that made their blood run cold. Harry immediately drew back, but Frank kept on; and when he reached the top of the bank, he saw a sight that filled him with horror, and which disturbed his sleep for many a night afterward. But let us now return to Archie and George, whom we left starting out with their hounds. When they reached the bottom, through which the creek ran, they found Sport standing over a fox-trail; and, at his master's command, he at once set off upon it, followed by Lightfoot, while the boys struck off through the woods toward a ridge which they knew the fox would be certain to follow. They reached it just as the hounds passed; and were about to start off again, when they were startled by the crack of two rifles in rapid succession, accompanied by a howl of anguish. The baying of the hound ceased, and, the next moment, Lightfoot came running back, and took refuge behind his master. "What's the matter, I wonder?" inquired Archie, in alarm. "Somebody has shot Sport," answered George, as the howls of pain continued to come from the part of the woods where the shots had been heard. "Sport shot!" repeated Archie, indignantly. "I won't stand that, you know. Come on; let's see who it was." As the boys commenced running up the ridge, the howls ceased, and Archie began to be afraid that his hound had been killed; but, in a few moments, he saw Sport coming toward him. He bore an ugly-looking wound on his back, which had been made by a bullet; and although it had at first disabled him, he was fast recovering his strength and ferocity, and answered his master's caresses by showing his teeth, and giving vent to angry growls. "I'm going to find out who that was," said Archie. "Hunt 'em up, Sport! hunt 'em up, sir!" The hound was off on the instant, and led the way to the place where he had been shot, which was marked by a little pool of blood on the snow, and here he turned off to the left of the ridge and ran down into a gully. Instead of baying as when on the trail of a fox, he ran in silence, and the boys soon lost sight of him; but just as they reached the bottom of the gully, they heard his bark, followed by a yell, and a crashing in the bushes, as if a severe struggle was going on; and when they gained the top of the bank, they found Sport resolutely defending himself against two Indians and their dogs. The latter--large, shaggy animals, of the wolf species--had closed with the hound, which would undoubtedly have proved more than a match for both of them, had not the Indians (who could not use their rifles for fear of wounding their own dogs) attacked him with clubs. But Sport was valiantly holding his own against their combined assaults, now and then seizing one of the dogs in his powerful jaws, and giving him a tremendous shaking, and then turning fiercely upon one of the Indians, who found it necessary to retreat, in order to save himself. The boys comprehended the state of affairs at a glance. Running fearlessly up to the place where the fight was going on, Archie placed the muzzle of his gun against the head of one of the dogs, and killed him on the spot, exclaiming: "Turn about is fair play, you know. I'll teach you to shoot my hound when he isn't bothering you." The large Indian immediately ceased his attacks upon Sport, and, turning upon Archie with a yell, threw his brawny arms about him, and hurled him to the ground. But Archie still retained his presence of mind, and, while struggling with his assailant, shouted to his companion: "Shoot the other dog! shoot the other dog!" George had just time to act upon this suggestion, when the smaller savage closed with him. Of course the boys, although they fought desperately, were speedily overpowered by the athletic Indians, who at once commenced beating them most unmercifully with their clubs. Archie, especially, was being punished most severely, when the hound, finding himself at liberty, sprang upon the Indian, and pulled him to the ground. Archie was on his feet in an instant; and, cheering on the dog, was about to spring to George's assistance, when he noticed that his late assailant was in a most dangerous situation, the long teeth of the hound being fastened in his throat; and although he struggled desperately, he could not release himself. Archie at once hurried to his relief, and endeavored to choke off the hound, while the smaller Indian continued to shower his blows upon George, who received them without giving vent to a single cry of pain. Such was the scene presented to Frank's gaze as he came up out of the gully. Of course he was entirely ignorant of the cause of the trouble, but, seeing George's situation, he at once ran to his assistance. The Indian, seeing him approach, uttered a yell, and, springing to his feet, was about to "make himself scarce," when the sight of Frank's double-barrel, which the latter aimed straight at his head, brought him to a stand-still. By this time, Archie, with Harry's aid, had succeeded in releasing the Indian, but it required their utmost strength to prevent the hound from renewing his attacks. The savage, however, had not fared so badly as they had at first supposed; for, although during the last few moments of the struggle he had lain so still that Archie began to fear that he was dead, the moment he was released he sprang to his feet, and, uttering the usual "ugh," was about to retreat, when he also was brought to a halt by Frank's double-barrel. The circumstances which had brought the boys together in so singular a manner were speedily explained, after which Frank commenced an examination of the "possible-sacks" that the Indians carried slung over their shoulders, which resulted in the recovery of the missing traps. "Now, what shall we do with these rascals?" he inquired. "They're the same ones that camped in the cabin that night," answered Archie; "and this is the second time they have been guilty of stealing traps, and I say let's take 'em prisoners, and let Dick pass judgment upon them." This plan was hailed with delight by the others; and the savages, who, during the conversation, had stood with their arms folded, as if they were in no wise concerned in what was going on, were at once relieved of their knives and hatchets, and, in obedience to Archie's order, fell in behind Frank, who led the way toward the cabin. George and Harry followed close after them, carrying the weapons that had been taken from the prisoners, and ready to resist the first attempt that should be made at escape, while Archie brought up the rear, struggling hard to restrain the hound, which, every moment, renewed his endeavors to reach the Indians. In this order they marched through the woods, and, just before dark, reached the cabin. Frank entered first, standing with his gun at a shoulder-arms until the prisoners had passed him and the rest of the boys had entered and closed the door. "Eh! what?" ejaculated the trapper, who had watched these movements in surprise. "What did you youngsters fetch them ar tarnal varlets back here for?" The affair was soon explained, and Uncle Joe and the trapper rolled up their eyes in astonishment. At length the latter said: "They stole your traps, did they, an' shot the hound, an' you follered 'em up an' ketched 'em, did you?" "Yes," answered Archie, "and they mauled George and me with clubs; and we have brought them here to know what to do with them." "Wal, I never _did_ see sich keerless fellers as you youngsters be," said Dick. "You get wusser every day. Why didn't you come arter me?" "We should have lost too much time. Besides, we wanted to catch them ourselves." "Wal, 'cordin' to prairy law," continued the trapper, "there oughter be short work made of 'em; but what's law on the prairy won't do in the settlements. Pitch 'em out-doors, and don't never bring no more Injuns here." "Shall we give them their guns?" asked Frank. "No; don't give 'em nothin'. Open that door." Frank did as the trapper ordered, and the latter walked up to the large Indian, and, seizing him around the body, lifted him from his feet, and threw him headlong into a deep snow-drift outside of the cabin. A smothered "ugh" broke from his lips as he sank out of sight. After considerable struggling, he reappeared, completely covered with snow, looking very unlike the sedate Indian that had stood in the cabin but a moment before, and started, at the top of his speed, for the woods. As soon as he had disappeared in the darkness, the trapper seized the smaller Indian, and served him in the same manner; then, without waiting to see what became of him, closed the door, and returned to his seat in front of the fire. CHAPTER XX. The Journey Homeward. Next morning, as soon as they had finished their breakfast, in accordance with the promise they had made their parents before starting, that they would be at home before the holidays, the boys began to make preparations to leave the woods. The sled was brought around to the door, and, while George and Harry were engaged in loading it, Frank and his cousin went to the barn to harness the young moose, which had become very tractable, and would trot off with a load as well as a horse. Their traps and guns, together with the furs they had taken, were stowed carefully away in the bottom of the sled; then came the cubs, and the skins of the moose, bear, white buck, and panther, and the whole was crowned by the huge antlers of the moose, to give it, as Harry said, "an imposing appearance." After the moose had been hitched to the sled, and all was ready for the start, the boys turned to shake hands with Uncle Joe and the trapper. Dick seemed to regret their parting very much. After drawing his coat-sleeve across his eyes, he seized Frank's hand, and said: "Good-by, youngster! We have had some good times in these yere woods this winter. I'm sorry that the partin' time has come, for I hate to have you leave us. You are a gritty feller--jest sich a one as I like to see; an' I have tuk to you jest the same as poor ole Bill Lawson onct tuk to me. As soon as spring opens I shall start agin for the prairy. The woods here are too small for me. We prob'bly shall never meet agin, but I hope you won't forget your ole friend, Dick Lewis. Good-by! an' may your trail never be as rugged an' rough as mine has been." "I shall never forget you, Dick," replied Frank, as he returned the trapper's hearty grasp. "You saved my life." At length the farewells had all been said, and the boys got into the sled. Frank took up the reins, and the moose broke into a rapid trot, that soon carried them out of sight of the cabin. There was no danger that the boys would soon forget the wild scenes through which they had passed during their short sojourn in the woods. Each had something to remind him of some exciting hunt which he had gone through. Frank thought of his desperate struggle with the buck, during which he had received scars that would go with him through life. Harry remembered his adventure with the wolves. George shivered as he thought of his cold bath in the pond. And Archie, in imagination, was again in pursuit of the black fox. "Well," said the latter, at length, "we've had some fine times since we traveled over this road." "Yes," said George, "and I should like to go through them again--ducking and all." "I had rather be excused," said Frank. "So had I," chimed in Harry. "I shouldn't like the idea of going through the fight with that moose again," continued Frank. "Nor I shouldn't like to meet those wolves again, and have them pull off my boots as I was climbing up a tree," said Harry. "I wonder what the folks will think, when they see us coming home in this rig?" said Archie. That question was answered when, about an hour before dark, they turned up off the creek into the road, in full view of the cottage. They were first discovered by Aunt Hannah, who, after shading her eyes with her hand, and gazing at them a few moments, ran into the house. A moment afterward the whole family appeared at the door. "There's my folks!" exclaimed Archie. "I thought they would be here to spend the holidays. Show them what we can do, Frank." His cousin accordingly put the moose through his best paces, and in a few moments they whirled through the gate, and drew up before the door. "Well, boys, I'm glad to see you all back safe," said Mr. Winters, as soon as the greeting was over. "It's a wonder that Archie didn't shoot some of you--he's so careless with his gun." "O no, father," replied the boy, "I've got over that. I always hold my gun muzzle down, as you told me." The boys began to unload the sled, and one after another of the articles were taken out and laid on the portico. Finally, Harry drew out the panther's skin. "A panther!" exclaimed Mr. Winters. "Where did you buy that skin?" "Buy it!" repeated Archie. "We didn't buy it. Frank killed the panther that once wore this skin; with a shot-gun, too; and that isn't all he killed, either. Look here!" and he threw out the bear and moose-skins, and finally the cubs. "He had a nice time killing that moose," Archie went on to say, "and he came near being"---- Here he was interrupted by a look from his cousin. He was about to say, "and came near being killed himself;" but finished his sentence by saying, "He came near killing the moose at the first shot, but didn't quite." Mr. Winters had seen the glances that the boys exchanged, and knew that it meant something more than they were willing to reveal; but he made no remark. After the things had all been taken out, with the exception of those that belonged to George and Harry, and the cubs had been taken into the kitchen and delivered into Aunt Hannah's especial charge, the boys got into the sled again and started for Mr. Butler's. Their appearance in the village created a great commotion. After driving around to the post-office for the mail, as well as to show off the qualities of their horned horse, they started home again. That evening was passed in a pleasant manner, in the recital of the boys' adventures in the woods, which also formed the topic of conversation for many days. In spite of the emphatic instructions Frank had given his companions "not to say a word about his fight with the moose," it gradually "leaked out somewhere," as Archie expressed it, and Frank became a hero in his own family, and in the village. * * * * * Here we will leave them, only to introduce them again in other and more stirring scenes on the Western Prairies. THE END. FAMOUS CASTLEMON BOOKS. GUNBOAT SERIES. By HARRY CASTLEMON. Illustrated. 6 vols. 16mo. Cloth, extra, black and gold. FRANK THE YOUNG NATURALIST. FRANK ON A GUNBOAT. FRANK IN THE WOODS. FRANK BEFORE VICKSBURG. FRANK ON THE LOWER MISSISSIPPI. FRANK ON THE PRAIRIE. ROCKY MOUNTAIN SERIES. By HARRY CASTLEMON. Illustrated. 3 vols. 16mo. Cloth, extra, black and gold. FRANK AMONG THE RANCHEROS. FRANK AT DON CARLOS' RANCHO. FRANK IN THE MOUNTAINS. SPORTSMAN'S CLUB SERIES. By HARRY CASTLEMON. Illustrated. 3 vols. 16mo. Cloth, extra, black and gold. THE SPORTSMAN'S CLUB IN THE SADDLE. THE SPORTSMAN'S CLUB AFLOAT. THE SPORTSMAN'S CLUB AMONG THE TRAPPERS. GO-AHEAD SERIES. By HARRY CASTLEMON. Illustrated. 3 vols. 16mo. Cloth, extra, black and gold. TOM NEWCOMBE. GO-AHEAD. NO MOSS. FRANK NELSON SERIES. By HARRY CASTLEMON. Illustrated. 3 vols. 16mo. Cloth, extra, black and gold. SNOWED UP. FRANK IN THE FORECASTLE. BOY TRADERS. BOY TRAPPER SERIES. By HARRY CASTLEMON. Illustrated. 3 vols. 16mo. Cloth, extra, black and gold. THE BURIED TREASURE; OR, OLD JORDAN'S HAUNT. THE BOY TRAPPER; OR, HOW DAVE FILLED THE ORDER. THE MAIL-CARRIER. ROUGHING IT SERIES. By HARRY CASTLEMON. Illustrated. 16mo. Cloth, extra, black and gold. GEORGE IN CAMP. _Other Volumes in Preparation._ Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1865, by R. W. CARROLL & CO., In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States, for the Southern District of Ohio. 
59853	----	+-------------------------------------------------+ |Transcriber's note: | | | |Obvious typographic errors have been corrected. | | | +-------------------------------------------------+ [Illustration: "The lion sprang through the air among the terrified group." --(See page 71.)] A YOUNG HERO; OR, FIGHTING TO WIN. BY EDWARD S. ELLIS, _Author of_ "Adrift in the Wilds," etc., etc. ILLUSTRATED. [Illustration: Logo] NEW YORK: A. L. BURT, PUBLISHER. COPYRIGHT 1888, BY A. L. BURT. A YOUNG HERO. CHAPTER I. THE PEACEMAKER. "A fight! A fight! Form a ring!" A dozen or more excited boys shouted these words, and, rushing forward, hastily formed a ring around two playmates who stood in the middle of the road, their hats off, eyes glaring, fists clenched, while they panted with anger, and were on the point of flying at one another with the fury of young wildcats. They had been striking, kicking and biting a minute before over some trifling dispute, and they had now stopped to take breath and gather strength before attacking each other again with a fierceness which had become all the greater from the brief rest. "Give it to him, Sam! Black his eyes for him! Hit him under the ear! Bloody his nose!" Thus shouted the partisans of Sammy McClay, who had thrown down his school books, and pitched into his opponent, as though he meant to leave nothing of him. The friends of Joe Hunt were just as loud and urgent. "Sail in, Joe! You can whip him before he knows it! Kick him! Don't be a coward! You've got him!" A party of boys and girls were on their way home from the Tottenville public school, laughing, romping and frolicking with each other, when, all at once, like a couple of bantam chickens, these two youngsters began fighting. The girls looked on in a horrified way, whispering to each other, and declaring that they meant to tell Mr. McCurtis, the teacher, including also the respective mothers of the young pugilists. The other boys, as is nearly always the case, did their utmost to urge on the fight, and, closing about Sam and Joe, taunted them in loud voices, and appealed to them to resume hostilities at once. The fighters seemed to be equally matched, and, as they panted and glared, each waited for the other to renew the struggle by striking the first blow. "You just hit me if you dare! that's all I want!" exclaimed Sammy McClay, shaking his head so vigorously that he almost bumped his nose against that of Joe Hunt, who was just as ferocious, as he called back: "You touch me, Sam McClay, just touch me! I dare you! double, double dare you." Matters were fast coming to the exploding point, but not fast enough to suit the audience. Jimmy Emery picked up a chip, and running forward, balanced it in a delicate position on the shoulder of Sam McClay, and, addressing his opponent said: "Knock that off, Joe!" "Yes, knock it off!" shouted Sam, "I dare you to knock it off!" "Who's afraid?" demanded Joe, looking at the chip, with an expression which showed he meant to flip it to the ground. "Well, you just try it--that's all!" Joe was in the very act of upsetting the bit of wood, when a boy about their own age, with a flapping straw hat, and with his trousers rolled far above his knees, ran in between the two, and used his arms with so much vigor that the contestants were thrown quite a distance apart. "What's the matter with you fellows?" demanded this boy, glancing from one to the other. "What do you want to make fools of yourselves for?" "He run against me," said Sammy McClay, "and knocked me over Jim Emery." "Well, what of it?" asked the peacemaker. "Will it make you feel any better to get your head cracked? What's the matter of _you_, Joe Hunt?" he added, turning his glance without changing his position, toward the other pugilist. "What did he punch me for, when I stubbed my toe and run agin him?" and Joe showed a disposition just then to move around his questioner, so as to get at the offender. The other boys did not like this interference with their enjoyment, and called on the peacemaker to let them have it out; but he stood his ground, and shaking his right fist at Sammy McClay, and his left at Joe Hunt, he told them they must let each other alone, or he would whip them both. This created some laughter, for the lad was no older than they, and hardly as tall as either; but there is a great deal in the manner of a man or boy. If his flashing eye, his stern voice, and look of determination show that he means what he says, or is in dead earnest, his opponent generally yields. At the critical juncture, the girls added their voices in favor of peace, and their champion, stooping down, picked up the hats from the ground, and jammed them upon their owners' heads with a force that nearly threw them off their feet. "That's enough! now come on!" Sam and Joe walked along, rather sullenly at first. They glowered on each other, shook their heads, muttered and seemed on the point of renewing the contest more than once; but the passions of childhood are brief, and the storm soon blew over. Before the boys and girls had reached the cross-roads, Sam McClay and Joe Hunt were playing with each other like the best of friends, as indeed they were. The name of the lad who had stopped the fight was Fred Sheldon, and he is the hero of this story. CHAPTER II. THE CALL TO SCHOOL. Fred Sheldon, as I have said, is the hero of this story. He was twelve years of age, the picture of rosy health, good nature, bounding spirits and mental strength. He was bright and well advanced in his studies, and as is generally the case with such vigorous youngsters he was fond of fun, which too often, perhaps, passed the line of propriety and became mischief. On the Monday morning after the fight, which Fred Sheldon interrupted, some ten or twelve boys stopped on their way to the Tottenville Public School to admire in open-mouthed wonder, the gorgeous pictures pasted on a huge framework of boards, put up for the sole purpose of making such a display. These flaming posters were devoted to setting forth the unparalleled attractions of Bandman's great menagerie and circus, which was announced to appear in the well-known "Hart's Half-Acre," near the village of Tottenville. These scenes, in which elephants, tigers, leopards, camels, sacred cows, and indeed an almost endless array of animals were shown on a scale that indicated they were as high as a meeting-house, in which the serpents, it unwound from the trees where they were crushing men and beasts to death, would have stretched across "Hart's Half-Acre" (which really contained several acres), those frightful encounters, in which a man, single-handed, was seen to be spreading death and destruction with a clubbed gun among the fierce denizens of the forest; all these had been displayed on the side of barns and covered bridges, at the cross-roads, and indeed in every possible available space for the past three weeks; and, as the date of the great show was the one succeeding that of which we are speaking, it can be understood that the little village of Tottenville and the surrounding country were in a state of excitement such as had not been known since the advent of the preceding circus. Regularly every day the school children had stopped in front of the huge bill-board and studied and admired and talked over the great show, while those who expected to go in the afternoon or evening looked down in pity on their less fortunate playmates. The interest seemed to intensify as the day approached, and, now that it was so close at hand, the little group found it hard to tear themselves away from the fascinating scenes before them. Down in one corner of the board was the picture of a hyena desecrating a cemetery, as it is well known those animals are fond of doing. This bad creature, naturally enough, became very distasteful to the boys, who showed their ill-will in many ways. Several almost ruined their new shoes by kicking him, while others had pelted him with stones, and still others, in face of the warning printed in big letters, had haggled him dreadfully with their jack-knives. It was a warm summer morning and most of the boys not only were bare-footed, but had their trousers rolled above their knees, and, generally, were without coat or vest. "To-morrow afternoon the show will be here," said Sammy McClay, smacking his lips and shaking his head as though he tasted a luscious morsel, "and I'm going." "How are you going," asked Joe Hunt, sarcastically, "when your father said he wouldn't give you the money?" "Never you mind," was the answer, with another significant shake of the head. "I'm goin'--that's all." "Goin' to try and crawl under the tent. I know. But you can't do it. You'll get a whack from the whip of the man that's watching that you'll feel for six weeks. Don't I know--'cause, didn't I try it?" "I wouldn't be such a dunce as you; you got half way under the tent and then stuck fast, so you couldn't go backward or forward, and you begun to yell so you like to broke up the performance, and when the man come along why he had the best chance in the world to cowhide you, and he did it. I think I know a little better than that." At this moment, Mr. Abijah McCurtis, the school teacher in the little stone school-house a hundred yards away, solemnly lifted his spectacles from his nose to his forehead, and grasping the handle of his large cracked bell walked to the door and swayed it vigorously for a minute or so. This was the regular summons for the boys and girls to enter school, and he had sent forth the unmusical clangor, summer and winter, for a full two-score years. Having called the pupils together, the pedagogue sat down, drew his spectacles back astride of his nose, and resumed setting copies in the books which had been laid on his desk the day before. In a minute or so the boys and girls came straggling in, but the experienced eye of the teacher saw that several were missing. Looking through the open door he discovered where the four delinquent urchins were; they were still standing in front of the great showy placards, studying the enchanting pictures, as they had done so many times before. They were all talking earnestly, Sammy McClay, Joe Hunt, Jimmy Emery and Fred Sheldon, and they had failed for the first time in their lives to hear the cracked bell. Most teachers, we are bound to believe, would have called the boys a second time or sent another lad to notify them, but the present chance was one of those which, unfortunately, the old-time pedagogue was glad to have, and Mr. McCurtis seized it with pleasure. Rising from his seat, he picked up from where it lay across his desk a long, thin switch, and started toward the four barefooted lads, who were admiring the circus pictures. Nothing could have been more inviting, for, not only were they barefooted, but each had his trousers rolled to the knee, and Fred Sheldon had drawn and squeezed his so far that they could go no further. His plump, clean legs offered the most inviting temptation to the teacher, who was one of those sour old pedagogues, of the long ago, who delighted in seeing children tortured under the guise of so-called discipline. "I don't believe in wearing trousers in warm weather," said Fred, when anybody looked wonderingly to see whether he really had such useful garments on, "and that's why I roll mine so high up. Don't you see I'm ready to run into the water, and----" "How about going through the bushes and briars?" asked Joe Hunt. "I don't go through 'em," was the crushing answer. "I feel so supple and limber that I just jump right over the top. I tell you, boys, that you ought to see me jump----" Fred's wish was gratified, for at that moment he gave such an exhibition of jumping as none of his companions had ever seen before. With a shout he sprang high in air, kicking out his bare legs in a frantic way, and ran with might and main for the school-house. The other three lads did pretty much the same, for the appearance of the teacher among them was made known by the whizzing hiss of his long, slender switch, which first landed on Fred's legs, and was then quickly transferred to the lower limbs of the other boys, the little company immediately heading for the school house, with Fred Sheldon at the front. Each one shouted, and made a high and frantic leap every few steps, believing that the teacher was close behind him with upraised stick, and looking for the chance to bring it down with effect. "I'll teach you not to stand gaping at those pictures," shouted Mr. McCurtis, striding wrathfully after them. A man three-score years old cannot be expected to be as active as a boy with one-fifth as many years; but the teacher had the advantage of being very tall and quite attenuated, and for a short distance he could outrun any of his pupils. The plump, shapely legs of Fred Sheldon, twinkling and doubling under him as he ran, seemed to be irresistibly tempting to Mr. McCurtis, who, with upraised switch, dashed for him like a thunder-gust, paying no attention to the others, who ducked aside as he passed. "It's your fault, you young scapegrace," called out the pursuer, as he rapidly overhauled him; "you haven't been thinking of anything else but circuses for the past month and I mean to whip it out of you--good gracious sakes!" Fred Sheldon had seen how rapidly the teacher was gaining, and finding there was no escape, resorted to the common trick among boys of suddenly falling flat on his face while running at full speed. The cruel-hearted teacher at that very moment made a savage stroke, intending to raise a ridge on the flesh of the lad, who escaped it by a hair's breadth, as may be said. The spiteful blow spent itself in vacancy, and the momentum spun Mr. McCurtis around on one foot, so that he faced the other way. At that instant his heels struck the prostrate form of the crouching boy, and he went over, landing upon his back, his legs pointing upward, like a pair of huge dividers. There is nothing a boy perceives so quickly as a chance for fun, and before the teacher could rise, Sammy McClay also went tumbling over the grinning Fred Sheldon, with such violence, indeed, that he struck the bewildered instructor as he was trying to adjust his spectacles to see where he was. Then came Joe Hunt and Jimmy Emery, and Fred Sheldon capped the climax by running at full speed and jumping on the struggling group, spreading out his arms and legs in the effort to bear them down to the earth. But the difficulty was that Fred was not very heavy nor bony, so that his presence on top caused very little inconvenience, the teacher rising so hurriedly that Fred fell from his shoulders, and landed on his head when he struck the earth. The latter was dented, but Fred wasn't hurt at all, and he and his friends scrambled hastily into the school-house, where the other children were in an uproar, fairly dancing with delight at the exhibition, or rather "circus," as some of them called it, which took place before the school-house and without any expense to them. By the time the discomfited teacher had got upon his feet and shaken himself together, the four lads were in school, busily engaged in scratching their legs and studying their lessons. Mr. McCurtis strode in a minute later switch in hand, and in such a grim mood that he could only quiet his nerves by walking around the room and whipping every boy in it. CHAPTER III. STARTLING NEWS. Fred Sheldon was the only child of a widow, who lived on a small place a mile beyond the village, and managed to eke out a living thereon, assisted by a small pension from the government, her husband having been killed during the late war. A half-mile beyond stood a large building, gray with age and surrounded with trees, flowers and climbing vines. The broad bricks of which it was composed were known to have been brought from Holland long before the revolution, and about the time when George Washington was hunting for the cherry-tree with his little hatchet. In this old structure lived the sisters Perkinpine--Annie and Lizzie--who were nearly seventy years of age. They were twins, had never been married, were generally known to be wealthy, but preferred to live entirely by themselves, with no companion but three or four cats, and not even a watch-dog. Their ancestors were among the earliest settlers of the section, and the Holland bricks could show where they had been chipped and broken by the bullets of the Indians who howled around the solid old structure, through the snowy night, as ravenous as so many wolves to reach the cowering women and children within. The property had descended to the sisters in regular succession, and there could be no doubt they were rich in valuable lands, if in nothing else. Their retiring disposition repelled attention from their neighbors, but it was known there was much old and valuable silver, and most probably money itself, in the house. Michael Heyland was their hired man, but he lived in a small house some distance away, where he always spent his nights. Young Fred Sheldon was once sent over to the residence of the Misses Perkinpine after a heavy snowstorm, to see whether he could do anything for the old ladies. He was then only ten years old, but his handsome, ruddy face, his respectful manner, and his cheerful eagerness to oblige them, thawed a great deal of their natural reserve, and they gradually came to like him. He visited the old brick house quite often, and frequently bore substantial presents to his mother, though, rather curiously, the old ladies never asked that she should pay them a visit. The Misses Perkinpine lived very well indeed, and Fred Sheldon was not long in discovering it. When he called there he never could get away without eating some of the vast hunks of gingerbread and enormous pieces of thick, luscious pie, of which Fred, like all boys, was very fond. There was no denying that Fred had established himself as a favorite in that peculiar household, as he well deserved to be. On the afternoon succeeding his switching at school he reached home and did his chores, whistling cheerily in the meanwhile, and thinking of little else than the great circus on the morrow, when he suddenly stopped in surprise upon seeing a carriage standing in front of the gate. Just then his mother called him to the house and explained: "Your Uncle William is quite ill, Fred, and has sent for me. You know he lives twelve miles away, and it will take us a good while to get there; if you are afraid to stay here alone you can go with us." Fred was too quick to trip himself in that fashion. To-morrow was circus day, and if he went to his Uncle Will's, he might miss it. "Miss Annie asked me this morning to go over and see them again," he said, alluding to one of the Misses Perkinpine, "and they'll be mighty glad to have me there." "That will be much better, for you will be so near home that you can come over in the morning and see that everything is right, but I'm afraid you'll eat too much pie and cake and pudding and preserves." "I ain't afraid," laughed Fred, who kissed his mother good-by and saw the carriage vanish down the road in the gloom of the gathering darkness. Then he busied himself with the chores, locked up the house and put everything in shape preparatory to going away. He was still whistling, and was walking rapidly toward the gate, when he was surprised and a little startled by observing the figure of a man, standing on the outside, as motionless as a stone, and no doubt watching him. He appeared to be ill-dressed, and Fred at once set him down as one of those pests of society known as a tramp, who had probably stopped to get something to eat. "What do you want?" asked the lad, with an air of bravery which he was far from feeling, as he halted within two or three rods of the unexpected guest, ready to retreat if it should become necessary. "I want you to keep a civil tongue in your head," was the answer, in a harsh rasping voice. "I didn't mean to be uncivil," was the truthful reply of Fred, who believed in courtesy to every one. "Who lives here, then?" asked the other in the same gruff voice. "My mother, Mrs. Mary Sheldon, and myself, but my mother isn't at home." The stranger was silent a moment, and then looking around, as if to make sure that no one was within hearing, asked in a lower voice: "Can you tell me where the Miss Perkinpines live?" "Right over yonder," was the response of the boy, pointing toward the house, which was invisible in the darkness, but a star-like twinkle of light showed where it was, surrounded by trees and shrubbery. Fred came near adding that he was on his way there, and would show him the road, but a sudden impulse restrained him. The tramp-like individual peered through the gloom in the direction indicated, and then inquired: "How fur is it?" "About half a mile." The stranger waited another minute or so, as if debating with himself whether he should ask some other questions that were in his mind; but, without another word, he moved away and speedily disappeared from the road. Although he walked for several paces on the rough gravel in front of the gate, the lad did not hear the slightest sound. He must have been barefooted, or more likely, wore rubber shoes. Fred Sheldon could not help feeling very uncomfortable over the incident itself. The question about the old ladies, and the man's looks and manner impressed him that he meant ill toward his good friends, and Fred stood a long time asking himself what he ought to do. He thought of going down to the village and telling Archie Jackson, the bustling little constable, what he feared, or of appealing to some of the neighbors; and pity it is he did not do so, but he was restrained by the peculiar disposition of the Misses Perkinpine, who might be very much displeased with him. As he himself was about the only visitor they received, and as they had lived so long by themselves, they would not thank him, to say the least--that is, viewing the matter from his standpoint. "I'll tell the ladies about it," he finally concluded, "and we'll lock the doors and sit up all night. I wish they had three or four dogs and a whole lot of guns; or if I had a lasso," he added, recalling one of the circus pictures, "and the tramp tried to get in, I'd throw it over his head and pull him half way to the top of the house and let him hang there until he promised to behave himself." Fred's head had been slightly turned by the circus posters, and it can hardly be said that he was the best guard the ladies could have in case there were any sinister designs on the part of the tramp. But the boy was sure he was never more needed at the old brick house than he was on that night, and hushing his whistle, he started up the road in the direction taken by the stranger. It was a trying ordeal for the little fellow, whose chief fear was that he would overtake the repulsive individual and suffer for interfering with his plans. There was a faint moon in the sky, but its light now and then was obscured by the clouds which floated over its face. Here and there, too, were trees, beneath whose shadows the boy stepped lightly, listening and looking about him, and imagining more than once he saw the figure dreaded so much. But he observed nothing of him, nor did he meet any of his neighbors, either in wagons or on foot, and his heart beat tumultuously when he drew near the grove of trees, some distance back from the road, in the midst of which stood the old Holland brick mansion. To reach it it was necessary to walk through a short lane, lined on either hand by a row of stately poplars, whose shade gave a cool twilight gloom to the intervening space at mid-day. "Maybe he isn't here, after all," said Fred to himself, as he passed through the gate of the picket fence surrounding the house, "and I guess----" Just then the slightest possible rustling caught his ear, and he stepped back behind the trunk of a large weeping willow. He was not mistaken; some one was moving through the shrubbery at the corner of the house, and the next minute the frightened boy saw the tramp come stealthily to view, and stepping close to the window of the dining-room, peer into it. As the curtain was down it was hard to see how he could discover anything of the inmates, but he may have been able to detect something of the interior by looking through at the side of the curtain, or possibly he was only listening. At any rate he stood thus but a short time, when he withdrew and slowly passed from view around the corner. The instant he was gone Fred moved forward and knocked softly on the door, so softly indeed, that he had to repeat it before some one approached from the inside and asked who was there. When his voice was recognized the bolt was withdrawn and he was most cordially welcomed by the old ladies, who were just about to take up their knitting and sewing, having finished their tea. When Fred told them he had come to stay all night and hadn't had any supper, they were more pleased than ever, and insisted that he should go out and finish a large amount of gingerbread, custard and pie, for the latter delicacy was always at command. "I'll eat some," replied Fred, "but I don't feel very hungry." "Why, what's the matter?" asked Miss Annie, peering over her spectacles in alarm; "are you sick? If you are we've got lots of castor oil and rhubarb and jalap and boneset; shall I mix you up some?" "O my gracious! no--don't mention 'em again; I ain't sick that way--I mean I'm scared." "Scared at what? Afraid there isn't enough supper for you?" asked Miss Lizzie, looking smilingly down upon the handsome boy. "I tell you," said Fred, glancing from one to the other, "I think there's a robber going to try and break into your house to-night and steal everything you've got, and then he'll kill you both, and after that I'm sure he means to burn down the house, and that'll be the last all of you and your cats." When the young visitor made such a prodigious declaration, he supposed the ladies would scream and probably faint away. But the very hugeness of the boy's warning caused emotions the reverse of what he anticipated. They looked kindly at him a minute or so and then quietly smiled. "What a little coward you are, Fred," said Miss Annie; "surely there is nobody who would harm two old creatures like us." "But they want your money," persisted Fred, still standing in the middle of the floor. Both ladies were too truthful to deny that they had any, even to such a child, and Lizzie said: "We haven't enough to tempt anybody to do such a great wrong." "You can't tell about that, then I 'spose some of those silver dishes must be worth a great deal." "Yes, so they are," said Annie, "and we prize them the most because our great, great, great-grandfather brought them over the sea a good many years ago, and they have always been in our family." "But," interposed Lizzie, "we lock them up every night." "What in?" "A great big strong chest." "Anybody could break it open, though." "Yes, but it's locked; and you know it's against the law to break a lock." "Well," said Fred, with a great sigh, "I hope there won't anybody disturb you, but I hope you will fasten all the windows and doors to-night." "We always do; and then," added the benign old lady, raising her head so as to look under her spectacles in the face of the lad, "you know we have you to take care of us." "Have you got a gun in the house?" "Mercy, yes; there's one over the fire-place, where father put it forty years ago." "Is there anything the matter with it?" "Nothing, only the lock is broke off, and I think father said the barrel was bursted." Fred laughed in spite of himself. "What under the sun is such an old thing good for?" "It has done us just as much good as if it were a new cannon--but come out to your supper." The cheerful manner of the old ladies had done much to relieve Fred's mind of his fears, and a great deal of his natural appetite came back to him. He walked into the kitchen, where he seated himself at a table on which was spread enough food for several grown persons, and telling him he must not leave any of it to be wasted, the ladies withdrew, closing the door behind them, so that he might not be embarrassed by their presence. "I wonder whether there's any use of being scared," said Fred to himself, as he first sunk his big, sound teeth into a huge slice of buttered short-cake, on which some peach jam had been spread! "If I hadn't seen that tramp looking in at the window I wouldn't feel so bad, and I declare," he added in dismay, "when they questioned me, I never thought to tell 'em that. Never mind, I'll give 'em the whole story when I finish five or six slices of this short-cake and some ginger-cake, and three or four pieces of pie, and then, I think, they'll believe I'm right." For several minutes the boy devoted himself entirely to his meal, and had the good ladies peeped through the door while he was thus employed they would have been highly pleased to see how well he was getting along. "I wish I was an old maid and hadn't anything to do but to cook nice food like this and play with the cats--my gracious!" Just then the door creaked, and, looking up, Fred Sheldon saw to his consternation the very tramp of whom he had been thinking walk into the room and approach the table. His clothing was ragged and unclean, a cord being drawn around his waist to keep his coat together, while the collar was up so high about his neck that nothing of the shirt was visible. His hair was frowsy and uncombed, as were his huge yellow whiskers, which seemed to grow up almost to his eyes, and stuck out like the quills on a porcupine. As the intruder looked at the boy and shuffled toward him, in his soft rubber shoes, he indulged in a broad grin, which caused his teeth to shine through his scraggly beard. He held his hat, which resembled a dishcloth, as much as anything, in his hand, and was all suavity. His voice sounded as though he had a bad cold, with now and then an odd squeak. As he bowed he said: "Good evening, young man; I hope I don't intrude." As he approached the table and helped himself to a chair, the ladies came along behind him, Miss Lizzie saying: "This poor man, Frederick, has had nothing to eat for three days, and is trying to get home to his family. I'm sure you will be glad to have him sit at the table with you." "Yes, I'm awful glad," replied the boy, almost choking with the fib. "I was beginning to feel kind of lonely, but I'm through and he can have the table to himself." "You said you were a shipwrecked sailor, I believe?" was the inquiring remark of Miss Lizzie, as the two sisters stood in the door, beaming kindly on the tramp, who began to play havoc with the eatables before him. "Yes, mum; we was shipwrecked on the Jarsey coast; I was second mate and all was drowned but me. I hung to the rigging for three days and nights in the awfullest snow storm you ever heard of." "Mercy goodness," gasped Annie; "when was that?" "Last week," was the response, as the tramp wrenched the leg of a chicken apart with hands and teeth. "Do they have snow storms down there in summer time?" asked Fred, as he moved away from the table. The tramp, with his mouth full of meat, and with his two hands grasping the chicken-bone between his teeth, stopped work and glared at the impudent youngster, as if he would look him through and through for daring to ask the question. "Young man," said he, as he solemnly resumed operations, "of course, they have snow storms down there in summer time; I'm ashamed of your ignorance; you're rather small to put in when grown-up folks are talking, and I'd advise you to listen arter this." Fred concluded he would do so, using his eyes meanwhile. "Yes, mum," continued the tramp; "I was in the rigging for three days and nights, and then was washed off by the breakers and carried ashore, where I was robbed of all my clothing, money and jewels." "Deary, deary me!" exclaimed the sisters in concert. "How dreadful." "You are right, ladies, and I've been tramping ever since." "How far away is your home?" "Only a hundred miles, or so." "You have a family, have you?" "A wife and four babies--if they only knowed what their poor father had passed through--excuse these tears, mum." The tramp just then gave a sniff and drew his sleeve across his forehead, but Fred Sheldon, who was watching him closely, did not detect anything like a tear. But he noted something else, which had escaped the eyes of the kind-hearted ladies. The movement of the arm before the face seemed to displace the luxuriant yellow beard. Instead of sitting on the countenance as it did at first, even in its ugliness, it was slewed to one side. Only for a moment, however, for by a quick flirt of the hand, as though he were scratching his chin, he replaced it. And just then Fred Sheldon noticed another fact. The hand with which this was done was as small, white and fair as that of a woman--altogether the opposite of that which would have been seen had the tramp's calling been what he claimed. The ladies, after a few more thoughtful questions, withdrew, so that their guest might not feel any delicacy in eating all he wished--an altogether unnecessary step on their part. Fred went out with them, but after he had been gone a few minutes he slyly peeped through the crack of the door, without the ladies observing the impolite proceeding. The guest was still doing his best in the way of satisfying his appetite, but he was looking around the room, at the ceiling, the floor, the doors, windows and fire-place, and indeed at everything, as though he was greatly interested in them, as was doubtless the case. All at once he stopped and listened, glancing furtively at the door, as if he feared some one was about to enter the room. Then he quietly rose, stepped quickly and noiselessly to one of the windows, took out the large nail which was always inserted over the sash at night to keep it fastened, put it in his pocket, and, with a half chuckle and grin, seated himself again at the table. At the rate of eating which was displayed, he soon finished, and, wiping his greasy hands on his hair, he gave a great sigh of relief, picked up his slouchy hat, and moved toward the door leading to the room in which the ladies sat. "I'm very much obleeged to you," said he, bowing very low, as he shuffled toward the outer door, "and I shall ever remember you in my prayers; sorry I can't pay you better, mums." The sisters protested they were more than repaid in the gratitude he showed, and they begged him, if he ever came that way, to call again. He promised that he would be glad to do so, and departed. "You may laugh all you're a mind to," said Fred, when he had gone, "but that's the man I saw peeping in the window, and he means to come back here to-night and rob you." The boy told all that he knew, and the ladies, while not sharing his fright, agreed that it was best to take extra precautions in locking up. CHAPTER IV. ON GUARD. The sisters Perkinpine always retired early, and, candle in hand, they made the round of the windows and doors on the first floor. When they came to the window from which the nail had been removed, Fred told them he had seen the tramp take it out, and he was sure he would try and enter there. This served to add to the uneasiness of the sisters, but they had great confidence in the security of the house, which had never been disturbed by burglars, so far as they knew, in all its long history. "The chest where we keep the silver and what little money we have," said Lizzie, "is up-stairs, next to the spare bed-room." "Leave the door open and let me sleep there," said Fred, stoutly. "Gracious alive, what can you do if they should come?" was the amazed inquiry. "I don't know as I can do anything, but I can try; I want that old musket that's over the fire-place, too." "Why, it will go off and kill you." Fred insisted so strongly, however, that he was allowed to climb upon a chair and take down the antiquated weapon, covered with rust and dust. When he came to examine it he found that the description he had heard was correct--the ancient flintlock was good for nothing, and the barrel, when last discharged, must have exploded at the breach, for it was twisted and split open, so that a load of powder could only injure the one who might fire it, were such a feat possible. The sisters showed as much fear of it when it was taken down as though it were in good order, primed and cocked, and they begged the lad to restore it to its place as quickly as possible. But he seemed to think he had charge of the business for the evening, and, bidding them good-night, he took his candle and went to his room, which he had occupied once or twice before. It may well be asked what young Fred Sheldon expected to do with such a useless musket, should emergency arise demanding a weapon. Indeed, the boy would have found it hard to tell himself, excepting that he hoped to scare the man or men away by the pretence of a power which he did not possess. Now that the young hero was finally left alone, he felt that he had a most serious duty to perform. The spare bedroom which was placed at his disposal was a large, old-fashioned apartment, with two windows front and rear, with a door opening into the next room, somewhat smaller in size, both being carpeted, while the smaller contained nothing but a few chairs and a large chest, in which were silver and money worth several thousand dollars. "I'll set the candle in there on the chest," concluded Fred, "and I'll stay in here with the gun. If he comes up-stairs and gets into the room I'll try and make him believe I've got a loaded rifle to shoot him with." The door opening outward from each apartment had nothing but the old-style iron latch, large and strong, and fastened in place by turning down a small iron tongue. It would take much effort to force such a door, but Fred had no doubt any burglar could do it, even though it were ten times as strong. He piled chairs against both, and then made an examination of the windows. To his consternation, the covered porch extending along the front of the house, passed beneath every window, and was so low that it would be a very easy thing to step from the hypostyle to the entrance. The room occupied by the ladies was in another part of the building, and much more inaccessible. Young as Fred Sheldon was, he could not help wondering how it was that where everything was so inviting to burglars they had not visited these credulous and trusting sisters before. "If that tramp, that I don't believe is a tramp, tries to get into the house he'll do it by one of the windows, for that one is fastened down stairs, and all he has to do is to climb up the portico and crawl in here." The night was so warm that Fred thought he would smother when he had fastened all the windows down, and he finally compromised by raising one of those at the back of the house, where he was sure there was the least danger of any one entering. This being done, he sat down in a chair, with the rusty musket in his hand, and began his watch. From his position he could see the broad, flat candlestick standing on the chest, with the dip already burned so low that it was doubtful whether it could last an hour longer. "What's the use of that burning, anyway?" he asked himself; "that fellow isn't afraid to come in, and the candle will only serve to show him the way." Acting under the impulse, he walked softly through the door to where the yellow light was burning, and with one puff extinguished it. The wick glowed several minutes longer, sending out a strong odor, which pervaded both rooms. Fred watched it until all became darkness, and then he was not sure he had done a wise thing after all. The trees on both sides of the house were so dense that their leaves shut out nearly all the moonlight which otherwise would have entered the room. Only a few rays came through the window of the other apartment, and these, striking the large, square chest showed its dim outlines, with the phantom-like candlestick on top. Where Fred himself sat it was dark and gloomy, and his situation, we are sure all will admit, was enough to try the nerves of the strongest man, even if furnished with a good weapon of offence and defence. "I hope the ladies will sleep," was the unselfish thought of the little hero, "for there isn't any use of their being disturbed when they can't do anything but scream, and a robber don't care for that." One of the hardest things is to keep awake when exhausted by some unusual effort of the bodily or mental powers, and we all know under how many conditions it is utterly impossible. The sentinel on the outpost or the watch on deck fights off his drowsiness by steadily pacing back and forth. If he sits down for a few minutes he is sure to succumb. When Fremont, the pathfinder, was lost with his command in the Rocky Mountains, and was subjected to such arctic rigors in the dead of winter as befell the crew of the Jeannette in the ice-resounding oceans of the far north the professor, who accompanied the expedition for the purpose of making scientific investigations, warned all that their greatest peril lay in yielding to the drowsiness which the extreme cold would be sure to bring upon them. He begged them to resist it with all the energy of their natures, for in no other way could they escape with their lives. And yet this same professor was the first one of the party to give up and to lie down for his last long sleep, from which it was all Fremont could do to arouse him. Fred Sheldon felt that everything depended on him, and with the exaggerated fears that come to a youngster at such a time he was sure that if he fell asleep the evil man would enter the room, take all the money and plate and then sacrifice him. "I could keep awake a week," he muttered, as he tipped his chair back against the wall, so as to rest easier, while he leaned the musket along side of him, in such position that it could be seized at a moment's warning. The night remained solemn and still. Far in the distance he could hear the flow of the river, and from the forest, less than a mile away, seemed to come a murmur, like the "voice of silence" itself. Now and then the crowing of a cock was answered by another a long distance off, and occasionally the soft night wind stirred the vegetation surrounding the house. But among them all was no sound which the excited imagination could torture into such as would be made by a stealthy entrance into the house. In short, everything was of the nature to induce sleep, and it was not yet ten o'clock when Fred began to wink, very slowly and solemnly, his grasp on the ruined weapon relaxed, his head bobbed forward several times and at last he was asleep. As his mind had been so intensely occupied by thoughts of burglars and their evil doings, his dreams were naturally of the same unpleasant personages. In his fancy he was sitting on the treasure-chest, unable to move, while an ogre-like creature climbed into the window, slowly raised an immense club and then brought it down on the head of the boy with a terrific crash. With an exclamation of terror Fred awoke, and found that he had fallen forward on his face, sprawling on the floor at full length, while the jar tipped the musket over so that it fell across him. In his dream it had seemed that the burglar was a full hour climbing upon the roof and through the window, and yet the whole vision began and ended during the second or two occupied in falling from his chair. In the confusion of the moment Fred was sure the man he dreaded was in the room, but when he had got back into the chair he was gratified beyond measure to find his mistake. "I'm a pretty fellow to keep watch," he muttered, rubbing his eyes; "I don't suppose that I was awake more than a half hour. It must be past midnight, so I've had enough sleep to last me without any more of it before to-morrow night." He resumed his seat, never more wide awake in all his life. It was not as late as he supposed, but the hour had come when it was all-important that he should keep his senses about him. Hearing nothing unusual he rose to his feet and walked to the rear window and looked out. It was somewhat cooler and a gentle breeze felt very pleasant on his fevered face. The same stillness held reign, and he moved to the front, where he took a similar view. So far as could be told, everything was right and he resumed his seat. But at this juncture Fred was startled by a sound, the meaning of which he well knew. Some one was trying hard to raise the dining-room window--the rattling being such that there was no mistake about it. "It's that tramp!" exclaimed the boy, all excitement, stepping softly into the next room and listening at the head of the stairs, "and he's trying the window that he took the nail out of." The noise continued several minutes--long after the time, indeed, when the tramp must have learned that his trick had been discovered--and then all became still. This window was the front, and Fred, in the hope of scaring the fellow away, raised the sash, and, leaning out, peered into the darkness and called out: "Halloo, down there! What do you want?" As may be supposed, there was no answer, and after waiting a minute or two, Fred concluded to give a warning. "If I hear anything more of you, I'll try and shoot; I've got a gun here and we're ready for you!" This threat ought to have frightened an ordinary person away, and the boy was not without a strong hope that it had served that purpose with the tramp whom he dreaded so much. He thought he could discern his dark figure among the trees, but it was probably fancy, for the gloom was too great for his eyes to be of any use in that respect. Fred listened a considerable while longer, and then, drawing his head within, said: "I shouldn't wonder if I had scared him off----" Just then a soft step roused him, and turning his head, he saw that the very tramp of whom he was thinking and of whom he believed he was happily rid, had entered the room, and was standing within a few feet of him. CHAPTER V. BRAVE WORK. When Fred Sheldon turned on his heel and saw the outlines of the tramp in the room behind him he gave a start and exclamation of fear, as the bravest man might have done under the circumstances. The intruder chuckled and said in his rasping, creaking voice: "Don't be skeert, young man; if you keep quiet you won't get hurt, but if you go to yelping or making any sort of noise I'll wring your head as if you was a chicken I wanted for dinner." Fred made no answer to this, when the tramp added, in the same husky undertone, as he stepped forward in a threatening way: "Do you hear what I said?" "Yes, sir; I hear you." "Well, just step back through that door in t'other room and watch me while I look through this chest for a gold ring I lost last week." Poor Fred was in a terrible state of mind, and, passing softly through the door opening into his bed-room, he paused by the chair where he had sat so long, and then faced toward the tramp, who said, by way of amendment: "I forgot to say that if you try to climb out of the winder onto the porto rico or to sneak out any way I'll give you a touch of that." As he spoke he suddenly held up a bull's-eye lantern, which poured a strong stream of light toward the boy. It looked as if he must have lighted it inside the house, and had come into the room with it under his coat. While he carried this lantern in one hand he held a pistol, shining with polished silver, in the other, and behind the two objects the bearded face loomed up like that of some ogre of darkness. The scamp did not seem to think this remark required anything in the way of response, and, kneeling before the huge oaken chest, he began his evil work. For a few moments Fred was so interested that he ceased to reproach himself for having failed to do his duty. The tramp set the lantern on the floor beside him, so that it threw its beams directly into the room where the boy stood. The marauder, it must be said, did not act like a professional. One of the burglars who infest society to-day would have made short work with the lock, though it was of the massive and powerful kind, in use many years ago; but this person fumbled and worked a good while without getting it open. He muttered impatiently to himself several times, and then caught up the bull's-eye, and, bending his head over, carefully examined it, to learn why it resisted his vigorous efforts. The action of the man seemed to rouse Fred, who, without a moment's thought, stepped backward toward the open window at the rear, the one which had been raised all the time to afford ventilation. He thought if the dreadful man should object, he could make excuse on account of the warmth of the night. But the lad moved so softly, or the wicked fellow was so interested in his own work that he did not notice him, for he said nothing, and though Fred could see him no longer he could hear him toiling, with occasional mutterings of anger at his failure to open the chest, which was believed to contain so much valuable silverware and money. The diverging rays from the dark-lantern still shot through the open door into the bed-room. They made a well-defined path along the floor, quite narrow and not very high, and which, striking the white wall at the opposite side, terminated in one splash of yellow, in which the specks of the whitewash could be plainly seen. It was as if a great wedge of golden light lay on the floor, with the head against the wall and the tapering point passing through the door and ending at the chest in the other room. While Fred Sheldon was looking at the curious sight he noticed something in the illuminated path. It would be thought that, in the natural fear of a boy in his situation, he would have felt no interest in it, but, led on by a curiosity which none but a lad feels, he stepped softly forward on tip-toe. Before he stooped over to pick it up he saw that it was a handsome pocket-knife. "He has dropped it," was the thought of Fred, who wondered how he came to do it; "anyway I'll hold on to it for awhile." He quietly shoved it down into his pocket, where his old Barlow knife, his jewsharp, eleven marbles, two slate pencils, a couple of large coppers, some cake crumbs and other trifles nestled, and then, having succeeded so well, he again went softly to the open window at the rear. Just as he reached it he heard an unusual noise in the smaller apartment where the man was at work, and he was sure the burglar had discovered what he was doing, and was about to punish him. But the sound was not repeated, and the boy believed the tramp had got the chest open. If such were the fact, he was not likely to think of the youngster in the next room for several minutes more. Fred was plucky, and the thought instantly came to him that he had a chance to leave the room and give an alarm; but to go to the front and climb out on the roof of the porch would bring him so close to the tramp that discovery would be certain. At the rear there was nothing by which he could descend to the ground. It was a straight wall, invisible in the darkness and too high for any one to leap. He might hang down from the sill by his hands and then let go, but he was too unfamiliar with the surroundings to make such an attempt. "Maybe there's a tub of water down there," he said to himself, trying to peer into the gloom; "and I might turn over and strike on my head into it, or it might be the swill barrel, and I wouldn't want to get my head and shoulders wedged into that----" At that instant something as soft as a feather touched his cheek. The gentle night wind had moved the rustling limbs, so that one of them in swaying only a few inches had reached out, as it were, and kissed the chubby face of the brave little boy. "Why didn't I think of that?" he asked himself, as he caught hold of the friendly limb. "I can hold on and swing to the ground." It looked, indeed, as if such a movement was easy. By reaching his hand forward he could follow the limb until it was fully an inch in diameter. That was plenty strong enough to hold his weight. Glancing around, he saw the same wedge of golden light streaming into the room, and the sounds were such that he was sure the burglar had opened the chest and was helping himself to the riches within. The next minute Fred bent forward, and, griping the limb with both hands, swung out of the window. All was darkness, and he shut his eyes and held his breath with that peculiar dizzy feeling which comes over one when he cowers before an expected blow on the head. The sensation was that of rushing into the leaves and undergrowth, and then, feeling himself stopping rather suddenly, he let go. He alighted upon his feet, the distance being so short that he was scarcely jarred, and he drew a sigh of relief when he realized that his venture had ended so well. "There," he said to himself, as he adjusted his clothing, "I ain't afraid of him now, I can outrun him if I only have a fair chance, and there's plenty of places where a fellow can hide." Looking up to the house it was all dark; not a ray from the lantern could be seen, and the sisters were no doubt sleeping as sweetly as they had slept nearly every night for the past three-score years and more. But Fred understood the value of time too well to stay in the vicinity while the tramp was engaged with his nefarious work above. If the law-breaker was to be caught, it must be done speedily. But there were no houses near at hand, and it would take fully an hour to bring Archie Jackson, the constable, to the spot. "The nearest house is Mike Heyland's, the hired man, and I'll go for him." Filled with this thought, Fred moved softly around to the front, passed through the gate, entered the short lane, and began walking between the rows of trees in the direction of the highway. An active boy of his age finds his most natural gait to be a trot, and Fred took up that pace. "It's so dark here under these trees that if there's anything in the road I'll tumble over it, for I never miss----" "Halloo there, you boy!" As these startling words fell upon young Sheldon's ear, the figure of a man suddenly stepped out from the denser shadows and halted in front of the affrighted boy, who stopped short, wondering what it meant. There was nothing in the voice and manner of the stranger, however, which gave confidence to Fred, who quickly rallied, and stepping closer, caught his hand with the confiding faith of childhood. "O, I'm so glad to see you! I was afraid I'd have to run clear to Tottenville to find somebody." "What's the matter, my little man?" "Why, there's a robber in the house back there; he's stealing all the silver and money that belongs to the Misses Perkinpine, and they're sound asleep--just think of it--and he's got a lantern up there and is at work at the chest now, and said he would shoot me if I made any noise or tried to get away, but I catched hold of a limb and swung out the window, and here I am!" exclaimed Fred, stopping short and panting. "Well now, that's lucky, for I happen to have a good, loaded pistol with me. I'm visiting Mr. Spriggins in Tottenville, and went out fishing this afternoon, but stayed longer than I intended, and was going home across lots when I struck the lane here without knowing exactly where I was; but I'm glad I met you." "So'm I," exclaimed the gratified Fred; "will you help me catch that tramp?" "Indeed I will; come on, my little man." The stranger stepped off briskly, Fred close behind him, and passed through the gate at the front of the old brick house, which looked as dark and still as though no living person had been in it for years. "Don't make any noise," whispered the elder, turning part way round and raising his finger. "You needn't be afraid of my doing so," replied the boy, who was sure the caution was unnecessary. Fred did not notice the fact at the time that the man who had come along so opportunely seemed to be quite familiar with the place, but he walked straight to a rear window, which, despite the care with which it had been fastened down, was found to be raised. "There's where he went in," whispered Fred's friend, "and there's where we're going after him." "All right," said Fred, who did not hesitate, although he could not see much prospect of his doing anything. "I'll follow." The man reached up and catching hold of the sash placed his feet on the sill and stepped softly into the room. Then turning so his figure could be seen plainly in the moonlight, he said in the same guarded voice: "He may hear me coming, do you, therefore, go round to the front and if he tries to climb down by way of the porch, run round here and let me know. We'll make it hot for him." This seemed a prudent arrangement, for it may be said, it guarded all points. The man who had just entered would, prevent the thieving tramp from retreating by the path he used in entering, while the sharp eyes of the boy would be quick to discover him the moment he sought to use the front window. "I guess we've got him," thought Fred, as he took his station by the front porch and looked steadily upward, like one who is studying the appearance of a new comet or some constellation in the heavens; "that man going after him ain't afraid of anything, and he looks strong and big enough to take him by the collar and shake him, just as Mr. McCurtis shakes us boys when he wants to exercise himself." For several minutes the vigilant Fred was in a flutter of excitement, expecting to hear the report of firearms and the sound of struggling on the floor above. "I wonder if Miss Annie and Lizzie will wake up when the shooting begins," thought Fred; "I don't suppose they will, for they are so used to sleeping all night that nothing less than a big thunder-storm will start them--but it seems to me it's time that something took place." Young Sheldon had the natural impatience of youth, and when ten minutes passed without stirring up matters, he thought his friend was too slow in his movements. Besides, his neck began to ache from looking so steadily upward, so he walked back in the yard some distance, and leaning against a tree, shoved his hands down in his pockets and continued the scrutiny. This made it more pleasant for a short time only, when he finally struck the happy expedient of lying down on his side and then placing his head upon his hand in such an easy position that the ache vanished at once. Fifteen more minutes went by, and Fred began to wonder what it all meant. It seemed to him that fully an hour had gone since stationing himself as a watcher, and not the slightest sound had come back to tell him that any living person was in the house. "There's something wrong about this," he finally exclaimed, springing to his feet; "maybe the tramp got away before I came back; but then, if that's so, why didn't the other fellow find it out long ago?" Loth to leave his post, Fred moved cautiously among the trees a while longer, and still failing to detect anything that would throw light on the mystery, he suddenly formed a determination, which was a rare one, indeed, for a lad of his years. "I'll go in and find out for myself!" Boy-like, having made the resolve, he acted upon it without stopping to think what the cost might be. He was in his bare feet, and it was an easy matter for a little fellow like him to climb through an open window on the first floor without making a noise. When he got into the room, however, where it was as dark as the darkest midnight he ever saw, things began to appear different, that is so far as anything can be said to appear where it is invisible. He could see nothing at all, and reaching out his hands, he began shuffling along in that doubting manner which we all use under such circumstances. He knew that he was in the dining-room, from which it was necessary to pass through a door into the broad hall, and up the stairs to the spare room, where it was expected he would sleep whenever he favored the twin maiden sisters with a visit. He could find his way there in the dark, but he was afraid of the obstructions in his path. "I 'spose all the chairs have been set out of the way, 'cause Miss Annie and Lizzie are very particular, and they wouldn't----" Just then Fred's knee came against a chair, and before he could stop himself, he fell over it with a racket which he was sure would awaken the ladies themselves. "That must have jarred every window in the house," he gasped, rubbing his knees. He listened for a minute or two before starting on again, but the same profound stillness reigned. It followed, as a matter of course, that the men up-stairs had heard the tumult, but Fred consoled himself with the belief that it was such a tremendous noise that they would mistake its meaning altogether. "Any way, I don't mean to fall over any more chairs," muttered the lad, shuffling along with more care, and holding his hands down, so as to detect such an obstruction. It is hardly necessary to tell what followed. Let any one undertake to make his way across a dark room, without crossing his hands in front and the edge of a door is sure to get between them. Fred Sheldon received a bump which made him see stars, but after rubbing his forehead for a moment he moved out into the broad hall, where there was no more danger of anything of the kind. The heavy oaken stairs were of such solid structure that when he placed his foot on the steps they gave back no sound, and he stepped quite briskly to the top without making any noise that could betray his approach. "I wonder what they thought when I tumbled over the chair," pondered Fred, who began to feel more certain than before that something was amiss. Reaching out his hands in the dark he found that the door of his own room was wide open, and he walked in without trouble. As he did so a faint light which entered by the rear window gave him a clear idea of the interior. With his heart beating very fast Fred tip-toed toward the front until he could look through the open door into the small room where the large oaken chest stood. By this time the moon was so high that he could see the interior with more distinctness than before. All was still and deserted; both the men were gone. "That's queer," muttered the puzzled lad; "if the tramp slipped away, the other man that I met on the road ought to have found it out; but what's become of him?" Running his hand deep down among the treasures in his trousers pocket, Fred fished out a lucifer match, which he drew on the wall, and, as the tiny twist of flame expanded, he touched it to the wick of the candle that he held above his head. The sight which met his gaze was a curious one indeed, and held him almost breathless for the time. The lid of the huge chest was thrown back against the wall, and all that was within it were rumpled sheets of old brown paper, which had no doubt been used as wrappings for the pieces of the silver tea-service. On the floor beside the chest was a large pocket-book, wrong side out. This, doubtless, had once held the money belonging to the old ladies, but it held it no longer. Money and silverware were gone! "The tramp got away while we were down the lane," said Fred, as he stood looking at the signs of ruin about him; "but why didn't my friend let me know about it, and where is he?" Fred Sheldon stopped in dismay, for just then the whole truth came upon him like a flash. These two men were partners, and the man in the lane was on the watch to see that no strangers approached without the alarm being given to the one inside the house. "Why didn't I think of that?" mentally exclaimed the boy, so overcome that he dropped into a chair, helpless and weak, holding the candle in hand. It is easy to see how natural it was for a lad of his age to be deceived as was Fred Sheldon, who never in all his life had been placed in such a trying position. He sat for several minutes looking at the open chest, which seemed to speak so eloquently of the wrong it had suffered, and then he reproached himself for having failed so completely in doing his duty. "I can't see anything I've done," he thought, "which could have been of any good, while there was plenty of chances to make some use of myself if I had any sense about me." Indeed there did appear to be some justice in the self-reproach of the lad, who added in the same vein: "I knew, the minute he stopped to ask questions at our front gate, that he meant to come here and rob the house, and I ought to have started right off for Constable Jackson, without running to tell the folks. Then they laughed at me and I thought I was mistaken, even after I had seen him peeping through the window. When he was eating his supper I was sure of it, and then I should have slipped away and got somebody else here to help watch, but we didn't have anything to shoot with, and when I tried to keep guard I fell asleep, and when I woke up I was simple enough to think there was only one way of his coming into the house, and, while I had my eye on that, he walked right in behind me." Then, as Fred recalled his meeting with the second party in the lane, he heaved a great sigh. "Well, I'm the biggest blockhead in the country--that's all--and I hope I won't have to tell anybody the whole story. Halloo!" Just then he happened to think of the pocket-knife he had picked up on the floor, and he drew it out of his pocket. Boy-like, his eyes sparkled with pleasure when they rested on the implement so indispensable to every youngster, and which was much the finest one he had ever had in his hand. The handle was pearl and the two blades were of the finest steel and almost as keen as a razor. Fred set the candle on a chair, and leaning over, carefully examined the knife, which seemed to grow in beauty the more he handled it. "The man that dropped that is the one who stole all the silverware and money, and there's the letters of his name," added the boy. True enough. On the little piece of brass on the side of the handle were roughly cut the letters, "N. H. H." CHAPTER VI. ON THE OUTSIDE. When Fred Sheldon had spent some minutes examining the knife he had picked up from the floor, he opened and closed the blades several times, and finally dropped it into his pocket, running his hand to the bottom to make sure there was no hole through which the precious implement might be lost. "I think that knife is worth about a thousand dollars," he said, with a great sigh; "and if Aunt Lizzie and Annie don't get their silverware and money back, why they can hold on to the jack-knife." At this juncture it struck the lad as a very strange thing that the two ladies should sleep in one part of the house and leave their valuables in another. It would have been more consistent if they had kept the chest in their own sleeping apartment, but they were very peculiar in some respects, and there was no accounting for many things they did. "Maybe they went in there!" suddenly exclaimed Fred, referring to the tramp and his friend. "They must have thought it likely there was something in their bed-room worth hunting for. I'll see." He felt faint at heart at the thought that the good ladies had been molested while they lay unconscious in bed, but he pushed his way through the house, candle in hand, with the real bravery which was a part of his nature. His heart was throbbing rapidly when he reached the door of their apartment and softly raised the latch. But it was fastened from within, and when he listened he distinctly heard the low, gentle breathing of the good souls who had slumbered so quietly all through these exciting scenes. "I am so thankful they haven't been disturbed," said Fred, making his way back to his own room, where he blew out his light, said his prayers and jumped into bed. Despite the stirring experiences through which he had passed, and the chagrin he felt over his stupidity, Fred soon dropped into a sound slumber, which lasted until the sun shone through the window. Even then it was broken by the gentle voice of Aunt Lizzie, as she was sometimes called, sounding from the foot of the stairs. Fred was dressed and down in a twinkling, and in the rushing, headlong, helter-skelter fashion of youngsters of his age, he told the story of the robbery that had been committed during the night. The old ladies listened quietly, but the news was exciting, indeed, and when Aunt Lizzie, the mildest soul that ever lived, said: "I hope you are mistaken, Fred; after breakfast we'll go up-stairs and see for ourselves." "I shall see now," said her sister Annie, starting up the steps, followed by Fred and the other. There they quickly learned the whole truth. Eight hundred and odd dollars were in the pocketbook, and the intrinsic worth of the silver tea service amounted to fully three times as much, while ten times that sum would not have persuaded the ladies to part with it. They were thrown into dismay by the loss, which grew upon them as they reflected over it. "Why didn't you call us?" asked the white-faced Aunt Lizzie. "Why, what would you have done if I had called you?" asked Fred, in turn. "We would have talked with them and shown them what a wicked thing they were doing, and reminded them how unlawful and wrong it is to pick a lock and steal things." "Gracious alive! if I had undertaken to call you that first man would have shot me, and it was lucky he didn't see me when I swung out the back window; but they left something behind them which I'd rather have than all your silver," said Fred. "What's that?" He drew out the pocket-knife and showed it, looking so wistfully that they did not even take it from his hand, but told the gleeful lad to keep it for himself. "You may be sure I will," was his comment as he stowed it away once more; "a boy don't get a chance at a knife like that more than once in a lifetime." The old ladies, mild and sweet-tempered as they were, became so faint and weak as they fully realized their loss, that they could eat no breakfast at all, and only swallowed a cup of coffee. Fred was affected in the same manner, but not to so great an extent. However, he was anxious to do all he could for the good ladies, and spending only a few minutes at the table he donned his hat and said he would go for Constable Archie Jackson. The hired man, Michael Heyland, had arrived, and was at work out-doors, so there was no call for the boy to remain longer. As Fred hastened down the lane, he was surprised to hear sounds of martial music, but when he caught sight of a gorgeous band and a number of square, box-like wagons with yellow animals painted on the outside, he recalled that this was the day of the circus, and his heart gave a great bound of delight. "I wish Miss Annie and Lizzie hadn't lost their money and silver," he said, "for maybe I could have persuaded them to go to the circus with me, and I'm sure they would have enjoyed themselves." Running forward, Fred perched himself on the fence until the last wagon rattled by, when he slipped to the ground and trotted behind it, feeling that delight which comes to all lads in looking upon the place where wild animals are known to be housed. At every dwelling they passed the inmates hastened out, and the musicians increased the volume of their music until the air seemed to throb and pulsate with the stirring strains. When the town of Tottenville was reached, the whole place was topsy-turvy. The men and wagons, with the tents and poles, had been on the ground several hours, hard at work, and crowds had been watching them from the moment of their arrival. As the rest of the vehicles gathered in a circle, which was to be enclosed by the canvas, the interest was of such an intense character that literally nothing else was seen or thought of by the countrymen and villagers. There was no one who gaped with more open-mouthed wonder than Fred Sheldon, who forgot for the time the real business which had brought him to Tottenville. As usual, he had his trousers rolled high above his knees, and with his hands deep in his pockets, walked about with his straw hat flapping in the slight breeze, staring at everything relating to the menagerie and circus, and tasting beforehand the delights that awaited him in the afternoon, when he would be permitted to gaze until tired, if such a thing were possible. "That's the cage that has the great African lion," said Fred to Jimmy Emery and Joe Hunt, who stood beside him; "just look at that picture where he's got a man in his jaws, running off with him, and not caring a cent for the hunters firing at him." "Them's Tottenhots," said Joe Hunt, who was glad of a chance of airing his knowledge of natural history; "they live in the upper part of Africa, on the Hang Ho river, close to London." "My gracious," said Fred, with a laugh; "you've got Europe, Asia and Africa all mixed up, and the people are the Hottentots; there isn't anybody in the world with such a name as Tottenhots." "Yes, there is, too; ain't we folks that live in Tottenville Tottenhots, smarty?" "Let's ask that big boy there about them; he belongs to the show." The young man to whom they alluded stood a short distance off, with a long whip in his hand, watching the operations of those who were erecting the canvas. He was quite red in the face, had a bushy head of hair almost of the same hue, and was anything but attractive in appearance. His trousers were tucked in his boot-tops; he wore a blue shirt, sombrero-like hat, and was smoking a strong briar-wood pipe, occasionally indulging in some remark in which there was a shocking amount of profanity. The boys started toward him, and had nearly reached him when Jimmy Emery said in an excited undertone: "Why, don't you see who he is? He's Bud Heyland." "So he is. His father told me last spring he had gone off to join a circus, but I forgot all about it." Bud Heyland was the son of Michael Heyland, the man who did the work for the sisters Perkinpine, and before he left was known as the bully of the neighborhood. He was a year or two older than the oldest in school, and he played the tyrant among the other youngsters, whose life sometimes became a burden to them when he was near. He generally punished two or three of the lads each day after school for some imaginary offense. If they told the teacher, he would scold and threaten Bud, who would tell some outlandish falsehood, and then whip the boys again for telling tales. If they appealed to Mr. McCurtis, the same programme was gone through as before; and as the original victims continued to be worsted, they finally gave it up as a losing business and bore their sorrows uncomplainingly. Fred Sheldon tried several times to get up a confederation against the bully, with a view of bringing him to justice, but the others were too timid, and nothing came from it. Bud was especially ugly in his actions toward Fred, who had no father to take the matter in hand, while Mr. Heyland himself simply smoked his pipe and grunted out that he couldn't do anything with Bud and had given him up long ago. Finally Mr. McCurtis lost all patience, and summoning his energies he flogged the young scamp most thoroughly and then bundled him out of the door, forbidding him to come to school any more. This suited Bud, who hurled several stones through the window, and then went home, stayed several days and finally went off with a circus, with one of whose drivers he had formed an acquaintance. The boys were a little backward when they recognized Bud, but concluded he would be glad to see them, especially as they all intended to visit the menagerie during the afternoon. "Halloo, Bud!" called out Fred, with a grin, as he and his two friends approached; "how are you?" The boy, who was sixteen years old, turned about and looked at them for a minute, and then asked: "Is that you, younkers? What'er you doin' here?" "Oh, looking around a little. We're all coming this afternoon." "You are, eh? Do you expect to crawl under the tent?" "No, we're going to pay our way in; Jim and Joe didn't know whether they could come or not, but it's all fixed now." "I watch outside with this cart-whip for boys that try to crawl under, and it's fun when I bring the lash down on 'em. Do you see?" As he spoke, Bud gave a flourish with the whip, whirling the lash about his head and causing it to snap like a firecracker. CHAPTER VII. "THE LION IS LOOSE!" "I'll show you how it works," he called out, with a grin, and without a word of warning he whirled it about the legs and bodies of the boys, who jumped with pain and started to run. He followed them just as the teacher did before, delivering blows rapidly, every one of which fairly burned and blistered where it struck. Bud laughed and enjoyed it, because he was inflicting suffering, and he would have caused serious injury had not one of the men shouted to him to stop. Bud obeyed, catching the end of the lash in the hand which held the whipstock, and slouching back to his position, said: "They wanted me to give 'em free tickets, and 'cause I wouldn't they told me they were going to crawl under the tent; so I thought I would let 'em have a little taste beforehand." "You mustn't be quite so ready," said the man; "some time you will get into trouble." "It wan't be the first time," said Bud, looking with a grin at the poor boys, all three of whom were crying with pain; "and I reckon I can get out ag'in, as I've done often enough." Fred Sheldon, after edging away from the other lads and his friends, all of whom were pitying him, recalled that he had come into the village of Tottenville to see the constable, Archie Jackson, and to tell him about the robbery that had been committed at the residence of the Misses Perkinpine the preceding evening. Archie, a short, bustling, somewhat pompous man, who turned in his toes when he walked, was found among the crowd that were admiring the circus and menagerie, and was soon made acquainted with the alarming occurrence. "Just what might have been expected," he said, severely, when he had heard the particulars; "it was some of them circus people, you can make up your mind to that. There's always an ugly crowd going along with 'em, and sometimes a little ahead. It's been some of 'em, I'm sure; very well, very well, I'll go right out and investigate." He told Fred it was necessary he should go along with him, and the boy did so, being informed that he would be permitted to attend the show in the afternoon. The fussy constable made the investigation, assisted by the sisters, who had become much calmer, and by Fred, who, it will be understood, was an important witness. The officer went through and through the house, examining the floor and chairs and windows and furniture for marks that might help him in ferreting out the guilty parties. He looked very wise, and, when he was done, said he had his own theory, and he was more convinced than ever that the two burglars were attachés of Bandman's menagerie and circus. "Purely as a matter of business," said he, "I'll attend the performances this afternoon and evening; I don't believe in circuses, but an officer of the law must sometimes go where his inclination doesn't lead him. Wouldn't you ladies like to attend the show?" The sisters were quite shocked at the invitation, and said that nothing could induce them to go to such an exhibition, when they never attended one in all their lives. "In the meantime," added the bustling officer, "I suggest that you offer a reward for the recovery of the goods." "The suggestion is a good one," said Aunt Annie, "for I do not believe we shall ever get back the silverware unless we make it an inducement for everybody to hunt for it." After some further words it was agreed that the constable should have a hundred posters printed, offering a reward for the recovery of the stolen property, nothing being said about the capture and conviction of the thieves. Nor would the conscientious ladies consent to make any offer that could be accepted by the thieves themselves, by which they could claim protection against prosecution. They would rather bear their irreparable loss than consent to compound crime. "I know Mr. Carter, a very skillful detective in New York," said Archie Jackson, as he prepared to go, "and I will send for him. He's the sharpest man I ever saw, and if the property can be found, he's the one to do it." The confidence of the officer gave the ladies much hope, and they resumed their duties in their household, as they had done so many times for years past. As the afternoon approached, the crowds began streaming into Tottenville, and the sight was a stirring one, with the band of music inside, the shouts of the peddlers on the outside, and the general confusion and expectancy on the part of all. The doors were open early, for, as is always the case, the multitude were ahead of time, and were clamoring for admission. As may be supposed, the boys were among the earliest, and the little fellows who had suffered at the hands of the cruel Bud Heyland forgot all their miseries in the delight of the entertainment. On this special occasion Fred had rolled down his trousers and wore a pair of shoes, although most of his playmates preferred no covering at all for their brown, expanding feet. The "performance," as the circus portion was called, did not begin until two o'clock, so that more than an hour was at the disposal of the visitors in which to inspect the animals. These were found to be much less awe-inspiring than they were pictured on the flaming posters and on the sides of their cages. The hippopotamus, which was represented as crushing a large boat, containing several men, in his jaws, was taken for a small, queer-looking pig, as it was partly seen in the tank, while the grizzly bear, the "Monarch of the Western Wilds," who had slain any number of men before capture, did not look any more formidable than a common dog. The chief interest of Fred and two or three of his young friends centered around the cage containing the Numidian lion. He was of pretty fair size, looked very fierce, and strode majestically back and forth in his narrow quarters, now and then giving vent to a cavernous growl, which, although not very pleasant to hear, was not so appalling by any means as some travelers declare it to be. Most of the boys soon went to the cage of monkeys, whose funny antics kept them in a continual roar; but Fred and Joe Hunt, who were about the same age, seemed never to tire of watching the king of beasts. "Come, move on there; you've been gaping long enough, and it's time other folks had a chance." It was Bud Heyland, who had yielded his position on the outside for a few minutes to one of the men, and had come in to look around. He raised his whip in a threatening manner, but did not let it descend. "I'm not in anybody's way," replied the indignant Fred, "and I'll stand here as long as I want to." "You will, eh? I'll show you!" This time the bully drew back his whip with the intention of striking, but before he could do so Archie Jackson, standing near, called out: "You touch him if you dare!" Bud turned toward the constable, who stood at his elbow, with flashing eyes, and demanded: "What's the matter with you?" "That boy isn't doing any harm, and if you touch him I'll take you by the collar and lock you up where you'll stay a while after this miserable show has gone." Bud knew the officer and held him in more fear than any one else in the community, but he growled: "This boy crawled under the tent, and he's no business in here." "That's a falsehood, for I saw him buy his ticket. Come now, young man, I _know something about last night's nefarious proceedings_." It would be hard to describe the significance with which these words were spoken, but it may be said that no one could have made them more impressive than did the fiery constable, who said them over a second time, and then, shaking his head very knowingly, walked away. It may have been that Bud Heyland was such a bad boy that his conscience accused him at all times, but Fred Sheldon was certain he saw the red face grow more crimson under the words of the hot-tempered constable. "Can it be Bud knows anything about last night?" Fred asked himself, attentively watching the movements of Bud, who affected to be interested in something going on a rod or two distant. He walked rapidly thither, but was gone only a short while when he came back scowling at Fred, who looked at him in an inquiring way. "What are you staring at me so for?" asked Bud, half raising his hand as if he wanted to strike, but was afraid to do so. Fred now did something which bordered on insolence, though the party of the other part deserved no consideration therefor. The little fellow looked steadily in the red, inflamed face, and with that peculiar grin that means so much in a boy, said in a low, confidential voice: "Bud, how about last night?" Young Sheldon had no warrant to assume that Bud Heyland knew anything of the robbery, and he was only following up the hint given by Archie Jackson himself. This may have been the reason that Fred fancied he could detect a resemblance--very slight though it was--between the voice of Bud Heyland and that of the tramp who sat at the table in the old brick house, and who, beyond question, had a false beard on. The young man with the whip in his hand simply looked back at the handsome countenance before him, and without any appearance of emotion, asked in turn: "What are you talking about?" Fred continued to look and smile, until suddenly Bud lost all self-command and whirled his whip over his head. As he did so, the lash flew through the bars of the cage and struck the Numidian lion a sharp, stinging blow on the nose. He gave a growl of anger, and half-rearing on his hind feet, made a furious clawing and clutching with both paws. The end of the lash seemed to have hit him in the eye, for he was furious for a minute. Bud Heyland knew what the sounds behind him meant, and instead of striking the young lad whom he detested so much, he turned about in the hope of soothing the enraged lion. He spoke kindly to the beast, and failing to produce any effect, was about to call one of the men to bring some meat, but at that instant every one near at hand was startled by a crashing, grinding sound, and the cage was seen to sway as if on the point of turning over. Then, before any one could comprehend fully what had occurred, a huge form was seen to bound through the air in front of the cage, landing directly among the terrified group, who stood spell-bound, scarcely realizing their fearful peril. "The lion is loose! the lion is loose!" was the next cry that rang through the enclosure. [Illustration: "The lion sprang through the air among the terrified group." --(See page 71.)] CHAPTER VIII. A DAY OF EXCITEMENT IN TOTTENVILLE. If any of our readers were ever so unfortunate as to be in the neighborhood of a menagerie of animals when one of the fiercest has broken loose he can form some idea of the confusion, terror and consternation caused by the escape of the lion from his cage. Strong men rushed headlong over each other; parents caught up their children and struggled desperately to get as far as possible from the dreadful beast; the other animals uttered fierce growls and cries; women and children screamed and fainted; brave escorts deserted young ladies, leaving them to look out for themselves, while they joined in the frantic struggle for life; some crawled under the wagons; others clambered upon the top, and one man, original even in his panic, scrambled into the cage just vacated by the lion, intending to do his utmost to keep the rightful owner from getting back again. Could any one have looked upon the exciting scene, and preserved his self-possession, he would have observed a burly boy climbing desperately up the center pole, never pausing until he reached the point where the heavy ropes of the canvas converged, when he stopped panting, and looked down on what was passing beneath him. The name of that young man was Bud Heyland. Among the multitude that swarmed through the entrance to the tent, which was choked until strong men fought savagely to beat back the mad tide, were three boys who got outside safely on their feet, and, drawing in their breath, broke into a blind but very earnest run that was intended to take them as far as possible from the dangerous spot. They were Jimmy Emery, Joe Hunt and Fred Sheldon. The last-named saw the lion make a tremendous bound, which landed him almost at his feet, and Fred was sure it was all over with him; but he did not stand still and be devoured, but plunged in among the struggling mass and reached the exterior of the tent without a scratch. High above the din and tumult rose the shout of the principal showman: "Don't kill the lion! Don't kill the lion!" It was hard to see the necessity for this cry, inasmuch as the danger seemed to be altogether the other way, but the one who uttered the useless words was evidently afraid some of the people would begin shooting at the beast, which was altogether too valuable to lose, if there was any way of avoiding it. It may be, too, that he believed a general fusillade, when the confusion was so great, would be more perilous to the people than to the lion. There is reason in the belief that, as some scientists claim, there is a sense of humor which sometimes comes to the surface in certain animals, and the action of the Numidian lion when he broke out tended to confirm such a statement. He seemed to forget all about the sharp cut he had received across the nose and eyes the moment he was clear of his cage and to enjoy the hubbub he created. Had he chosen he could have lacerated and killed a score of children within his reach, but instead of doing so he jumped at the terrified crowd, striking them pretty hard blows with his fore paws, then wheeling about and making for another group, who were literally driven out of their senses by the sight of the brute coming toward them. One young gentleman who was with a lady left her without a word, and, catching sight of a small ladder, placed it hastily against the center pole and ran rapidly up the rounds, but the ladder itself stood so nearly perpendicular that when he reached the top and looked around to see whether the king of beasts was following him, it tipped backward, and he fell directly upon the shoulders of the lion, rolling off and turning a back somersault, where he lay kicking with might and main, and shouting to everybody to come and take him away. The brute paid no attention to him except to act in a confused manner for a minute or two, when he darted straight across the ring to an open space in the wall of the tent, made by some men who had cut it with their knives. The next moment he was on the outside. The bewilderment and consternation seemed to increase every minute, and did not abate when the lion was seen to be galloping up the road toward a forest, in which he disappeared. A number of the show people ran after him, shouting and calling continually to others to keep out of his way and not to kill him. The beast had entered a track of dense woodland, covering fully a dozen acres, and abounding with undergrowth, where it was probable he could hide himself for days from his would-be captors. The incident broke up the exhibition for the afternoon, although it was announced that it would go on again as usual in the evening, when something like self-possession came back to the vast swarm of people scattered through the village and over the grounds, it was found that although a number had been severely bruised and trampled upon, no one was seriously injured, and what was the strangest fact of all, no one could be found who had suffered any hurt from the lion. This was unaccountable to nearly every one, though the explanation, or partial one, at least, appeared within the succeeding few days. Had the lion been able to understand the peril into which he entered by this freak of his it may be safely said that he would not have left his cage, for no sooner had the community a chance to draw breath and realize the situation than they resolved that it would never do to allow such a ferocious animal to remain at large. "Why, he can hide in the woods there and sally out and kill a half dozen at a time, just as they do in their native country," said Archie Jackson, discussing the matter in the village store. "Yes," assented a neighbor; "the lion is the awfulest kind of a creature, which is why they call him the king of beasts. In Brazil and Italy, where they run wild, they're worse than--than--than a--that is--than a steam b'iler explosion." "We must organize," added the constable, compressing his thin lips; "self-protection demands it." "I think we had better call on the Governor to bring out the military, and to keep up the hunt until he is exterminated." "No need of calling on the military, so long as the civil law is sufficient," insisted Archie. "A half-dozen of us, well armed, will be able to smoke him out." "Will you j'ine?" asked one of the neighbors. The constable cleared his throat before saying: "I've some important business on my hands that'll keep me pretty busy for a few days. If you will wait till that is over, it will give me pleasure--ahem!--to j'ine you." "By that time there won't be any of us left to j'ine," said the neighbor with a contemptuous sniff. "It looks very much, Archie, as though you were trying to get out of it." The constable grew red in the face at the general smile this caused, and said, in his most impressive manner: "Gentlemen, I'll go with you in search of the lion; more than that, gentlemen and fellow-citizens, I'll lead you." "That's business; you ain't such a big coward as people say you are." "Who says I'm a coward--show him to me----" At this moment one of the young men attached to the menagerie and circus entered, and when all became still said: "Gentlemen, my name is Jacob Kincade, and I'm the keeper of the lion which broke out to-day and is off somewhere in the woods. He is a very valuable animal to us, we having imported him directly from the Bushman country, at a great expense. His being at large has created a great excitement, as was to be expected, but we don't want him killed." "Of course not," said Archie Jackson, who echoed the sentiment of his neighbors, as he added, "You prefer that he should go raging 'round the country and chaw us all up instead. My friend, that little scheme won't work; we're just on the point of organizing an exploring expedition to shoot the lion. Our duty to our wives and families demands that we should extirpate the scourge. Yes, sir," added Archie, rising from his chair and gesticulating like an orator, "as patriots we are bound to prevent any foreign monsters, especially them as are worshiped by the red-coats, to squat on our soil and murder our citizens. The glorious American eagle----" "One minute," interrupted Mr. Kincade, with a wave of his hand. "It isn't the eagle, but the lion we are considering. The menagerie, having made engagements so far ahead, must show in Lumberton to-morrow evening, but two of us will stay behind to arrange for his recapture. Bud Heyland, whose home is in this vicinity, and myself would like to employ a dozen of you to assist. You will be well paid therefor, and whoever secures him, without harm, will receive a reward of a hundred dollars." While these important words were being uttered, Archie Jackson remained standing on the floor, facing the speaker, with his hand still raised, as if he intended resuming his patriotic speech at the point where it had been broken in upon. But when the showman stopped Archie stood staring at him with mouth open, hand raised and silent tongue. "Go on," suggested one at his elbow. But the constable let his arm fall against his side, and said: "I had a good thing about the emblem of British tyranny, but he put me out. Will give a hundred dollars, eh? That's another matter altogether. But I say, Mr. Kincade, how shall we go to work to capture a lion? That sort of game ain't abundant in these parts, and I don't think there's any one here that's ever hunted 'em." Old Mr. Scrapton, who was known to be the teller of the most amazing stories ever heard in the neighborhood, opened his mouth to relate how he had lassoed lions forty years before, when he was hunting on the plains of Texas, but he restrained himself. He thought it best to wait till this particular beast had been disposed of and was out of the neighborhood. "I may say, gentlemen," added the showman, with a peculiar smile, "that this lion is not so savage and dangerous as most people think. You will call to mind, although he broke loose in the afternoon, when the tent was crowded with people, and when he had every opportunity he could wish, yet he did not hurt any one." "That is a very remarkable circumstance," said the constable, in a low voice, heard by all. "I am warranted, therefore," added Mr. Kincade, "in saying that there is no cause for such extreme fright on your part. You should fix some sort of cage and bait it with meat. Then watch, and when he goes in spring the trap, and there he is." "Yes, but will he stay there?" "If the trap is strong enough." "How would it do to lasso him?" "If you are skilled in throwing the lasso and can fling several nooses over his head simultaneously from different directions. By that I mean if three or four of you can lasso him at the same instant, from different directions, so he will be held fast, why the scheme will work splendidly." All eyes turned toward old Mr. Scrapton, who cleared his throat, threw one leg over the other and looked very wise. It was known that he had a long buffalo thong looped and hanging over his fire-place at home, with which, he had often told, he used to lasso wild horses in the Southwest. When the old gentleman saw the general interest he had awakened, he nodded his head patronizingly and said: "Yes, boys, I'll go with you and show you how the thing is done." The important conversation, of which we have given a part, took place in the principal store in Tottenville late on the evening succeeding the escape of the lion and after the performance was over. Mr. Kincade, by virtue of his superior experience with wild animals, gave the men a great many good points and awakened such an ambition in them to capture the beast that he was quite hopeful of his being retaken in a short time. It was understood that if the lion was injured in any way not a penny's reward would be paid, and a careful observer of matters would have thought there was reason to fear the neighbors were placing themselves in great personal peril, through their anxiety to take the king of beasts alive and unharmed. On the morrow, when the children wended their way to the old stone school-house again, they stopped to look at Archie Jackson, who was busy tearing down the huge posters of the menagerie and circus, preparatory to tacking up some others which he had brought with him and held under his arm. The constable dipped into several professions. He sometimes dug wells and helped to move houses for his neighbors. Beside this, he was known as the auctioneer of the neighborhood, and tacked up the announcement posters for himself. As soon as he had cleared a space, he posted the following, printed in large, black letters: ONE HUNDRED DOLLARS REWARD. The above reward will be paid for the capture of the lion which escaped from Bandman's great menagerie and circus on Tuesday the twenty-first instant. Nothing will be paid if the animal is injured in any manner. The undersigned will be at the Tottenville Hotel for a few days, and will hand the reward named to any one who will secure the lion so that he can be returned to his cage. JACOB KINCADE. Directly beneath this paper was placed a second one, and it seemed a curious coincident that it also was the announcement of a reward. FIVE HUNDRED DOLLARS REWARD. The above reward will be paid for the recovery of the silver tea-service stolen from the residence of the Misses Perkinpine on the night of the twentieth instant. A liberal price will be given for anything in the way of information which may lead to the recovery of the property or the detection of the thieves. Attached to the last was a minute description of the various articles stolen, and the information that any one who wished further particulars could receive them by communicating with Archibald Jackson, constable, in Tottenville. The menagerie and circus had departed, but the excitement which it left behind was probably greater and more intense than that which preceded its arrival. Its coming was announced by a daring robbery, and when it went the most terrible animal in its "colossal and unparalleled collection" remained to prowl through the woods and feast upon the men, women, boys and girls of the neighborhood, to say nothing of the cows, oxen, sheep, lambs and pigs with which it was to be supposed the king of beasts would amuse himself when he desired a little recreation that should remind him of his native, far-away country. Around these posters were gathered the same trio which we pictured on the opening of our story. "I tell you I'd like to catch that lion," said Jimmy Emery, smacking his lips over the prospect; "but I don't see how it can be done." "Why couldn't we coax him into the school-house this afternoon after all the girls and boys are gone?" asked Joe Hunt; "it's so low and flat he would take it for his den, that is, if we kill a calf and lay it inside the door." "But Mr. McCurtis stays an hour after school to set copies," said Fred Sheldon. Joe Hunt scratched his arms, which still felt the sting of the blows for his failure in his lessons, and said: "That's one reason why I am so anxious to get the lion in there." "Well, younkers, I s'pose you're going to earn both of them rewards?" It was Bud Heyland who uttered these words, as he halted among the boys, who were rather shy of him. Bud had his trousers tucked in the top of his boots, his sombrero and blue shirt on, his rank brier-wood pipe in his mouth, and the whip, whose lash looked like a long, coiling black snake, in his hand. His face was red as usual, with blotches on his nose and cheeks, such as must have been caused by dissipation. He was ugly by nature, and had the neighborhood been given the choice between having him and the lion as a pest it may be safely said that Bud would not have been the choice of all. "I don't think there's much chance for us," said Fred Sheldon, quietly edging away from the bully; "for I don't see how we are to catch and hold him." "It would not do for him to see you," said Bud, taking his pipe from his mouth and grinning at Fred. "Why not?" "He's so fond of calves he'd be sure to go for you." "That's why he tried so hard to get at you, I s'pose, when you climbed the tent pole and was so scared you've been pale ever since." Bud was angered by this remark, which caused a general laugh, and he raised his whip, but just then he saw the teacher, Mr. McCurtis, close at hand, and he refrained. Although large and strong, like all bullies, he was a coward, and could not forget the severe drubbing received from this severe pedagogue, "all of ye olden times." He walked sullenly away, resolved to punish the impudent Fred Sheldon before he left the neighborhood, while the ringing of the cracked bell a minute or two later drew the boys and girls to the building and the studies of the day were begun. Young Fred Sheldon was the brightest and best boy in school, and he got through his lessons with his usual facility, but it may be said that his thoughts were anywhere but in the school-room. Indeed, there was plenty to rack his brain over, for during the few minutes when Bud Heyland stood talking to the boys before school Fred was impressed more than ever with the fact that his voice resembled that of the tramp who had been entertained by the Misses Perkinpine a couple of nights before. "I s'pose he tried to make his voice sound different," thought Fred, "but he didn't remember it all the time. Bud's voice is coarser than it used to be, which I s'pose is because it's changing, but every once in awhile it sounded just like it did a few minutes ago. "Then it seems to me," added our hero, pursuing the same train of perplexing thought, "that the voice of the other man--the one that come on to me in the lane--was like somebody I've heard, but I can't think who the person can be." Fred took out his new knife and looked at it in a furtive way. When he had admired it a few minutes he fixed his eyes on the three letters cut in the brass piece. "They're 'N. H. H.,'" he said, "as sure as I live; but 'N. H. H.' don't stand for Bud Heyland, though the last name is the same. If that was Bud who stole the silver then he must have dropped the knife on the floor, though I don't see how he could do it without knowing it. I s'pose he stole the knife from some one else." The boy had not shown his prize to any of his playmates, having thought it best to keep it out of sight. He could not help believing that Bud Heyland had something to do with the robbery, but it was difficult to think of any way by which the offense could be proven against him. "He'll deny it, of course, and even Aunt Annie and Lizzie will declare that it wasn't him that sat at the table the other night and eat enough for a half-dozen men, or as much as I wanted, anyway. He's such a mean, ugly boy that I wish I could prove it on him--that is, if he did it." That day Fred received word from his mother that she would not return for several days, and he was directed to look after the house, while he was permitted to sleep at the old brick mansion if he chose. Accordingly Fred saw that all his chores were properly done after he reached home that afternoon, when he started for the home of the maiden ladies, where he was more than welcome. The boy followed the same course he took two nights before, and his thoughts were so occupied that he went along at times almost instinctively, as may be said. "Gracious," he muttered, "but if I could find that silver for them--she don't say anything about the money that was taken--that would be an awful big reward. Five hundred dollars! It would more than pay the mortgage on our place. Then that one hundred dollars for the lion--gracious alive!" gasped Fred, stopping short and looking around in dismay. "I wonder where that lion is. He's been loose twenty-four hours, and I should like to know how many people he has killed. I heard he was seen up among the hills this morning, and eat a whole family and a team of horses, but I think maybe there's some mistake about it. "I wonder why he didn't kill somebody yesterday when he had such a good chance. He jumped right down in front of me, and I just gave up, and wished I was a better boy before I should go and leave mother alone; but he didn't pay any attention to me, nor anybody else, but he's a terrible creature, for all that." Now that Fred's thoughts were turned toward the beast that was prowling somewhere in the neighborhood, he could think of nothing else. There was the fact that this peril was a present one, which drove all thoughts of Bud Heyland and the robbery from the mind of the boy. The rustling wind, the murmur of the woods, and the soft, hollow roar of the distant river were all suggestive of the dreaded lion, and Fred found himself walking on tip-toe and peering forward in the gloom, often stopping and looking behind and around, and fancying he caught an outline of the crouching beast. But at last he reached the short lane and began moving with a rapid and confident step. The moon was shining a little more brightly than when he went over the ground before, and here and there the rays found their way between the poplars and served to light the road in front. "I guess he is asleep in the woods and will keep out of sight till he's found----" The heart of Fred Sheldon rose in his throat, and, as he stopped short, it seemed that his hair rose on end. And well it might, for there, directly in the road before him, where the moon's rays shot through the branches, the unmistakable figure of the dreaded lion suddenly appeared. CHAPTER IX. SEVERAL MISHAPS. On this same eventful evening, Archie Jackson, the constable of Tottenville, started from the residence of the Misses Perkinpine for his own house in the village. He had been out to make some inquiries of the ladies, for it will be remembered that he had two very important matters on hand--the detection of the robbers who had taken the property of the sisters and the leadership of the party who were to recapture the lion. At the close of the day, as he moved off toward the village, some time before the arrival of Fred Sheldon, he could not console himself with the knowledge that anything like real progress had been made in either case. "I've sent for that New York detective, Carter, to come down at once, and he ought to be here, but I haven't seen anything of him. Like enough he's off somewhere and won't be heard from for a week. I don't know as I care, for I begin to feel as though I can work out this nefarious proceeding myself. "Then the lion. Well, I can't say that I desire to go hunting for that sort of game, for I never studied their habits much, but as this cretur' doesn't seem to be very ferocious we ought to be able to run him in. I've organized the company, and Scrapton says he'll bring out his lasso and show two or three of us how to fling the thing, so we can all neck him at the same time. "If I can work up this matter and the other," continued the constable, who was "counting his chickens before they were hatched," "I shall make a nice little fee. I'm sure the lion will stay in the woods till he's pretty hungry. All the wild reports we've heard to-day have nothing in them. Nobody has seen him since he took to the forest yesterday afternoon, and what's more, nobody will----" And just then came the greatest shock of Archie Jackson's life. He was walking along the road toward Tottenville, and had reached a place where a row of trees overhung the path. He had taken a different route home from that pursued by Fred Sheldon, and was in quite a comfortable frame of mind, as the remarks quoted will show, when he gave a gasp of fright, for there, at the side of the path, he was sure he saw the lion himself sitting on his haunches and waiting for him to come within reach of his frightful claws and teeth. The constable did not observe him until he was within arm's length, as may be said, and then the poor fellow was transfixed. He stood a minute or so, doing nothing but breathe and staring at the monster. The lion seemed to comprehend that he was master of the situation, for he quietly remained sitting on his haunches, no doubt waiting for his victim to prepare for his inevitable fate. Finally, Archie began to experience something like a reaction, and he asked himself whether he was to perish thus miserably, or was there not some hope, no matter how desperate, for him. Of course he had no gun, but he generally carried a loaded revolver, for his profession often demanded the display of such a weapon; but to his dismay, when he softly reached his right hand back to his hip to draw it, he recalled that he had cleaned it that afternoon, and left it lying on his stand at home. The situation was enough to make one despair, and for an instant after the discovery the officer felt such a weakness in the knees that it was all he could do to keep from sinking to the ground in a perfect collapse; but he speedily rallied, and determined on one great effort for life. "I will strike him with my fist--that will knock him over--and then run for a tree." This was his resolve. Archie could deliver a powerful blow, and, believing the lion would not wait any longer, he drew back his clenched hand and aimed for the forehead directly between the eyes. He measured the distance correctly, but the instant the blow landed he felt he had made a mistake; it was not the runaway lion which he had struck, but the stump of an old tree. It is hardly necessary to say that the constable suffered more than did the stump, and for a minute or two he was sure he had fractured the bones of his hand, so great was the pain. He danced about on one foot, shaking the bruised member and bewailing the stupidity that led him to make such a grievous error. "That beats anything I ever knowed in all my life," he exclaimed, "and how glad I am that nobody else knows it; if the folks ever hear of it, they will plague me forever and----" "Halloo, Archie, what's the matter?" The cold chills ran down the officer's back as he heard this hail, and suppressing all expression of pain, he shoved his hands into his pockets and looked quickly around. In the dim moonlight he saw old man Scrapton and two neighbors, Vincent and Emery, fathers respectively of two playmates of Fred Sheldon. Each carried a coil of long, strong rope in his right hand and seemed to be considerably excited over something. "We're after the lion," said Mr. Scrapton; "have you seen him?" "No, I don't think he's anywhere around here." "I've had Vincent and Emery out in the meadow nearly all day, practicing throwing the lasso, and they've got the hang of it exactly. Emery can fling the noose over the horns of a cow a dozen yards away and never miss, while Vincent, by way of experiment, dropped the noose over the shoulders of his wife at a greater distance." "Yes," said Mr. Vincent, "but I don't regard that as much of a success. Mrs. Vincent objected, and before I could let go of my end of the lasso, she drawed me to her and--well, I'd prefer to talk of something else." The constable laughed and said: "It's a good thing to practice a little beforehand, when you are going into such a dangerous business as this." "I suppose that's the reason you've been hammering that white oak stump," suggested Mr. Scrapton, with a chuckle. Archie Jackson saw he was caught, and begged his friends to say nothing about it, as he had already suffered as much in spirit as body. "But do you expect to find the lion to-night?" he asked, with unaffected interest. "Yes, we know just where to look for him," said Mr. Scrapton; "he stayed in the woods all day, but just as the sun was setting I catched sight of him along the edge of the fence, and he isn't far from there this very minute." "Do you want me to go with you?" "Certainly." "But I have no weapon." "All the better; I made each leave his gun and pistols at home, for they'd be so scared at the first sight of the cretur' they'd fire before they knowed it and spoil everything. Like the boys at Ticonderoga, if their guns ain't loaded, they can't shoot 'em." "But I don't see what help I can give you, as I haven't got a rope; and even if I had, I wouldn't know how to use it." "Come along, any way; we'll feel safer if we have another with us." It cannot be said that the constable was very enthusiastic, for there was something in the idea of hunting the king of beasts without firearms which was as terrifying as it was grotesque. However, he could not refuse, and the four started down the road and across the field, in the direction of the large tract of forest in which it was known the lion had taken refuge when he broke from his cage the day before. A walk of something like a third of a mile took the party to the edge of the wood, where they stopped and held a consultation in whispers. None of them were so brave as they seemed a short time before, and all secretly wished they were safe at home. "I don't see how you can expect to find him by hunting in the night time, when you have made no preparation," said Archie Jackson, strongly impressed with the absurdity of the whole business. "But I have made preparation," answered Scrapton, in the same guarded undertone. "How?" "I killed a pig and threw him over the fence yonder by that pile of rocks--good heavens!" At the moment of pointing his finger to indicate the spot, all heard a low cavernous growl, which sent a shiver of affright from head to foot. They were about to break into a run, when the constable said: "If you start, he will be after us; let's stand our ground." "Certainly," assented Mr. Vincent, through his chattering teeth. "Certainly, certainly," added his neighbor, in the same quaking voice. Toning down their extreme terror as best they could, the four frightened friends strained their eyes to catch a sight of the animal. "He's there," said Scrapton, fingering his lasso in a way which showed he was very eager to hurl it. "Where?" "Right behind the fence; I see him; he's crouching down and eating the carcass of the pig." "When he gets through with that he will come for us." "Like enough--but that will be all right," said the old gentleman, who really showed more self-possession than any of the others; "for it will give us just the chance we want." "How so?" "When he comes over the fence we'll sort of scatter and throw our lassoes together; then each will pull with all his might and main." "But," said Mr. Vincent, "s'posing we pull his head off, we won't get any of the reward." "We can't pull hard enough to do that, but if we hold on we'll keep him fast, so he can't move any way at all, and bime-by he'll get so tired that he'll give up, and we'll have him, certain sure." "That is, if he don't happen to have us," said Mr. Jackson. "As I haven't got any rope, s'pose I climb over the fence and scare him up so he will come toward you." The idea seemed to be a good one, as the others looked at it, but when the constable moved off to carry out his proposition they thought he was making altogether too extended a circuit, and that it would be a long while before he would succeed in his undertaking. Archie finally vanished in the gloom, and climbing over the fence into the woods moved a short distance toward the spot where the animal lay, when he paused. "The man who goes to hunt a wild lion with nothing but a jack-knife with both blades broke out is a natural-born idiot, which his name isn't Archie Jackson. I've business elsewhere." And thereupon he deliberately turned about and started homeward by a circuitous route. Meanwhile old Mr. Scrapton and Vincent and Emery stood trembling and waiting for the appearance of the lion, which, judging from the sounds that reached their ears, was busy crunching the bones of the young porker that had been slain for his special benefit. They didn't know whether to stay where they were or to break into a run. The danger seemed great, but the reward was so tempting that they held their ground. "He may start to run away," weakly suggested Mr. Vincent. "I don't think so, now that he's tasted blood, but if he does," said the leader of the party, "we must foller." "But he can run faster than we----" "There he comes!" In the darkness they saw the faintly-outlined figure of an animal clambering over the fence, with growls and mutterings, and hardly conscious of what they were doing, the three men immediately separated several yards from each other and nervously clutched their ropes, ready to fling them the instant the opportunity presented itself. "There he comes!" called out Mr. Scrapton again; "throw your lassoes!" At the same instant the three coils of rope whizzed through the air as a dark figure was seen moving in a direction which promised to bring him to a point equidistant from all. Mr. Vincent was too enthusiastic in throwing his noose, for it went beyond the animal and settled around the neck of the astonished Mr. Emery, who thought the lion had caught him in his embrace, thrown as he was off his feet and pulled fiercely over the ground by the thrower. Mr. Emery missed his mark altogether, although Mr. Scrapton had to dodge his head to escape the encircling coil. The old gentleman would have lassoed the animal had he not discovered at the very instant the noose left his hand that it was his own mastiff, Towser, that they were seeking to capture instead of a runaway lion. CHAPTER X. A BRAVE ACT. Meanwhile Fred Sheldon had become involved in anything but a pleasant experience. There might be mistakes ludicrous and otherwise in the case of others, but when he saw the animal in the lane before him, as revealed by the rays of the moon, there was no error. It was the identical lion that had escaped from the menagerie the day previous, and the beast must have noted the presence of the terrified lad, who stopped such a short distance from him. Master Fred was so transfixed that he did not stir for a few seconds, and then it seemed to him that the best thing he could do was to turn about and run, and yell with might and main, just as he did some weeks before when he stepped into a yellow-jackets' nest. It is hard to understand how the yelling helps a boy when caught in such a dilemma, but we know from experience that it is easier to screech at the top of one's voice, as you strike at the insects that settle about your head, than it is to concentrate all your powers in the single act of running. Almost unconsciously, Fred began stepping backward, keeping his gaze fixed upon the lion as he did so. If the latter was aware of the stratagem, which is sometimes used with advantage by the African hunter, he did not immediately seek to thwart it, but continued facing him, and occasionally swaying his tail, accompanied by low, thunderous growls. The boys of the school had learned a great deal of natural history within the last day or two, and Fred had read about the king of beasts. He knew that a lion could crouch on his belly, and, with one prodigious bound, pass over the intervening space. The lad was afraid the one before him meant to act according to the instincts of his nature, and he retreated more rapidly, until all at once he whirled about and ran for dear life, directly toward the highway. He did not shout, though, if he had seen any other person, he would have called for help; but, when he reached the road, he cast a glance over his shoulder, expecting to feel the horrible claws at the same instant. The lion was invisible. Fred could scarcely believe his eyes; but such was the fact. "I don't understand him," was the conclusion of the boy, who kept moving further away, scarcely daring to believe in his own escape even for a few brief minutes. Fred had been too thoroughly scared to wish to meet the lion again, but he wanted to get back to the house that the Misses Perkinpine could be told of the new danger which threatened them. "I think they'll be more likely to believe me than night before last," said the lad to himself. But nothing could tempt him to venture along the lane again after such an experience. It was easy enough to reach the house by a long detour, but the half belief that the lion was lurking in the vicinity made the effort anything but assuring. However, Fred Sheldon thought it his duty to let his good friends know the new peril to which they were subject, in the event of venturing out of doors. So slow and stealthy was his next approach to the building that nearly an hour passed before he found himself in the small yard surrounding the house; but, when once there, he hastened to the front door and gave such a resounding knock with the old-fashioned brass knocker that it could have been heard a long distance away, on the still summer night. It seemed a good while to Fred before the bolt was withdrawn, and Aunt Annie appeared in her cap and spectacles. "Oh, it's you, Fred, is it?" she exclaimed with pleasure, when she recognized the young man who was so welcome at all times. "You are so late that we had given you up, and were going to retire." "I started early enough, but it seems to me as if every sort of awful thing is after us," replied Fred, as he hastily followed the lady into the dining-room, where the sisters began preparing the meal for which the visitor, like all urchins of his age, was ready at any time. "What's the matter now, Freddy?" asked Aunt Lizzie. "Why, you had a tramp after you night before last, and now you've got a big, roaring lion." "A what?" asked the two in amazement, for they had not heard a syllable of the exciting incident of the day before. "Why, there's a lion that broke out of the menagerie yesterday, and they haven't been able to catch him yet." "Land sakes alive!" gasped Aunt Annie, sinking into a chair and raising her hands, "what is the world coming to?" Aunt Lizzie sat down more deliberately, but her pale face and amazed look showed she was no less agitated. Fred helped himself to some more of the luscious shortcake and golden butter and preserves, and feeling the importance of his position told the story with which our readers are familiar, though it must be confessed the lad exaggerated somewhat, as perhaps was slightly excusable under the circumstances. Still it was not right for him to describe the lion as of the size of an ordinary elephant, unless he referred to the baby elephant, which had never been seen in this country at that time. Nor should he have pictured his run down the lane, with the beast behind him all the way, snapping at his head, while Fred only saved himself by his dexterity in dodging him. There was scarcely any excuse for such hyperbole, though the narrative was implicitly believed by the ladies, who felt they were in greater danger than if a score of burglarious tramps were planning to rob them. "They've offered one hundred dollars to any one who catches the lion without hurting him," added Fred, as well as he could speak with his mouth filled with spongy gingerbread. "A hundred dollars!" exclaimed Aunt Lizzie; "why, he'll kill anybody who goes near him. If I were a man I wouldn't try to capture him for a million dollars." "I'm going to try to catch him," said Fred, in his off-hand fashion, as though it was a small matter, and then, swallowing enough of the sweet food to allow him to speak more plainly, he added: "Lions ain't of much account when you get used to 'em; I'm beginning to feel as though I'm going to make that hundred dollars." But the good ladies could not accept this statement as an earnest one, and they chided their youthful visitor for talking so at random. Fred thought it best not to insist, and finished his meal without any further declarations of what he intended to do. "They've left two persons behind to look after the lion," he said; "one is named Kincade and the other is Bud Heyland, you know him--the son of Michael, your hired man." "Yes; he called here to-day." "He did. What for?" "Oh, nothing in particular; he said he heard we had had our silverware stolen, and he wanted to tell us how sorry he felt and to ask whether we had any suspicion of who took it." "He did, eh?" said Fred, half to himself, with a belief that he understood the real cause of that call. "I think Bud is getting to be a much better boy than he used to be," added Aunt Annie; "he was real sorry for us, and talked real nice. He said he expected to be at home for two or three days, though he didn't tell us what for, and he would drop in to see us." Master Sheldon made no answer to this, but he "had his thoughts," and he kept them to himself. The hour was quite advanced, for the days were long, so that the fastenings of the house were looked to with great care, and Fred went to the same room he had occupied two nights before, the one immediately preceding having been spent at home, as he partly expected the return of his mother. After saying his prayers and extinguishing the light, he walked to the rear window and looked out on the solemn scene. Everything was still, but he had stood thus only for a minute or two, when in the quiet, he detected a peculiar sound, which puzzled him at first; but as he listened, he learned that it came from the smoke-house, a small structure near the wood-house. Like the residence, it was built of old-fashioned Holland brick, and was as strong as a modern prison cell. "Somebody is in there stealing meat," was the conclusion of Fred; "I wonder who it can be." He listened a moment longer, and then heard the same kind of growl he had noticed the day before when standing in front of the lion's cage. Beyond a doubt the king of beasts was helping himself to such food as suited him. In a twinkling Fred Sheldon hurried softly down stairs, cautiously opened the kitchen door, and looked out and listened. Yes, he was in there; he could hear him growling and crunching bones, and evidently enjoying the greatest feast of his life. "Now, if he don't hear me coming, I'll have him sure," Fred said to himself, as he began stealing toward the door through which the lion had passed. CHAPTER XI. A REWARD WELL EARNED. The smoke-house attached to the Perkinpine mansion, as we have already said, was made of bricks, and was a strong, massive structure. Although originally used for a building in which meat was cured, it had been adapted to the purposes of a milk store-house. A stream of water ran through one side and the milk and fresh meats were kept there so long as it was possible during the summer weather. A supply of mutton and lamb had been placed in it the evening before by Michael, the hired man, a portion for the use of the ladies and a portion for himself, when he should come to take it away in the morning. There had never been an ice-house on the property, that luxury having been much less known a half a century ago than it is to-day. The lion, in snuffing around the premises, had scented this store-house of meat, and was feasting himself upon it when detected by Fred Sheldon, who, with very little hesitation, covered the couple of rods necessary to reach it. It is difficult to comprehend the trying nature of such a venture, but the reward was a gigantic one in the eyes of Fred, who was very hopeful also of the chance being favorable for capturing the animal. Having started he did not dare to turn back, but hastened forward on tip-toe, and with a firm hand caught the latch of the door. The instant he did so the latter was closed and fastened. He expected the lion would make a plunge against it, and break out. Having done all he could to secure him, Fred scurried back through the kitchen door, which he nervously closed after him, and then scampered in such haste to his room that he feared he had awakened the two ladies in the other part of the house. Hurrying to the window, the lad looked anxiously out and down upon the smoke-house as it was called. To his delight he saw nothing different in its appearance from what it was when he left it a few moments before. It followed, therefore, that the lion was within, as indeed was proven by the sounds which reached the ears of the listening lad. But was the little structure strong enough to hold him? When he broke through his own cage with such ease, would he find any difficulty in making his way out of this place? These were the questions our hero asked himself, and which he could not answer as he wished. While the walls of the little building were strong and secure, yet the door was an ordinary one of wood, fastened by a common iron latch and catch, supplemented by a padlock whenever Michael Heyland chose to take the trouble; but the door was as secure against the animal within with the simple latch in place as it was with the addition of the lock, for it was not to be expected that he would attempt to force his way out in any manner other than by flinging himself against the door itself whenever he should become tired of his restraint. After a while all became still within the smoke-house, and it must have been that the unconscious captive, having gorged himself, had lain down for a good sleep. Fred Sheldon was all excitement and hope, for he felt that if the creature could be kept well supplied with food, he was likely to remain content with his quarters for a considerable time. Tired and worn out, the boy finally lay down on his bed and slept till morning. The moment his eyes were open, he arose and looked out. The smoke-house showed no signs of disturbance, the door remaining latched as it was the night before. "He's there yet," exclaimed the delighted boy, hurriedly donning his clothes and going down the stairs in three jumps. He was right in his guess, for when he cautiously peeped through the slats of the window he saw the monster stretched out upon the floor in a sound slumber. When Fred told the Misses Perkinpine that the lion was fastened in the smoke-house their alarm passed all bounds. They instantly withdrew to the uppermost room, where they declared they would stay until the neighbors should come and kill the creature. Fred tried to persuade them out of their fears, but it was useless, and gathering what meat he could in the house he shoved it through the small window, and then hurried off toward Tottenville. "The lion has got plenty of food, and there is the little stream of water running through the smoke-house, so he ought to be content to stay there for the day." Jacob Kincade sat on the porch of the Tottenville Hotel, smoking a cigar and talking with a number of the villagers, who were gathered around him. Bud Heyland stayed with his folks up the road, and he had not come down to the village yet. The talk, as a matter of course was about the lion, which was believed to be ranging through the country, and playing havoc with the live stock of the farmers. Among the listeners were several boys, with open mouths and eyes, and when Fred joined them no one paid any attention to him. "As I was saying," observed Mr. Kincade, flinging one of his legs over the other, and flirting the ashes from his cigar, "the lion is one of the most valuable in the country. He has a wonderful history, having killed a number of people before he was captured in Africa. Colonel Bandman has been offered a large price for him, which explains why he is so anxious to secure him unhurt." "What is the reward?" asked one of the bystanders. "It was originally a hundred dollars, but I've just received a letter from Colonel Bandman, in which he instructs me to make the reward two hundred, provided the animal is not injured at all." "What does that offer imply?" asked another of the deeply interested group. "The only feasible plan, in my judgment, is to construct a large cage and to lure the lion into that. I have a couple of carpenters hard at work, but the trouble is the animal has such a good chance now of getting all the meat he wants that it will be difficult to get him inside of anything that looks like a cage." "If he could be got into a place where he could be held secure until you brought up his own cage, that would be all you would ask?" continued the speaker, who evidently was forming some plan of operations in his own mind. "That is all, sir." "_I've got your lion for you!_" This rather weighty assertion was made by Fred Sheldon, from his position in the group. An instant hush fell upon all, who looked wonderingly at the lad, as if uncertain whether they had heard aright. Before any comment was made our hero, somewhat flushed in the face, as he summoned up his courage, added: "I've got the lion fast, and if you will go with me I will show you where he is." Mr. Kincade laughed, as did one or two others. Taking a puff or two of his cigar, the showman added: "Run home, sonny, and don't bother us any more." But in that little party were a number who knew Fred Sheldon to be an honest and truthful boy. They made inquiries of him, and when his straightforward answers had been given they told the showman he could rely on what had been said. Mr. Kincade thereupon instantly made preparations, the group swelling to large proportions, as the news spread that the wild beast had been captured. The cage of the lion, which had been strongly repaired, was driven to the front of the hotel; Jake Kincade mounted, took the lines in hand and started toward the home of the Misses Perkinpine, the villagers following close beside and after him. Just as they turned into the short lane leading to the place, whom should they meet but Bud Heyland in a state of great excitement. He was seen running and cracking his whip over his head, and shouting---- "I've got him! I've got him! I've got the lion!" The wagon and company halted for him to explain. "I've got him up here in the old maids' smoke-house. I put some meat in there last night, for I seen tracks that showed me he had been prowling around, and this morning when me and the old man went over to look there he was! I'll take that reward, Jacob, if you please." And the boy grinned and ejected a mouthful of tobacco juice, while the others turned inquiringly toward Fred Sheldon, whose cheeks burned with indignation. "He tells a falsehood," said Fred. "He never knew a thing about it till this morning." "I didn't, eh?" shouted Bud. "I'll show you!" Thereupon he raised his whip, but Mr. Emery stepped in front and said, calmly: "Bud, it won't be well for you to strike that boy." "Well, I don't want anybody telling me I don't tell the truth, for I'm square in everything I do, and I won't be insulted." Mr. Kincade was on the point of taking the word of Bud Heyland that the reward had been earned by him, when he saw from the disposition of the crowd that it would not permit any such injustice as that. "If you've got the animal secure I'm satisfied," called out the showman from his seat, as he assumed an easy, lolling attitude. "You two chaps and the crowd can settle the question of who's entitled to the reward between you, and I only ask that you don't be too long about it, for the critter may get hungry and eat his way out." Mr. Emery, at the suggestion of several, took charge of the investigation. Turning to Fred he said: "The people here have heard your story, and Bud can now tell his." "Why, I hain't got much to tell," said the big boy, in his swaggering manner. "As I said awhile ago, I seen signs around the place last night which showed the lion was sneaking about the premises. He likes to eat good little boys, and I s'pose he was looking for Freddy there," said young Heyland, with a grinning leer at our hero, which brought a smile to several faces. "So I didn't say anything to the old man but just flung a lot of meat in the smoke-house and went home to sleep. This morning the old man awoke afore I did, which ain't often the case, and going over to his work found the trap had been sprung and the game was there. "The old man (Bud seemed to be proud of calling his father by that disrespectful name) came running home and pitched through the door as white as a ghost, and it was a minute or two before he could tell his story. When he had let it out and the old woman begun to shiver, why I laughed, and told 'em how I'd set the trap and earned the reward. With that the old man cooled down, and I got him back with me to look at the beast, which is still asleep, and then I started to tell you about it, Jake, when I meets this crowd and hears with pain and surprise the awful whopper this good little boy tells. I believe he slept in the house there last night, and when he woke up and went out in the smoke-house to steal a drink of milk and seen the lion, he was so scared that he nearly broke his neck running down to the village to tell about it." This fiction was told so well that several looked at Fred to see what he had to say. The lad, still flushed in the face, stepped forward and said: "I'd like to ask Bud a question or two." As he spoke, Fred addressed Mr. Emery, and then turned toward the grinning bully, who said: "Go ahead with all you're a mind to." "You say you put the meat in there on purpose to catch the lion last night?" "That's just what I done, Freddy, my boy." "Where did you get the meat?" "At home of the old woman." "After you put it in the smoke-house, you didn't go back until this morning?" "No, sir; my little Sunday school lad." "Who, then, shut and fastened the door, after the lion walked in the smoke-house to eat the meat?" Bud Heyland's face flushed still redder, and he coughed, swallowed and stuttered---- "Who shut the door? Why--that is--yes--why what's the use of asking such infarnal questions?" demanded Bud in desperation, as the listeners broke into laughter. Mr. Emery quietly turned to Kincade, who was leaning back on his elevated seat and said: "The reward of two hundred dollars belongs to Master Fred here," and the decision was received with shouts of approbation. Bud Heyland's eyes flashed with indignation, and he muttered to himself; but, in the face of such a number, he dared not protest, and he followed them as they pushed on toward the little structure where the escaped beast was restrained of his liberty. A reconnoissance showed that he was still there, and the arrangements for his transfer were speedily made and carried out with much less difficulty than would have been supposed. The cage was placed in front of the door of the smoke-house, communication being opened, after an inclined plane was so arranged that the beast could not walk out without going directly into his old quarters. Several pounds of raw, bleeding meat were placed in the cage, and then the animal was stirred up with a long pole. He growled several times, got on his feet, looked about as if a little confused, and then seemed to be pleased at the familiar sight of his old home, for he walked deliberately up the inclined plane into the cage, and lay down as if to complete his nap, so rudely broken a few minutes before. The door was quickly closed and fastened, and the escaped lion was recaptured! When all saw how easily it was done, and recalled the fact that the king of beasts, so far as was known, had injured no person at all, there was a great deal of inquiry for the explanation. Why was it that, with such opportunities for destroying human life, he had failed to rend any one to fragments? Jacob Kincade, after some laughter, stated that the lion, although once an animal of tiger-like ferocity and strength, was now so old that he was comparatively harmless. His teeth were poor, as was shown by the little progress he had made with the bony meat in the smoke-house. If driven into a corner he might make a fight, but if he had been loose for a month it was hardly likely he would have killed anybody. The blow which he received in the eye from Bud Heyland's whip incited him to fury for the moment, but by the time he got fairly outside he was comparatively harmless, and the hurried climbing of the center-pole by Bud Heyland was altogether a piece of superfluity. As Fred Sheldon had fairly earned the two hundred dollars, he was told to call at the hotel in Tottenville that afternoon and it would be paid him. It is not necessary to say that he was there punctually, for the sum was a fortune in his eyes. As he came to the porch a number of loungers were there as usual, and Fred found himself quite a hero among his playmates and fellows. Not only was Jake Kincade present, with his cigar alternately between his finger and lips, but Bud Heyland and a stranger were sitting on the bench which ran along the porch, their legs crossed, one smoking his briar-wood and the other a cigar. Despite Fred's agitation over his own prospects, he could not help noticing this stranger whom, he believed, he had never seen before. His dress and appearance were much like those of a cattle drover. He wore a large, gray sombrero, a blue flannel shirt, had no suspenders, coarse corduroy trousers, though the weather was warm, with the legs tucked in the tops of his huge cowhide boots, the front of which reached far above his knees, like those of a cavalryman. He had frowsy, abundant hair, a smoothly-shaven face--that is, the stubby beard was no more than two or three days old--and he seemed to be between twenty-five and thirty years of age. Looking at his rather regular features, it would be hard to tell whether he was a good or evil man, but it was very evident that he and Bud Heyland had struck up a strong intimacy, which was growing. They sat close together, chatted and laughed, and indulged in jokes at the expense of those around them, careless alike of the feelings that were hurt or the resentment engendered. As Fred approached he saw Bud turn his head and speak to the stranger, who instantly centered his gaze on the boy, so there could be no doubt that his attention was called to him. Fred was moving rather timidly toward Kincade, when the stranger raised his hand and crooked his finger toward him. Wondering what he could want, Fred Sheldon diverged toward him and took off his hat. "I wouldn't stand bareheaded, Freddy, dear," said Bud, with his old grin; "you might catch cold in your brains." Neither of the others noticed this course remark, and the stranger, scrutinizing the boy with great interest, said: "What is your name, please?" "Frederick Sheldon." "And you are the boy who locked the lion in the smoke-house last night when you heard the poor fellow trying to use his aged teeth on some bones?" "Yes, sir." "Well, you deserve credit; for you thought, like everybody else, that he was as fierce as he was a dozen years ago. Well, all I want to say, Fred, is that I'm Cyrus Sutton, stopping here at the hotel, and I'm somewhat interested in cattle. Bud, here, doesn't feel very well, and he's got leave of absence for two or three days and is going to stay at home. Bud and I are strong friends, and I've formed a rather good opinion of you and I congratulate you on having earned such a respectable pile of money. Mr. Kincade is ready and glad to pay you." Squire Jones, a plain, honest, old man, who had been justice of the peace for fully two score years, went into the inner room with Fred Sheldon and Jacob Kincade to see that everything was in proper shape; for as the boy was a minor his rights needed careful protection. All was done deliberately and carefully, and the entire amount of money, in good, crisp greenbacks, was placed in the trembling hands of Fred Sheldon, who felt just then as though he would buy up the entire village of Tottenville, and present it to his poor friends. "Come over to my office with me," said the squire, when the transaction was finished. The lad willingly walked across the street and into the dingy quarters of the old man, who closed the door and said: "I am real glad, Frederick, that you have earned such a sum of money, for your mother needs it, and I know you to be a truthful and honest boy; but let me ask you what you mean to do with it?" "Save it." "I know, but how and where? It will not be safe in your house nor at the Misses Perkinpines', as the events of the other night prove. It ought to be placed somewhere where it will be safe." "Tell me where to put it." "There is the Lynton Bank ten miles away, but you couldn't drive there before it would be closed. I have a good, strong, burglar-proof safe, in which I have many valuable papers. If you wish it, I will seal the money in a large envelope, write your name on the back and lock it up for you. Then, whenever you want it, I will turn it over to you." Fred replied that he would be glad to have him do as proposed, and the old squire, with solemn deliberation, went through the ceremony of placing the two hundred dollars safely among his other papers and swinging the ponderous safe-door upon them. Fred would have liked to keep the money to look at and admire and show to his playmates, but he saw how much wiser the course of the squire was, and it was a great relief to the boy to have the custody of such riches in other hands. When he came out on the street again he looked across to the hotel and noticed that Bud Heyland and Cyrus Sutton were no longer visible. He supposed they were inside visiting the bar, and without giving them any further thought, Fred started for his home to complete his chores before going over to stay with the Misses Perkinpine. After reaching a certain point up the road a short cut was almost always used by Fred, who followed quite a well-beaten path through a long stretch of woods. The boy was in high spirits, for he could not feel otherwise after the wonderful success which had attended his efforts to capture the astray lion. "If I could only get on the track of the men that stole the silverware and money, why, I would retire wealthy," he said to himself, with a smile; "but I don't see where there is much chance----" "Halloo, there, Freddy dear!" It was Bud Heyland who hailed the startled youngster in this fashion, and when our hero stopped and looked up, he saw the bully standing before him, whip in hand and waiting for him to approach. CHAPTER XII. A BUSINESS TRANSACTION. When Fred Sheldon saw Bud Heyland standing before him in the path, his impulse was to whirl about and run, for he knew too well what to expect from the bully; but the latter, reading his thoughts called out: "Hold on, Freddy, I won't hurt you, though you deserve a good horsewhipping on account of the mean way you cheated me out of the reward for capturing the lion; but I have a little business with you." Wondering what all this could mean Fred stood still while the red-faced young man approached, though our hero wished as fervently that he was somewhere else as he did when he found himself face to face with the lion in the lane. "Jake sent me," added Bud in his most persuasive manner, and with a strong effort to win the confidence of the boy, who was somewhat reassured by the last words. "What does Mr. Kincade want?" asked Fred. "Why, he told me to hurry after you and say that he had made a mistake in paying you that money." "I guess he didn't make any mistake," replied the surprised boy. "Yes, he did; it's twenty dollars short." "No, it isn't, for Squire Jones and I counted it over twice." "That don't make any difference; I tell you there was a mistake and he sent me to correct it." "Why didn't you come over to Squire Jones' office, then, and fix it?" "I didn't know you was there." Fred knew this was untrue, for Bud sat on the porch and watched him as he walked across the street with the squire. "Well, if you are so sure of it, then you can give me the twenty dollars and it will be all right." "I want you to take out the money and count it here before me." "I sha'n't do it." "I guess you will; you've got to." "But I can't." "What's the reason you can't?" "I haven't got the money with me." "You haven't!" exclaimed Bud, in dismay. "Where is it?" "Locked up in Squire Jones' safe." The bully was thunderstruck, and gave expression to some exclamations too forcible to be recorded. It was evident that he was unprepared for such news, and he seemed to be eager to apply his cruel whip to the little fellow toward whom he felt such unreasonable hatred. "I've got a settlement to make with you, any way," he said, advancing threateningly toward him. "What have I done," asked Fred, backing away from him, "that you should take every chance you can get, Bud, to hurt me?" "What have you done?" repeated the bully, "you've done a good deal, as you know well enough." But at this juncture, when poor Fred thought there was no escape for him, Bud Heyland, very curiously, changed his mind. "I'll let you off this time," said he, "but it won't do for you to try any more of your tricks. When I come to think, it was ten dollars that the money was short. Here is a twenty-dollar bill. I want you to get it changed and give me the ten dollars to-morrow." Fred Sheldon was bewildered by this unexpected turn to the interview, but he took the bill mechanically, and promised to do as he was told. "There's another thing I want to say to you," added Bud, stopping as he was on the point of moving away: "You must not answer any questions that may be asked you about the bill." The wondering expression of the lad showed that he failed to take in the full meaning of this warning, and Bud added, impatiently. "Don't tell anybody I gave it to you. Say you found it in the road if they want to know where you got it; that's all. Do you understand?" Fred began to comprehend, and he resolved on the instant that he would not tell a falsehood to save himself from a score of whippings at the hands of this evil boy, who would not have given the caution had he not possessed good reasons for doing so. Bud Heyland repeated the last warning, word for word, as first uttered, and then, striding by the affrighted Fred, continued in the direction of Tottenville, while the younger boy was glad enough to go homeward. The sun had not set yet when he reached the house where he was born, and he hurried through with his work and set out for the old brick dwelling, which had been the scene of so many stirring incidents within the last few days. He was anxious to see his mother, who had been away several days. He felt that she ought to know of his great good fortune, that she might rejoice with him. "If she doesn't get there by to-morrow or next day I'll have to go after her," he said to himself, "for I'll burst if I have to hold this news much longer. And won't she be glad? It's hard work for us to get along on our pension, and I can see she has to deny herself a good many things so that I can go to school. I thought I would be happy when I got the money, and so I am, but it is more on her account than on my own--halloo!" It seemed as if the lane leading to the old brick mansion was destined to play a very important part in the history of the lad, for he had reached the very spot where he met the lion the night before, when a man suddenly stepped out from behind one of the trees and stood for a moment, with the setting sun shining full on his back, his figure looking as if it were stamped in ink against the flaming horizon beyond. As Fred stared at him, he held up his right hand and crooked his finger for him to approach, just as he did when sitting on the porch of the village hotel, for it was Cyrus Sutton. The boy was not pleased, by any means, to meet him in such a place, for he had felt suspicious of him ever since he saw him sitting in such familiar converse with Bud Heyland and Jacob Kincade. Nevertheless, our hero walked boldly toward him, and with a faint "Good-evening, sir," waited to hear what he had to say. "Your name is Frederick Sheldon, I believe?" Fred nodded to signify that he was correct in his surmise. "You met Bud Heyland in the woods over yonder, didn't you?" "Yes, sir; how could you know it?" "I saw him going in that direction, and I saw you come out the path; what more natural than that I should conclude you had met? He gave you a twenty-dollar bill to get changed, didn't he?" "He did, sir," was the answer of the amazed boy, who wondered how it was this person could have learned so much, unless he got the news from Bud Heyland himself. "Let me see the money." Fred did not like this peremptory way of being addressed by a person whom he had never seen until that afternoon, but he drew the bill from his pocket. As he did so he brought several other articles with it, among them his new knife, which dropped to the ground. He quickly picked them up, and shoved them hurriedly out of sight. Mr. Sutton did not seem to notice this trifling mishap, but his eyes were bent on the crumpled bill which was handed to him. As soon as he got it in his hands he turned his back toward the setting sun, and placing himself in the line of some of the horizontal rays which found their way between the trees he carefully studied the paper. He stood full a minute without moving, and then merely said, "Ahem!" as though he were clearing his throat. Then he carefully doubled up the piece of national currency, and opening his pocket-book placed it in it. "Are you going to keep that?" asked Fred. "It isn't yours." "He wanted you to get it changed, didn't he?" "Yes, sir; but he didn't want me to give it away." "Of course not, of course not; excuse me, but I only wanted to change the bill for you. Here you are." Thereupon he handed four five-dollar bills to Fred, who accepted them gladly enough, though still wondering at the peculiar actions of the man. "One word," he added. "Bud told you not to answer any questions when you got the bill changed. I haven't asked you any, but he will have some to ask himself, which he will be very anxious you should answer. Take my advice, and don't let him know a single thing." "I won't," said Fred, giving his promise before he thought. "Very well, don't forget it; he will be on the lookout for you to-morrow, and when you see him, hand him his ten dollars and keep the rest for yourself, and then end the interview. Good evening, my son." "Good evening," and Fred was moving on, when Mr. Cyrus Sutton said: "Hold on a minute," at the same time crooking his forefinger in a way peculiar to himself; "I understand you were in the house there the other night, when it was robbed by a tramp." "I was, sir; the whole village knows that." "You were lucky enough to get away while it was going on, though you were deceived by the man whom you met here in the lane." The lad assured him he was correct, as he seemed to be in every supposition which he made. "Do you think you would know either of those men if you met them again?" The question was a startling one, not from the words themselves, but from the peculiar manner in which it was asked. Cyrus Sutton bent forward, thrusting his face almost in that of the boy and dropping his voice to a deep guttural bass as he fixed his eyes on those of Fred. The latter looked up and said: "The voice of the man I met in the lane sounded just like yours. Are you the man?" It surely was a stranger question than that to which the lad had made answer, and Sutton, throwing back his head, laughed as if he would sink to the earth from excess of mirth. "Well, that's the greatest joke of the season. Am I the other tramp that led you on such a wild-goose chase? Well, I should say not." Nevertheless Fred Sheldon felt absolutely sure that this was the man he accused him of being. Mr. Sutton, with a few jesting remarks, bade the boy good-evening, and the latter hastened on to the brick mansion, where he busied himself for a half hour in doing up a few chores that Michael, the hired man, had left for him. When these were finished, he went into the house, with a good appetite for his supper, which was awaiting him. The old ladies were greatly pleased to learn he had been paid such a large sum for capturing the lion, and they did not regret the fright they had suffered, since it resulted in such substantial good for their favorite. "Now, if you could only find our silverware," said Aunt Annie, "what a nice sum you would earn!" "Wouldn't I? I'd just roll in wealth, and I'd make mother so happy she'd feel miserable." "But I'm afraid we shall never see the silver again," observed Miss Lizzie, with a deep sigh. "Wasn't there some money taken, too?" "Yes; several hundred dollars. But we don't mind that, for we can get along without it; but the silverware, you know, has been in the family for more than two centuries." "You haven't owned it all that time, have you?" "My goodness! How old do you suppose we are?" asked the amused old lady. "I never thought, but it would be a good thing to get the money, too, wouldn't it? Has Archie Jackson been here to-day?" "Yes. He says that the officer he sent for doesn't come, and so he's going to be a detective himself." "A detective," repeated Fred to himself. "That's a man, I believe, that goes prying around after thieves and bad people, and is pretty smart in making himself look like other folks." "Yes," said Aunt Lizzie, "he went all over the house again, and climbed out on top of the porch, and was crawling around there, 'looking for signs,' as he called them. I don't know how he made out, but he must have been careless, for he slipped off and came down on his head and shoulders, and when we ran out to help him up, said some awful bad words, and went limping down the lane." "He don't know how to climb," said Fred, as he disposed of his usual supply of gingerbread; "it takes a boy like me to climb, a man is always sure to get in trouble." "Archibald seems to be very unfortunate," said Aunt Annie mildly, and with a meek smile on her face, "for just before he fell off the roof of the porch, he came bumping all the way down-stairs and said the bad man had put oil on them, so as to make him slip to the bottom. I am quite anxious about him, but I hope no bones were broken." "I saw that his hand was swelled up too," said the sister, "and when I inquired about it he said he caught it in the crack of the door, playing with his little boy, though I don't see how that could make such a hurt as his was. But there has been some one else here." "Who was that?" asked Fred, excitedly. "A very nice, gentlemanly person, though he wasn't dressed in very fine clothes. His name was--let me see, circus-circum--no----" "Cyrus Sutton?" "That's it--yes, that's his name." "What was he after?" demanded Fred, indignantly. "He said he was staying in the village a little while, and, having heard about our loss, he came out to make inquiries." "I would like to know what business he had to do that," said the boy, who was sure the old ladies were altogether too credulous and kind to strangers who presented themselves at their doors. "Why, Frederick, it was a great favor for him to show such an interest in our affairs." "Yes; so it was in them other two chaps, I s'pose; this ain't the first time Mr. Cyrus Sutton has been in your house." "What do you mean, Frederick?" "I mean this," answered Fred, wheeling his chair about and slapping his hand several times upon the table, by way of emphasis, "that Mr. Cyrus Sutton, as he calls himself, is the man I met in the lane the other night, and who climbed into the window and helped the other fellow carry off your plate and money; there!" The ladies raised their hands in protesting amazement. "Impossible! You must be mistaken!" "I know it, and I told him so, too!" "You did! Didn't he kill you?" "Not that I know of," laughed Fred. "I don't feel very dead, anyway; but though he had on whiskers the other night as the other one did, I knew his voice." Young Sheldon did not think it best to say anything about the suspicion he had formed against Bud Heyland, for that was coming so near home that it would doubtless cause immediate trouble. Nor did he tell how he was sure, only a short time before, that Jacob Kincade was the partner of Bud in the theft, but that the latter, who handed him the two hundred dollars, was relieved from all suspicion, at least so far as the lad himself was concerned. "Have you told Archibald of this?" asked Aunt Lizzie, when Fred had repeated his declaration several times. "What's the use of telling him? He would start in such a hurry to arrest him that he would tumble over something and break his neck. Then, he'd get the reward, too, and I wouldn't have any of it." "We will see that you have justice," said Miss Lizzie, assuringly; "you deserve it for what you have already done." "I don't want it, and I won't have it until I can earn it, that's certain. I must go to school to-morrow, and I brought over two of my books to study my lessons. I had mother's permission to stay home to go to the circus, but I was out to-day, and I s'pose Mr. McCurtis will give me a good whipping for it to-morrow. Anyway, I'll wear my trousers down, instead of rolling 'em up, till I learn how the land lies." This seemed a prudent conclusion, and as the ladies were anxious that their favorite should keep up with his classes they busied themselves with their household duties while the lad applied himself with might and main to his mental work. At the end of half an hour he had mastered it, and asked the ladies if there was anything he could do for them. "I forgot to tell Michael," said Aunt Annie, "before he went home, that we want some groceries from the store, and I would like him to give the order before coming here in the morning." "I'll take the order to him if you will write it out." Thanking him for his courtesy, the order was prepared, and, tucking it in his pocket, Fred Sheldon started down the road on a trot to the home of Michael Heyland, the hired man. "I wonder whether Bud is there?" he said to himself, as he approached the humble house. "I don't s'pose he'll bother me, but he'll want to know about that money as soon as he sees me." Without any hesitation the lad knocked at the door and was bidden to enter. As he did so he saw that Mrs. Heyland was the only one at home. "Michael has gone to the village," said the lady of the house, in explanation; "but I'm expecting him home in the course of an hour or so, and perhaps you had better wait." "I guess there isn't any need of it. Aunt Annie wants him to take an order to the store to-morrow morning before he comes up to the house, and I can leave it with you." "Is it writ out?" "Yes; here it is," said Fred, laying the piece of folded paper on the stand beside the Bible and a copy of the Tottenville _Weekly Illuminator_. The lad had no particular excuse for staying longer, but he was anxious to ask several questions before going back, and he was in doubt as to how he should go about it. But when he was invited to sit down he did so, and asked, in the most natural manner: "Where is Bud?" "He's down to the village, too." "When will he be home?" "That's a hard question to answer, and I don't think Bud himself could tell you if he tried. You know he's been traveling so long with the circus and has so many friends in the village that they are all glad to see him and won't let him come home. Bud was always a good boy, and I don't wonder that everybody thinks so much of him." Fred Sheldon indulged in a little smile for his own amusement, but he took care that the doting mother did not notice it. "Michael was always hard on Bud, but he sees how great his mistake was, and when he rode by on the big wagon, cracking his whip, he felt as proud of him as I did." "Is Bud going to be home long?" "He got leave of absence for a few days, because the boy isn't feeling very well. They've worked him too hard altogether. You observed how pale-looking he is?" Fred could not say that he had noticed any alarming paleness about the young man, but he did not deny the assertion of the mother. "Does Bud like it with the circus?" "Oh, yes, and they just dote on him. Bud tells me that Colonel Bandman, the owner of the circus and menagerie, has told him that if he keeps on doing so well he's going to take him in as partner next year." "Mrs. Heyland, why do you call him Bud?" "He was such a sweet baby that we nick-named him 'Birdy,' and it has stuck by him since. When he went to school he was called Budman, that being a cunning fancy of the darling boy, but his right name is Nathaniel Higgens, though most people don't know it." Fred Sheldon had got the information he was seeking. CHAPTER XIII. THE EAVESDROPPER. Fred Sheldon had learned one most important fact. Beyond all doubt the letters "N. H. H." stood for the name Nathaniel Higgens Heyland, who for some months past had been attached as an employee to Colonel Bandman's menagerie and circus. By some means, hard to understand, this young man had dropped his pocket-knife, bearing these initials, on the floor of the upper room of the brick mansion, at the time he entered it disguised as an ordinary tramp, and with the sole purpose of robbery. It was proven, therefore, that Bud had committed that great offense against the laws of his country, as well as against those of his Maker, and he was deserving of severe punishment. But young, as bright, honest Fred Sheldon was, he knew that the hardest work of all remained before him. How was the silver plate to be recovered, for the task would be less than half performed should the owners fail to secure that? How could the guilt of Bud Heyland be brought home to him, and who was his partner? Although Fred was sure that the stranger who called himself Cyrus Sutton was the other criminal, yet he saw no way in which that fact could be established, nor could he believe that the proof which he held of Bud's criminality would convince others. Bud was such an evil lad that he would not hesitate to tell any number of falsehoods, and he was so skilled in wrong talking, as well as wrong doing, that he might deceive every one else. Fred Sheldon felt that he needed now the counsel of one person above all others. The one man to whom his thoughts first turned was Archie Jackson, the constable, and he was afraid to trust him, for the temptation of obtaining the large reward offered was likely to lead him to do injustice to the boy. The one person whom he longed to see above all others was his mother--that noble, brave woman whose love and wisdom had guided him so well along his journey of life, short though it had been. It was she who had awakened in him the desire to become a good and learned man, who had cheered him in his studies, who had entertained him with stories culled from history and calculated to arouse an honorable ambition in his heart. The memory of his father was dim and misty, but there was a halo of glory that would ever envelop that sacred name. Fred could just remember the bright spring morning when the patriot, clad in his uniform of a private, had taken his wee baby boy in his arms, tossed him in the air, and, as he came down, kissed him over and over again, and told him that he was the son of a soldier who intended to fight for his country; and commending him to God and his wife, had resigned him to the weeping mother, who was pressed to his heart, and then, catching up his musket he had hurried out the little gate and walked rapidly down the road. Held in the mother's arms, Fred had strained his baby eyes until the loved form of his father faded out in the distance, and then the heavy-hearted wife took up the burden of life once more. But, though she shaded her weary eyes and looked down the road many a time, the husband never came back again. Somewhere, many long miles away, he found his last resting place, there to sleep until the last trump shall wake the dead, and those who have been separated in this life shall be reunited, never to part again. Fred's memories of those sad days, we say, were dim and shadowy, but he saw how bravely his mother fought her own battle, more sorrowful than that in which the noble husband went down, and Fred, young though he was, had been all that the fondest mother could wish. "Let him be spared to me, oh, Heavenly Father," she plead, and henceforth she lived only for him. It was she who taught him to kneel at her knee and to murmur his prayers morning and evening; who told him of the Gracious Father who will reward every good deed and punish every evil one not repented of; it was she who taught him to be manly and truthful and honest and brave for the right, and whose counsel and guidance were more precious than those of any earthly friend ever could be. Fred had no secret from her, and now that so much had taken place in the last few days he felt that he could not stand it much longer without her to counsel and direct him. "I sha'n't tell anybody a word of what I've found out," he said to himself, as he walked thoughtfully along the road, in the direction of the old brick mansion, where he expected to spend the night; "the Misses Perkinpine are such simple souls that they can't help a big boy like me, and though they might give me something, I don't want it unless I earn it. I'll bet mother can give me a lift." And holding this very high and not exaggerated opinion of his parent's wisdom, he continued onward, fervently hoping that she would return on the morrow. "We've never been apart so long since I can remember," he added, "and I'm beginning to feel homesick." The night was clear and starlight, the moon had not yet risen, but he could see very distinctly for a short distance in the highway. He was thinking of nothing in the way of further incident to him, but, as it sometimes happens in this world, the current of one's life, after flowing smoothly and calmly for a long time, suddenly comes upon shoals and breakers and everything is stormy for a while. Fred, in accordance with his favorite custom, had his trousers rolled high above his knees, and was barefooted. In the dust of the road he walked without noise, and as the night was very still he could hear the least sound. Though involved in deep thought he was of such a wide-awake nature that he could never be insensible to what was going on around him. He heard again the soft murmur of the wind in the forest, the faint, distant moan of the river, the cock crowing fully a mile away, answered by a similar signal of a chanticleer still further off, and then all at once he distinctly caught the subdued sound of voices. He at once stopped in the road and looked and listened. He could see nothing, but his keen ears told him the faint noise came from a point directly ahead, and was either in or at the side of the road. His intimate knowledge of the highway, even to the rocks and fences and piles of rails, that here and there lined it, enabled him to recall that there was a broad, flat rock, perhaps a hundred rods ahead, on the right side of the path, and that it was the one on which many a tired traveler sat down to rest. No doubt the persons whose voices reached him were sitting there, holding some sort of conference, and Fred asked himself how he should pass them without discovery, for, like almost every one, he was timid of meeting strangers on a lonely road after dark. His recourse suggested itself the next minute--he had only to climb the fence and move around them. At this point there was a meadow on each side of the highway, without any trees near the road, so that great care was needed to avoid observation, but in the starlight night Fred had little doubt of being able to get by without detection. Very carefully he climbed the fence, and, dropping gently upon the grass on the other side, he walked off across the field, peering through the gloom in the direction of the rock by the roadside, whence came the murmur of voices. The boy was so far away that, as yet, he had not caught a glimpse of the others, but when he stopped at the point where he thought it safe to begin to approach the road again, one of the parties gave utterance to an exclamation in a louder voice than usual. Fred instantly recognized it as that of Cyrus Sutton, the cattle drover, who had formed such a strong friendship for Bud Heyland. "I'll bet that Bud is there, too," muttered Fred, moving stealthily in the direction of the rock; "they are always--halloo!" In imitation of the loud voice of Sutton, the other did the same, and in the still night there could be no mistaking it; the only son of Michael Heyland was sitting at the roadside, in conversation with Cyrus Sutton. It was natural that Young Sheldon should conclude they were discussing the subject of the robbery, and he was at once seized with the desire to learn what it was they were saying, for, more than likely, it would throw some light on the matter. Fred had been taught by his mother that it was mean to tell tales of, or to play the eavesdropper upon, another, but in this case he felt warranted in breaking the rule for the sake of the good that it might do. Accordingly, he crept through the grass toward the highway until he caught the outlines of the two figures between the fence rails and thrown against the sky beyond. At the same time the rank odor of tobacco came stealing through the summer air, as it floated from the strong briar-wood pipe of Bud Heyland. It was not to be supposed that two persons, engaged in an unlawful business, would sit down beside a public highway and hold a conversation in such a loud voice that any one in the neighborhood would be able to learn all their secrets. Fred Sheldon got quite close, but though the murmur was continued with more distinctness than before, he could not distinguish many words nor keep the run of the conversation. There may have been something in the fact that the faces of the two, as a rule, were turned away from the listener, but now and then in speaking one of them would look at the other and raise his voice slightly. This indicated that he was more in earnest just then, and Fred caught a word or two without difficulty, the fragments, as they reached him, making a queer jumble. Bud Heyland's voice was first identified in the jumble and murmur. "Big thing--clean two thousand--got it down fine, Sutton." The reply of the companion was not audible, but Bud continued staring at him and smoking so furiously that the boy, crouching behind them, plainly saw the vapor as it curled upward and tainted the clear summer air above their heads. In a moment, however, Fred caught the profile of Cyrus Sutton against the starlight background, while that of young Heyland and his briar-wood looked as if drawn in ink against the sky. Both were looking at each other, and the words reached him more distinctly. "Must be careful--dangerous business--been there myself, Bud, don't be in a hurry." This, of course, was spoken by the cattle drover, and it was plain that it must refer to the robbery. Bud was laboring under some impatience and was quick to make answer. "Can't play this sick bus'ness much longer--must join the circus at Belgrade in a few days--must make a move pretty soon." "Won't keep you waiting long--but the best jobs in--country--spoiled by haste. Take it easy till you can be sure how the land lies." "That may all be--but----" Just then Bud Heyland turned his head so that only the back portion was toward the listener, and his voice dropped so low that it was some time before another word could be distinguished. Fred Sheldon was deeply interested, for a new and strong suspicion was beginning to take possession of him. It seemed to him on the sudden that the two worthies were not discussing the past so much as they were the future. That is, instead of talking about the despoiling of the Perkinpine mansion, a few nights before, they were laying plans for the commission of some new offense. "That Sutton is a regular burglar," thought Fred, "and he has come down here to join Bud, and they're going to rob all the houses in the neighborhood. I wonder whom they're thinking about now." The anxiety of the eavesdropper to hear more of what passed between the conspirators was so great that he grew less guarded in his movements than he should have been. His situation was such already that had the suspicion of the two been directed behind them they would have been almost sure to discover the listener; but, although they should have been careful themselves, it was hardly to be expected that they would be looking for spies in such a place and at such a time. Fred caught several words, which roused his curiosity to such a point that he determined to hear more, though the risk should be ten times as great. As silently, therefore, as possible, he crept forward until he was within a dozen feet of the rock on which Heyland and Sutton sat. The fact that the two had their faces turned away from him, still interfered with the audibility of the words spoken in a lower tone than the others, but the listener heard enough to fill him not only with greater anxiety than ever, but with a new fear altogether. Without giving all the fragments his ear caught, he picked up enough to convince him that Bud Heyland and Cyrus Sutton were discussing their past deeds and laying plans for the commission of some new act of evil. It was the latter fact which so excited the boy that he almost forgot the duty of using care against being discovered, and gradually crept up near enough to keep the run of the conversation. But, when he had secured such a position, he was annoyed beyond bearing by the silence, occasionally broken, of the two. It looked, indeed, as if they had got through the preliminaries of some evil scheme, and were now speaking in a desultory way of anything which came in their heads, while one smoked his pipe and the other his cigar. Cyrus Sutton held a jack-knife in his hand, which he now and then rubbed against a portion of the rock, as if to sharpen the blade, while he puffed the smoke first on the one side of his head and then on the other. Bud was equally attentive to his pipe, the strong odor of which at times almost sickened young Sheldon. Bud had not his whip with him, and he swung his legs and knocked his heels against the rock and seemed as well satisfied with himself as such worthless fellows generally are. "It's a pretty big thing and it will take a good deal of care and skill to work it through." This remark was made by Sutton, after a minute's pause on the part of both, and was instantly commented upon by Bud in his off-hand style. "Of course it does, but don't you s'pose we know all that? Haven't we done it in more than one other place than Tottenville?" "Yes," said Sutton, "and I've run as close to the wind as I want to, and closer than I mean to again, if I can help it." "Well, then," said Bud, "we'll fix it to-morrow night." "All right," said the drover, "but remember you can't be too careful, Bud, for this is a dangerous business." "I reckon I'm as careful as you or any one else," retorted the youth, "and ain't in any need of advice." These words disclosed one important fact to Fred Sheldon; they showed that the unlawful deed contemplated was fixed for the succeeding night. "They're going to break into another house," he mentally said, "and to-morrow is the time. Now, if I can only learn whose house it is, I will tell Archie Jackson." This caused his heart to beat faster, and again the lad thought of nothing else than to listen and catch the words of the conspirators. "Do you think we can manage it alone?" asked Sutton, turning his head so that the words were unmistakably distinct. "What's to hinder? Halloo! what's that?" Bud Heyland straightened himself and looked up and down the road. The affrighted Fred Sheldon saw his head and shoulders rise to view as he glanced about him, while his companion seemed occupied also in looking and listening. What was it they had heard? The lad was not aware that he had made the slightest noise, but the next guarded remark of Heyland startled him. "I heard something move, as if in the grass." "It would be a pretty thing if some one overheard our plans," said Cyrus Sutton, turning squarely about, so that his face was toward the crouching lad; "we ought to have looked out for that. Where did it seem to come from?" "Maybe I was mistaken; it was very faint, and I couldn't think of the right course; it may have been across the road or behind us." Fred Sheldon began to think it was time for him to withdraw, for his situation was becoming a dangerous one, indeed. "I guess you were mistaken," said Sutton, off-hand; "this is a slow neighborhood and the people don't know enough to play such a game as that." "You was saying a minute ago that you couldn't be too careful; I'll take a look across the road and up and down, while you can see how things are over the fence there." The last clause referred to the hiding place of Fred Sheldon, who wondered how it was he had not already been seen, when he could distinguish both forms so plainly, now that they stood up on their feet. It looked as if detection was certain, even without the two men shifting their positions in the least. The lad was lying flat on the ground and so motionless that he might have hoped to escape if special attention were not called to him. But he felt that if the cattle-drover came over the fence it would be useless to wait a second. As Bud Heyland spoke he started across the highway, while Cyrus Sutton called out: "All right!" As he did so he placed his hand on the top rail of the fence and with one bound leaped over, dropping upon his feet within a few steps of poor Fred Sheldon, who, with every reason for believing he had been seen, sprang to his feet and ran for dear life. CHAPTER XIV. FRED'S BEST FRIEND. Fred Sheldon sprang up from his hiding-place in the grass, almost before the drover vaulted over the fence, and ran across the meadow in the manner he did when he believed the wandering lion was at his heels. Cyrus Sutton seemed to be confused for the minute, as though he had scared up some strange sort of animal, and he stared until the dark figure began to grow dim in the distance. Even then he might not have said or done anything had not Bud Heyland heard the noise and come clambering over the fence after him. "Why don't you shoot him?" demanded Bud; "he's a spy that has been listening! Let's capture him! Come on! It will never do for him to get away! If we can't overhaul him, we can shoot him on the fly!" The impetuous Bud struck across the lot much the same as a frightened ox would have done when galloping. He was in dead earnest, for he and Sutton had been discussing some important schemes, which it would not do for outsiders to learn anything about. He held his pistol in hand, and was resolved that the spy should not escape him. The skurrying figure was dimly visible in the moonlight, but in his haste and excitement Bud probably did not observe that the object of the chase was of very short stature. Sutton kept close beside Bud, occasionally falling a little behind, as though it was hard work. "He's running as fast as we," said Sutton; "you had better hail him." Bud Heyland did so on the instant. "Hold on there! Stop! Surrender and you will be spared! If you don't stop I'll shoot!" Master Frederick Sheldon believed he was running for life, and, finding he was not overtaken, he redoubled his exertions, his chubby legs carrying him along with a speed which astonished even himself. The terrible hail of his pursuer instead of "bringing him to," therefore, only spurred him to greater exertions. "I give you warning," called out Bud, beginning to pant from the severity of his exertion, "that I'll shoot, and when I take aim I'm always sure to hit something." "That's what makes me so afraid," said Sutton, dropping a little behind, "for I think I'm in more danger than the one ahead." Bud Heyland now raised his revolver and sighted as well as he could at the shadowy figure, which was beginning to edge off to the left. A person on a full run is not certain to make a good shot, and when the weapon was discharged, the bullet missed the fugitive by at least a dozen feet if not more. Bud lowered the pistol and looked to see the daring intruder fall to the ground, but he did not do so, and continued on at the same surprising gait. "That bullet grazed him," said Bud, bringing up his pistol again; "just see how I'll make him drop this time; fix your eye on him, and when I pull the trigger he'll give a yell and jump right up in the air." To make his aim sure, beyond all possibility of failure, the panting pursuer came to a halt for a moment, and resting the barrel on his left arm, as though he were a duelist, he took "dead aim" at the lad and again pulled the trigger. But there is no reason to believe that he came any nearer the mark than in the former instance; and when Sutton said with a laugh: "I don't see him jump and yell, Bud," the marksman, retorted: "You'd better shoot yourself, then." "No; I was afraid you would shoot me instead of him. I think you came nearer me than you did him. Hark! Did you hear the man laugh then. He don't mind us so long as we keep shooting at him." "Did he laugh?" demanded Bud, savagely. "If he laughed at me he shall die!" Hurriedly replacing his useless pistol in his pocket he resumed his pursuit with fierce energy, for he was resolved on overhauling the man who had dared to listen to what had been said. Had Bud been alone he would have left the pursuit to some one else, but with the muscular Cyrus Sutton at his back he was running over with courage and vengeance. Although the halt had been a brief one, yet it could not fail to prove of advantage to the fugitive, who was speeding with might and main across the meadow, and had begun to work off to the left, because he was anxious to reach the shelter of some woods, where he was hopeful of dodging his pursuers. It would seem that Bud Heyland and Cyrus Sutton could easily outspeed such a small boy as Fred Sheldon, but they were so bulky that it was much harder work for them to run, and they could not last so long. Hitherto they had lumbered along pretty heavily, but now they settled down to work with all the vigor they possessed, realizing that it was useless to expect to capture the fugitive in any other way. Meanwhile Fred Sheldon was doing his "level best;" active and quick in his movements he could run rapidly for one of his years, and could keep it up much longer than those behind him, though for a short distance their speed was the greater. Dreading, as he did, to fall into the hands of Bud Heyland and his lawless companion, he put forth all the power at his command, and glancing over his shoulder now and then he kept up his flight with an energy that taxed his strength and endurance to the utmost. When he found that they were not gaining on him he was encouraged, but greatly frightened by the pistol-shots. He was sure that one of the bullets went through his hat and the other grazed his ear, but so long as they didn't disable him he meant to keep going. He was nearly across the meadow when he recalled that he was speeding directly toward a worm-fence which separated it from the adjoining field. It would take a few precious seconds to surmount that, and he turned diagonally toward the left, as has been stated, because by taking such a course, he could reach the edge of a small stretch of woods, in whose shadows he hoped to secure shelter from his would-be captors. This change in the line of flight could not fail to operate to the disadvantage of the fugitive, for a time at least, for, being understood by Bud and Cyrus, they swerved still more, and sped along with increased speed, so that they rapidly recovered the ground lost a short time before. They were aiming to cut off Fred, who saw his danger at once, and changed his course to what might be called "straight away" again, throwing his pursuers directly behind him. This checked the scheme for the time, but it deprived Fred of his great hope of going over the fence directly into the darkness of the woods. As it was, he was now speeding toward the high worm-fence which separated the field he was in from the one adjoining. Already he could see the long, crooked line of rails, as they stretched out to the right and left in front of him, disappearing in the gloom and looking like mingling lines of India ink against the sky beyond. Even in such stirring moments odd thoughts come to us, and Fred, while on the dead run, compared in his mind the fence rails to the crooked and erratic lines he had drawn with his pen on a sheet of white paper. Although he could leap higher in the air and further on the level than any lad of his age, he knew better than to try and vault such a fence. As he approached it, therefore, he slackened his gait slightly, and springing upward with one foot on the middle rail, he placed the other instantly after on the topmost one and went over like a greyhound, with scarcely any hesitation, continuing his flight, and once more swerving to the left toward the woods on which he now fixed his hopes. Possibly Bud Heyland thought that the fact of his being attached to Colonel Bandman's great menagerie and circus called upon him to perform greater athletic feats; for instead of imitating the more prudent course of the fugitive, he made a tremendous effort to clear the fence with one bound. He would have succeeded but for the top three rails. As it was his rather large feet struck them, and he went over with a crash, his hat flying off and his head ploughing quite a furrow in the ground. [Illustration: Bud Heyland fell headlong over the fence in pursuit of Fred. --(See page 151.)] He rolled over several times, and as he picked himself up it seemed as if most of his bones were broken and he never had been so jarred in all his life. "Did you fall?" asked Cyrus Sutton, unable to suppress his laughter, as he climbed hastily after him. "I tripped a little," was the angry reply, "and I don't see anything to laugh at; come on! we'll have him yet!" To the astonishment of the cattle dealer, Bud caught up his hat and resumed the pursuit with only a moment's delay, and limping only slightly from his severe shaking up. Fred Sheldon was dimly visible making for the woods, and the two followed, Sutton just a little behind his friend. "You might as well give it up," said the elder; "he's got too much of a start and is making for cover." "I'm bound to have him before he can reach it, and I'll pay him for all this." No more than one hundred feet separated the parties, when Fred, beginning to feel the effects of his severe exertion, darted in among the shadows of the wood, and, hardly knowing what was the best to do, threw himself flat on the ground, behind the trunk of a large tree, where he lay panting and afraid the loud throbbing of his heart would betray him to his pursuers, who were so close behind him. Had he been given a single minute more he would have made a sharp turn in his course, and thus could have thrown them off the track without difficulty; but, as it was--we shall see. Bud Heyland rushed by within a few feet, and halted a couple of yards beyond, while Sutton stopped within a third of that distance, where Fred lay flat on the ground. "Do you hear him?" asked Bud. "Hear him? No; he's given us the slip, and it's all time thrown away to hunt further for him." Bud uttered an angry exclamation and stood a few minutes listening for some sound that would tell where the eavesdropper was. But nothing was heard, and Sutton moved forward, passing so close to Fred that the latter could have reached out his hand and touched him. "How could he help seeing me?" the boy asked himself, as the man joined Bud Heyland, and the two turned off and moved in the direction of the highway. Some distance away Bud Heyland and Sutton stopped and talked together in such low tones that Fred Sheldon could only hear the murmur of their voices, as he did when he first learned of their presence beside the road. But it is, perhaps, needless to say that he was content to let them hold their conference in peace, without any effort on his part to overhear any more of it. He was only too glad to let them alone, and to indulge a hope that they would be equally considerate toward him. Bud would have continued the search much longer and with a strong probability of success had not Sutton persuaded him that it was only a waste of time to do so. Accordingly they resumed their walk, with many expressions of impatience over their failure to capture the individual who dared to discover their secrets in such an underhanded way. "He looked to me like a very small man," said Bud, as he walked slowly along, dusting the dirt from his clothing and rubbing the many bruised portions of his body. "Of course he was," replied Sutton, "or he wouldn't have gone into that kind of business." "I don't mean that; he seemed like a short man." "Yes, so he was, but there are plenty of full-grown men in this world who are no taller than he." "It's too bad, I broke my pipe all to pieces when I fell over the fence, and jammed the stem half way down my throat." "I thought you had broken your neck," said Sutton, "and you ought to be thankful that you did not." Bud muttered an ill-natured reply, and the two soon after debouched into the highway, along which they continued until the house of the younger was reached, where they stopped a minute or so for a few more words, when they separated for the night. Fred Sheldon waited until they were far beyond sight and hearing, when he cautiously rose to his feet and stood for a short time to make sure he could leave the spot without detection. "I guess I've had enough for one night," he said with a sigh, as he turned off across the meadow until he reached the border of the lane, along which he walked until he knocked at the door of the Misses Perkinpine, where he was admitted with the same cordiality that was always shown him. They seemed to think he had stayed at the hired man's house for a chat with Bud, and made no inquiries, while the boy himself did not deem it best to tell what had befallen him. His recent experience had been so severe upon him that he felt hungry enough to eat another supper, and he would not have required a second invitation to do so, but, as the first was not given, he concluded to deny himself for the once. Fred expected to lie awake a long time after going to bed, trying to solve the meaning of the few significant words he had overheard, but he fell asleep almost immediately, and did not wake until called by Aunt Lizzie. This was Friday, the last school-day of the week, and he made sure of being on hand in time. As he had been absent by the permission of his mother, made known through a note sent before she went to see her brother, Mr. McCurtis could not take him to task for his failure to attend school, but a number of lads who had been tempted away by the circus and the excitement over the escaped lion were punished severely. However, they absented themselves with a full knowledge of what would follow, and took the bitter dregs with the sweet, content to have the pain if they might first have the pleasure. "I have excused several of you," said the teacher, peering very keenly through his glasses at Fred, "for absence, but I have not been asked to excuse any failure in lessons, and I do not intend to do so. Those who have been loitering and wasting their time will soon make it appear when called on to recite, and they must be prepared for the consequences." This remark was intended especially for Fred, who was thankful that he found out what the lessons of the day were, for he had prepared himself perfectly. And it was well he did so, for the teacher seemed determined to puzzle him. Fred was asked every sort of question the lesson could suggest. It had always been said by Mrs. Sheldon that Fred never knew a lesson so long as he failed to see clear through it, and could answer any question germane to it. He felt the wisdom of such instruction on this occasion, when the teacher at the end of the examination allowed him to take his seat and remarked, half angrily: "There's a boy who knows his lessons, which is more than I can say of a good many of you. I think it will be a good thing for him to go out and hunt a few more lions." This was intended as a witticism on the part of the teacher, and, like the urchins of Goldsmith's "Deserted Village," they all laughed with "counterfeit glee," some of the boys roaring as if they would fall off the benches from the excess of their mirth. Mr. McCurtis smiled grimly, and felt it was another proof that when he became a school teacher the world lost one of its greatest comedians and wits. At recess and noon Fred was quite a hero among the scholars. They gathered about him and he had to tell the story over and over again, as well as the dreadful feelings that must have been his when he woke up in the night and found that a real, live burglar was in his room. Like most boys of his age, Fred unconsciously exaggerated in telling the narratives so often, but he certainly deserved credit, not only for his genuine bravery, but for the self-restraint that enabled him to keep back some other things he might have related which would have raised him still more in the admiration of his young friends. "I'm going to tell them to mother first of all," was his conclusion, "and I will take her advice as to what I should do." He brought the lunch the Misses Perkinpine had put up for him, and stayed in the neighborhood of the school-house all noon, with a number of others, who lived some distance away. As the weather was quite warm, the boys sat under a tree, talking over the stirring incidents of the preceding few days. Fred was answering a question for the twentieth time, when he was alarmed by the sudden appearance of Bud Heyland, with his trousers tucked in his boots, his briar-wood pipe--that is, a new one--in his mouth, and his blacksnake-whip in hand. As he walked along he looked at the school-house very narrowly, almost coming to a full stop, and acting as though he was searching for some one. He did not observe that half a dozen boys were stretched out in the shadow of the big tree across the road. "Keep still!" said Fred, in a whisper, "and maybe he won't see us." But young Heyland was not to be misled so easily. Observing that the school was dismissed, he looked all around him, and quickly espied the little fellows lolling in the shade, when he immediately walked over toward them. Fred Sheldon's heart was in his mouth on the instant, for he was sure Bud was looking for him. "He must have known me last night," he thought, "and as he couldn't catch me then he has come to pay me off now." But it would have been a confession of guilt to start and run, and Bud would be certain to overtake him before he could go far, so the boy did not stir from the ground on which he was reclining. "Halloo, Bud," called out several, as he approached. "How are you getting along?" "None of your business," was the characteristic answer; "is Fred Sheldon there?" "I'm here," said Fred, rising to the sitting position. "What do you want of me?" Bud Heyland acted curiously. He looked sharply at the boy, and then said: "I don't want anything of you just now, but I'll see you later," and without anything further he moved on, leaving our hero wondering why he had not asked for the ten dollars due him. Fred expected he would return, and was greatly relieved when the teacher appeared and school was called. Fearful that the bully would wait for him on the road, Fred went to the old brick mansion first, where he stayed till dark, when he decided to run over to his own home, look after matters there, and then return by a new route to the old ladies who were so kind to him. He kept a sharp lookout on the road, but saw nothing of either Bud or Cyrus Sutton. "It seems to me," said Fred to himself, as he approached the old familiar spot, "that I ought to hear something from mother by this time. There isn't any school to-morrow, and I'll walk over to Uncle Will's and find out when she's coming home, and then I'll tell her all I've got to tell, which is so much, with what I want to ask, that it'll take me a week to get through--halloo! What does that mean?" He stopped short in the road, for through the closed blinds of the lower story he caught the twinkling rays of a light that some one had started within. "I wonder whether it is our house they're going to rob to-night," exclaimed Fred, adding the next moment, with a grim humor: "If it is, they will be more disappointed than they ever were in their lives." A minute's thought satisfied him that no one with a view to robbery was there, for the good reason that there was nothing to steal, as anyone would be quick to learn. "It must be some tramp prowling around in the hope of getting something to eat. Anyway, I will soon find out----" Just then the window was raised, the shutters thrown wide open by some person, who leaned part way out the window in full view. One glance was enough for Fred Sheldon to recognize that face and form, the dearest on earth, as seen in the starlight, with the yellow rays of the lamp behind them. "Halloo, mother! Ain't I glad to see you? How are you? Bless your dear soul! What made you stay away so long?" "Fred, my own boy!" And leaning out the window she threw both arms about the neck of the lad, who in turn threw his about her, just as the two always did when they met after a brief separation. The fact of it was, Fred Sheldon was in love with his mother and always had been, and that sort of boy is sure to make his mark in this world. A few minutes later the happy boy had entered the house and was sitting at the tea table, eating very little and talking very much. The mother told him that his uncle had been dangerously ill, but had begun to mend that day, and was now believed to have passed the crisis of his fever, and would soon get well. She therefore expected to stay with her boy all the time. And then the delighted little fellow began his story, or rather series of stories, while the kind eyes of the handsome and proud parent were fixed on the boy with an interest which could not have been stronger. Her face paled when, in his own graphic way, he pictured his lonely watch in the old brick mansion, and the dreadful discovery that the wicked tramp had entered the building stealthily behind him. She shuddered to think that her loved one had been so imperiled, and was thankful indeed that Providence had protected him. Then the story of the lion, of its unexpected breaking out from the cage, the panic of the audience, his encounter with it in the lane, its entry into the smoke-house, his shutting the door, and finally how he earned and received the reward. All this was told with a childish simplicity and truthfulness which would have thrilled any one who had a less personal interest than the boy's mother. As I have said, there were no secrets that the son kept from his parent. He told how he saw that the tramp wore false whiskers and how he dropped a knife on the floor, which he got and showed to his mother, explaining to her at the same time that the letters were the initials of the young man known through the neighborhood as "Bud" Heyland. "That may all be," said she, smilingly, "and yet Bud may be as innocent as you or I." "How is that?" asked Fred, wonderingly. "He may have traded or lost the knife, or some one may have stolen it and left it there on purpose to turn suspicion toward Bud. Such things have been done many a time, and it is odd that anyone could drop a knife in such a place without knowing it." Fred opened his eyes. "Then Bud is innocent, you think?" "No, I believe he is guilty, for you say you were pretty sure of his voice, but it won't do to be too certain. As to the other man, who misled you when you met him in the lane, it is a hard thing to say who he is." "Why, mother, I'm surer of him than I am of Bud, and I'm dead sure of him, you know." "What are your reasons?" Fred gave them as they are already known to the reader. The wise little woman listened attentively, and said when he had finished: "I don't wonder that you think as you do, but you once was as sure, as I understand, of Mr. Kincade, the one who paid you the reward." "That is so," assented Fred, "but I hadn't had so much time to think over the whole matter." "Very probably you are right, for they are intimate, and they are staying in the neighborhood for no good. Tell me just what you heard them say last night, when they sat on the rock by the roadside. Be careful not to put in any words of your own, but give only precisely what you know were spoken by the two." The boy did as requested, the mother now and then asking a question and keeping him down close to the task of telling only the plain, simple truth, concerning which there was so much of interest to both. When he was through she said the words of the two showed that some wicked scheme was in contemplation, though nothing had been heard to indicate its precise nature. The matter having been fully told the question remained--and it was the great one which underlay all others--what could Fred do to earn the large reward offered by the two ladies who had lost their property? "Remember," said his mother, thoughtfully, "you are only a small boy fourteen years old, and it is not reasonable to think you can out-general two bad persons who have learned to be cunning in all they do." "Nor was it reasonable to think I would out-general a big lion," said Fred, with a laugh, as he leaned on his mother's lap and looked up in her eyes. "No; but that lion was old and harmless; he might have spent the remainder of his days in this neighborhood without any one being in danger." "But we didn't know that." "But you know that Bud Heyland and this Mr. Sutton are much older than you and are experienced in evil doing." "So was the lion," ventured Fred, slyly, quite hopeful of earning the prize on which he had set his heart. "I have been thinking that maybe I ought to tell Mr. Jackson, the constable, about the knife, with Bud's name on it." "No," said the mother. "It isn't best to tell him anything, for he has little discretion. He boasts too much about what he is going to do; the wise and skilful man never does that." Mrs. Sheldon had "gauged" the fussy little constable accurately when she thus described him. "Fred," suddenly said his mother, "do not the Misses Perkinpine expect you to stay at their house to-night?" "Yes, I told them I would be back, and they will be greatly surprised, for I didn't say anything about your coming home, because I thought Uncle Will was so sick you wouldn't be able to leave him." "Then you had better run over and explain why it is you cannot stay with them to-night." The affectionate boy disliked to leave his mother when they were holding such a pleasant conversation, but he could please her only by doing so, and donning his broad-brimmed straw hat, and bidding her good-night, passed out the door, promising soon to return. Fred was so anxious to spend the evening at home that he broke into a trot the instant he passed out the gate, and kept it up along the highway until he reached the short lane, which was so familiar to him. The same eagerness to return caused him to forget one fact that had hitherto impressed him, which was that the conspiracy of Bud Heyland and Cyrus Sutton was intended to be carried out this same evening. The boy had gone almost the length of the lane when he was surprised to observe a point of light moving about in the shadow of the trees, the night being darker than the previous one. "What under the sun can that be?" he asked, stopping short and scrutinizing it with an interest that may be imagined. Viewed from where he stood, it looked like a jack-o'-lantern, or a candle which some one held in his hand while moving about. It had that swaying, up-and-down motion, such as a person makes when walking rapidly, while now and then it shot up a little higher, as though the bearer had raised it over his head to get a better view of his surroundings. "Well, that beats everything I ever heard of," muttered Fred, resuming his walk toward the house; "it must be some kind of a lantern, and maybe it's one of them dark ones which robbers use, and they are taking a look at the outside to see which is the best way of getting inside, though I don't think there is anything left for them." The distance to the house was so short that Fred soon reached the yard. On his way thither the strange light vanished several times, only to reappear again, its occasional eclipse, no doubt, being due to the intervening vegetation. When the boy came closer he saw that the lantern was held in the hand of Aunt Lizzie, who was walking slowly around the yard, with her sister by her side, while they peered here and there with great deliberation and care. "Why, Aunt Lizzie!" called out Fred, as he came up, "what are you looking for?" The good ladies turned toward him with a faint gasp of fright, and then gave utterance to an expression of thankfulness. "Why, Frederick, we are looking for you," was the reply, and then, complimenting his truthfulness, she added, "you promised to come back, and we knew you wouldn't tell a story, and sister and I thought maybe you were hungry and sick somewhere around the yard, and if so we were going to get you into the house and give you some supper." "Why, aunties, I've had supper," laughed Fred, amused beyond measure at the simplicity of the good ladies. "We didn't suppose that made any difference," was the kind remark of the good ladies, who showed by the observation that they had a pretty accurate knowledge after all of this particular specimen of boyhood. CHAPTER XV. THE MEETING IN THE WOOD. Fred Sheldon told his good friends that inasmuch as his mother had returned, he would stay at home hereafter, though he promised to drop in upon them quite often and "take dinner or supper." The lantern was blown out and the sisters went inside, where, for the present, we must bid them good-night, and the lad started homeward. He had not quite reached the main highway, when, in the stillness of the night, he caught the rattle of carriage or wagon wheels. There was nothing unusual in this, for it was the place and time to look for vehicles, many of which went along the road at all hours of the day and night. But so many strange things had happened to Fred during the week now drawing to a close that he stopped on reaching the outlet of the lane, and, standing close to the shaded trunk of a large tree, waited until the wagon should go by. As it came nearer he saw that it was what is known in some parts of the country as a "spring-wagon," being light running, with a straight body and without any cover, so that the driver, sitting on the front seat, was the most conspicuous object about it. As it came directly opposite Fred could see that the driver wore a large sombrero-like hat, and was smoking a pipe. At the same moment, too, he gave a peculiar sound, caused by an old habit of clearing his throat, which identified him at once as Bud Heyland. "That's odd," thought Fred, stepping out from his place of concealment and following after him; "when Bud goes out at night with a strange wagon or alone, or with Cyrus Sutton, there's something wrong on foot." Not knowing what was best for him to do, Fred walked behind the wagon a short distance, for the horse was going so slow that this was an easy matter. But all at once Bud struck the animal a sharp blow, which sent him spinning forward at such a rate that he speedily vanished in the darkness. Young Sheldon continued walking toward home, his thoughts busy until he reached the stretch of woods, where the courage of any boy would have been tried in passing it after nightfall. Brave as he undoubtedly was, Fred felt a little shiver, when fairly among the dense shadows, for there were some dismal legends connected with it, and these had grown with the passage of years. But Fred had never turned back for anything of the kind, and he was now so cheered by the prospect of being soon again with his mother that he stepped off briskly, and would have struck up one of his characteristic whistling tunes had he not heard the rattle of the same wagon which Bud Heyland drove by a short while before. "That's strange," thought the lad; "he couldn't have gone very far, or he wouldn't have come back so soon." The darkness was so profound over the stretch of road leading through the wood that Fred had no fear of being seen as he stepped a little to one side and waited for the vehicle to pass. Fortunately for night travel, the portion of the highway which led through the forest was not long, for, without the aid of a lantern, no one could see whither he was going, and everything had to be left to the instinct of the horse himself. The beast approached at a slow walk, while Bud no doubt was perched on the high front seat, using his eyes for all they were worth, which was nothing at all where the gloom was so impenetrable. He must have refilled his pipe a short time before, for he was smoking so vigorously that the ember-like glow of the top of the tobacco could be seen, and the crimson reflection even revealed the end of Bud's nose and the faintest possible glimpse of his downy mustache and pimply cheeks, as they glided through the darkness. The light from this pipe was so marked that Fred moved back a step or two, afraid it might reveal him to his enemy. His withdrawal was not entirely satisfactory to himself, as he could not observe where to place his feet, and striking his heels against a fallen limb, he went over backward with quite a bump. "Who's that?" demanded Bud Heyland, checking his horse and glaring about in the gloom; "is that you, Sutton?" Fred thought it wiser to make no response, and he silently got upon his feet again. Bud repeated his question in a husky undertone, and receiving no reply muttered some profanity and started the horse forward at the same slow, deliberate pace. Wondering what it could all mean, young Sheldon stood in the middle of the road, looking in the direction of the vanishing wagon, of which, as a matter of course, he could not catch the slightest glimpse, and asking himself whether it would be wise to investigate further. "There's some mischief going on, and it may be that I can--halloo!" Once more Bud Heyland drew his horse to a halt, and the same solemn stillness held reign as before. But it was only for a minute or two, when Bud gave utterance to a low whistle, which sounded like the tremolo notes of a flute, on the still air. Fred Sheldon recalled that the bully used to indulge in that peculiar signal when he attended school, merely because he fancied it, and when there could be no significance at all attached to it. It was now repeated several times, with such intervals as to show that Bud was expecting a reply, though none could be heard by the lad, who was listening for a response. All at once, yielding to a mischievous impulse, Fred Sheldon replied, imitating Bud's call with astonishing accuracy. Instantly the bully seized upon it, and the signal was exchanged several times, when Bud sprang out of his wagon and came toward the spot where the other stood. Fred was frightened when he found there was likely to be a meeting between him and the one he dreaded so much, and he became as silent as the tomb. Bud advanced through the gloom, continually whistling and giving utterance to angry expressions because he was not answered, while Fred carefully picked his way a few paces further to the rear to escape discovery. "Why don't you speak?" called out Bud; "if you can whistle you can use your voice, can't you?" Although this question could have been easily answered, Fred Sheldon thought it best to hold his peace. "If you ain't the biggest fool that ever undertook to play the gentleman!" added the disgusted bully, groping cautiously among the trees; "everything is ready for----" Just then an outstretching limb passed under the chin of Bud Heyland, and, though walking slowly, he thought it would lift his head off his shoulders before he could stop himself. When he did so he was in anything but an amiable mood, and Fred, laughing, yet scared, was glad he had the friendly darkness in which to find shelter from the ugliness of the fellow. Bud had hardly regained anything like his self-possession when he caught a similar signal to those which had been going on for some minutes between Fred Sheldon and himself. It came from some point beyond Fred, but evidently in the highway. The angry Heyland called out: "What's the matter with you? Why don't you come on, you fool?" The person thus addressed hurried over the short distance until he was close to where Bud stood rubbing his chin and muttering all sorts of bad words at the delay and pain to which he had been subjected. "Halloo, Bud, where are you?" Guarded as the voice was, Fred immediately recognized it as belonging to Cyrus Sutton, the cattle drover. "I'm here; where would I be?" growled the angry bully. "Tumbling over a fence, or cracking your head against a tree, I suppose," said Sutton, with a laugh; "when I whistled to you, why didn't you whistle back again, as we agreed to do?" It is easy to picture the scowling glare which Bud Heyland turned upon Sutton as he answered: "You're a purty one to talk about signals, ain't you? After answering me half a dozen times, and I got close to you, you must shut up your mouth, and while I went groping about, I came near sawing my head off with a knotty limb. When you heard me, why did you stop?" "Heard you? What are you talking about?" "Didn't you whistle to me a while ago, and didn't you keep it up till I got here, and then you stopped? What are you talking about, indeed!" "I was a little late," said Sutton, who began to suspect the truth, "and have just come into the wood; I whistled to you, and then you called to me in a rather more personal style than I think is good taste, and I came forward and here I am, and that's all there is about it." "Wasn't that you that answered my whistling a little while ago?" asked Bud Heyland in an undertone, that fairly trembled with dread. "No, sir; as I have explained to you, I signaled to find where you were only a minute since, and I heard nothing of the kind from you." "Then we're betrayed!" Words would fail to depict the tragic manner in which Bud Heyland gave utterance to this strange remark. His voice was in that peculiar condition, known as "changing," and at times was a deep bass, sometimes breaking into a thin squeak. He sank it to its profoundest depths as he slowly repeated the terrifying expression, and the effect would have been very impressive, even to Cyrus Sutton, but for the fact that on the last word his voice broke and terminated with a sound like that made by a domestic fowl when the farmer seizes it by the head with the intention of wringing its neck. But Cyrus Sutton seemed to think that it was anything else than a laughing matter, and he asked the particulars of Bud, who gave them in a stealthily modulated voice, every word of which was plainly heard by Fred Sheldon, who began to feel somewhat uncomfortable. "You remember the man that was behind us listening when we sat on the rock last night?" asked Bud. "Of course I do." "Well, he's watching us still, and ain't far off this very minute. I wish I had a chance to draw a bead on him." "You drew several beads last night," said Sutton. "See here," snarled Bud, "that's enough of that. I'll give you a little advice for your own good--let it drop." "Well, Bud," said the other, in an anxious voice, "it won't do to try it on now if some one is watching us. So drive back to Tottenville, put the horse away and we'll take a look around to-morrow night. If the coast is clear we'll wind the business up." "It's got to be wound up then," said the bully, earnestly; "it won't do for me to wait any longer; I've got to j'ine the circus on Monday, and I must start on Sunday to make it." "Very well; then we'll take a look around to-morrow and fix things at night." "Agreed," said Bud, "for you can see that if some officer is watching us--halloo!" This exclamation was caused by the sudden sound of wagon wheels, and man and boy knew at once that Bud's horse, probably tired of standing still, had started homeward with the enthusiasm of a steed who believes that a good supper is awaiting him. CHAPTER XVI. BUD'S MISHAPS. When a horse takes it into his head to go home, with a view of having a good meal, the attraction seems to become stronger from the moment he makes the first move. Bud Heyland's animal began with a very moderate pace, but he increased it so rapidly that by the time the angry driver was on the run, the quadruped was going almost equally as fast. In the hope of scaring the brute into stopping Bud shouted: "Whoa! whoa! Stop, or I'll kill you!" If the horse understood the command, he did not appreciate the threat, and, therefore, it served rather as a spur to his exertion, for he went faster than ever. It is well known, also, that under such circumstances the sagacious animal is only intent on reaching home with the least delay, and he does not care a pin whether his flight injures the vehicle behind him or not. In fact, he seems to be better pleased if it does suffer some disarrangement. When, therefore, the animal debouched from the wood into the faint light under the stars he was on a gallop, and the wagon was bounding along from side to side in an alarming way. Bud was not far behind it, and shouting in his fiercest manner, he soon saw that he was only wasting his strength. He then ceased his outcries and devoted all his energies to overtaking the runaway horse. "It'll be just like him to smash the wagon all to flinders," growled Bud, "and I'll have to pay for the damages." As nearly as could be determined, horse and lad were going at the same pace, the boy slightly gaining, perhaps, and growing more furious each minute, for this piece of treachery on the part of the horse. Some twenty yards separated the pursuer from the team, when a heavy, lumbering wagon loomed to view ahead. "Get out of the road!" called Bud, excitedly. "This hoss is running away, and he'll smash you if you don't!" At such times a farmer is slow to grasp the situation, and the old gentleman, who was half asleep, could not understand what all the rumpus was about, until the galloping horse was upon him. Then he wrenched his lines, hoping to pull his team aside in time, but his honest nags were as slow as their owner, and all they did was to get themselves out of the way, so as to allow the light vehicle to crash into that to which they were attached. It is the frailer vessel which generally goes to the wall at such times, though Bud's was armed with a good deal of momentum. As it was the front wheel was twisted off, and the frightened horse continued at a swifter gait than ever toward his home, while Bud, seeing how useless it was to try to overtake him, turned upon the old farmer, who was carefully climbing out of his wagon to see whether his property had suffered any damage. "Why didn't you get out the way when I hollered to you?" demanded the panting Bud, advancing threateningly upon him. "Why didn't you holler sooner, my young friend?" asked the old gentleman, in a soft voice. "I yelled to you soon enough, and you're a big fool that you didn't pull aside as I told you. I hope your old rattle-trap has been hurt so it can't be fixed up." "I can't diskiver that it's been hurt at all, and I'm very thankful," remarked the farmer, stooping down and feeling the spokes and axletree with his hands; "but don't you know it is very disrespectful for a boy like you to call an old man a fool?" Bud snarled: "I generally say just what I mean, and what are you going to do about it, old Hay Seed?" The gentleman thus alluded to showed what he meant to do about it, for he reached quietly upward and lifted his whip from its socket in the front of the wagon. "I say again," added Bud, not noticing the movement, and swaggering about, "that any man who acts like you is a natural born fool, and the best thing you can do is to go home----" Just then something cracked like a pistol shot and the whip of the old farmer whizzed about the legs of the astounded scapegrace, who, with a howl similar to that which Fred Sheldon uttered under similar treatment, bounded high in air and started on a run in the direction of his flying vehicle. At the second step the whip descended again, and it was repeated several times before the terrified Bud could get beyond reach of the indignant gentleman, who certainly showed more vigor than any one not knowing him would have looked for. "Some boys is very disrespectful, and should be teached manners," he muttered, turning calmly about and going back to his team, which stood sleepily in the road awaiting him. "What's getting into folks?" growled Bud Heyland, trying to rub his smarting legs in half a dozen places at once; "that's the sassiest old curmudgeon I ever seen. If I'd knowed he was so sensitive I wouldn't have argued the matter so strong. Jingo! But he knows how to swing a whip. When he brought down the lash on to me, I orter just jumped right into him and knocked him down, and I'd done it, too, if I hadn't been afraid of one thing, which was that he'd knocked me down first. Plague on him! I'll get even with him yet. I wish----" Bud stopped short in inexpressible disgust, for just then he recalled that he had his loaded revolver with him, and he ought to have used it to defend himself. The assault of the old gentleman was so sudden that his victim had no time to think of anything but to place himself beyond reach of his strong and active arm. "I don't know what makes me so blamed slow in thinking of things," added Bud, resuming the rubbing of his legs and his walk toward Tottenville, "but I must learn to wake up sooner. I'm sure I got in some good work to-day, and I'll finish it up in style to-morrow night, or my name ain't Nathaniel Higgins Heyland, and then I'm going to skip out of this slow place in a hurry and have a good time with the boys. What's that?" He discerned the dim outlines of some peculiar looking object in the road, and going to it, suddenly saw what it was. "Yes, I might have knowed it!" he muttered, with another forcible expression; "it's a wagon wheel; the second one off that good-for-nothing one I hired of Grimsby, and I'll have a pretty bill to pay when I get there. I 'spose I'll find the rest of the wagon strewed all along the road; yes----" Bud was not far wrong in his supposition, for a little further on he came upon a third wheel, which was leaning against the fence, as though it were "tired," and near by was the fourth. After that the fragments of the ruined vehicle were met with continually, until the angered young man wondered how it was there could be so much material in such an ordinary structure. "It's about time I begun to find something of the horse," he added, with a grim sense of the grotesque humor of the idea; "I wouldn't care if I came across his head and legs scattered along the road, for I'm mad enough agin him to blow him up, but I won't get the chance, for old Grimsby won't let me have him agin when I go out to take a ride to-morrow night." Things could not have been in a worse condition than when Bud, tired and angry, walked up on the porch of the hotel and dropped wearily into one of the chairs that were always there. Old Mr. Grimsby was awaiting him, and said the animal was badly bruised, and as for the wagon, the only portion he could find any trace of was the shafts, which came bounding into the village behind the flying horse. Mr. Grimsby's principal grief seemed to be that Bud himself had not shared the fate of the wagon, and he did not hesitate to so express himself. "The damages won't be a cent less than a hundred dollars," added the angry keeper of the livery stable. "Will you call it square for that?" asked Bud, looking at the man, who was leaning against the post in front of him. "Yes, of course I will?" "Very well; write out a receipt in full and sign it and I'll pay it." Mr. Grimsby scanned him curiously for a minute, and then said: "If you're in earnest come over to my office." Bud got up and followed him into his little dingy office, where he kept a record of his humble livery business, and after considerable fumbling with his oil-lamp, found pen and paper and the receipt was written and signed. While he was thus employed Bud Heyland had counted one hundred dollars in ten-dollar bills, which he passed over to Mr. Grimsby, who, as was his custom, counted them over several times. As he did so he noticed that they were crisp, new bills, and looked as if they were in circulation for the first time. He carefully folded them up and put them away in his wallet with a grim smile, such as is apt to be shown by a man of that character when he thinks he has got the better of a friend in a bargain or trade. And as Bud Heyland walked out he smiled, too, in a very meaning way. CHAPTER XVII. TWO UNEXPECTED VISITORS. Fred Sheldon did not give much attention to Bud Heyland after he started in pursuit of his runaway horse, but, turning in the opposite direction, he moved carefully through the wood toward his mother's house. He did not forget that Cyrus Sutton was somewhere near him, and the boy dreaded a meeting with the cattle drover almost as much as he did with Bud Heyland himself; but he managed to get out of the piece of wood without seeing or being seen by him, and then he made all haste to his own home, where he found his mother beginning to wonder over his long absence. Fred told the whole story, anxious to hear what she had to say about a matter on which he had made up his own mind. "It looks as though Bud Heyland and this Mr. Sutton, that you have told me about, are partners in some evil doing." "Of course they are; it can't be anything else, but what were they doing in the woods with the wagon?" "Perhaps they expected to meet some one else." "I don't think so, from what they said; it would have been better if I hadn't whistled to Bud, wouldn't it?" "Perhaps not," replied the mother, "for it looks as if by doing so you prevented their perpetrating some wrong for which they had laid their plans, and were frightened by finding some one else was near them." "I'm going to take a look through that wood to-morrow and keep watch; I think I will find out something worth knowing." "You cannot be too careful, Fred, for it is a wonder to me that you have kept out of trouble so long----" Both were startled at this moment by the closing of the gate, followed by a rapid footstep along the short walk, and then came a sharp knocking on the door. Fred sprang up from his seat beside his mother and quickly opened the door. The fussy little constable, Archie Jackson, stood before them. "Good evening, Frederick; good evening, Mrs. Sheldon," he said, looking across the room to the lady and taking off his hat to her, as he stepped within. The handsome little lady arose, bowed and invited him to a seat, which he accepted, bowing his thanks again. It was easy to see from the manner of Archie that he was full of the most important kind of business. He was in danger of tipping his chair over, from the prodigious extent to which he threw out his breast, as he carefully deposited his hat on the floor beside him and cleared his throat, with a vigor which could have been heard by any one passing outside. "A pleasant night," he remarked, looking benignantly upon Mrs. Sheldon, who nodded her head to signify that she agreed with him in his opinion of the weather. After this preliminary he came to the point--that is, in his own peculiar way. "Mrs. Sheldon, you have a very fine boy there," he said, nodding toward Fred, who turned quite red in the face. "I am glad to hear you have such a good opinion of him," was the modest manner in which the mother acknowledged the compliment to her only child. "I understand that he is the brightest scholar in school, and has the reputation of being truthful and honest, and I know him to be as full of pluck and courage as a--a--spring lamb," added the constable, clearing his throat again, to help him out of his search for a metaphor. Mrs. Sheldon simply bowed and smiled, while Archie looked at his right hand, which was still swollen and tender from its violent contact with the stump that he mistook for the lion some nights before. He remarked something about hurting it in the crack of the door when playing with his children, and added: "Fred has become quite famous from the shrewd manner in which he captured the lion." "I don't see as he deserves any special credit for that," observed the mother, "for I understand the animal was such an old one that he was almost harmless, and then he was kind enough to walk into the smoke-house and give Fred just the chance he needed. I regard it rather as a piece of good fortune than a display of courage." "You are altogether too modest, Mrs. Sheldon--altogether too modest. Think of his stealing up to the open door of the smoke or milk-house when the creatur' was crunching bones inside! I tell you, Mrs. Sheldon, it took a great deal more courage than you will find in most men to do that." The lady was compelled to admit that it was a severe test of the bravery of a boy, but she insisted that Fred had been favored by Providence, or good fortune, as some called it. "What I want to come at," added Archie, clearing his throat again and spitting in his hat, mistaking it for the cuspidor on the other side, "is that I would be pleased if he could secure the reward which the Misses Perkinpine have offered for the recovery of their silverware, to say nothing of the money that was taken." "It would be too unreasonable to hope that he could succeed in such a task as that." "I'm not so sure, when you recollect that he saw the two parties who were engaged in the burglarious transaction. I thought maybe he might have some clew which would enable the officers of the law to lay their fingers on the guilty parties." Fred was half tempted to say that he had such a clew in his pocket that very minute, but he was wise enough to hold his peace. Once more the constable cleared his throat. "But such is not the fact--ah, excuse me--I thought that was the spittoon, instead of my hat--how stupid!--and to relieve his mind of the anxiety which I know he must feel, I have called to make a statement." Having said this much the visitor waited until he thought his auditors were fully impressed, when he added: "When this robbery was made known to me I sent to New York city at once for one of the most famous detectives, giving him full particulars and urging him to come without delay; but for some reason, which I cannot understand, Mr. Carter has neither come nor written--a very discourteous proceeding on his part, to say the least; so I undertook the whole business alone--that is, without asking the help of anyone." "I hope you have met with success," was the truthful wish expressed by Mrs. Sheldon. "I have, I am glad to inform you. I have found out who the man was that, in the disguise of a tramp, eat a meal at the house of the Misses Perkinpine on Monday evening, and who afterward entered the building stealthily, and with the assistance of a confederate carried off all their valuable silverware and a considerable amount of money." "You've fastened it on Bud, eh?" asked Fred, greatly interested. The constable looked impressively at the lad, and said: "There's where you make a great mistake; in fact, nothing in this world is easier than to make an error. I was sure it was Bud from what you told me, and you will remember I hinted as much to him on the day of the circus." "Yes, and he turned red in the face and was scared." "His face couldn't turn much redder than it is, and blushing under such circumstances can't always be taken as a proof of guilt; but I set to work and I found the guilty man." "And it wasn't Bud?" "He hadn't anything to do with it." "But there were two of them, for I saw them." "Of course; and I know the other man also." This was important news indeed, and mother and son could only stare at their visitor in amazement. The constable, with all the pomposity of which he was master, picked up his hat from the floor and arose to his feet. "Of course a detective doesn't go round the country boasting of what he has done and is going to do. Those who know me, know that I am one of the most modest of men and rarely speak of my many exploits. But I may tell you that you can prepare yourselves for one of the greatest surprises of your life." "When is it going to come?" asked Fred. "Very soon; in a day or two; maybe to-morrow; at any rate by Monday at the latest." Mrs. Sheldon saw that the fussy officer was anxious to tell more and needed but the excuse of a question or two from her. But she did not ask him anything, for with the intuition of her sex she had read his nature the first time she talked with him, and she had little faith in his high-sounding declaration of success. Still, she knew that it was not unlikely he had stumbled upon the truth, while groping about; but she could form no idea, of who the suspected parties were, and she allowed her visitor to bid her good evening without gaining any further knowledge of them. Archie was heard walking down the path and out the gate, still clearing his throat, and doubtless with his shoulders thrown to the rear so far that he was in danger of falling over backwards. Mrs. Sheldon smiled in her quiet way after his departure, and said: "I can't feel much faith in him, but it may be he has found who the guilty ones are." "I don't believe it," replied Fred, stoutly; "for, when he declares that Bud had nothing to do with it, I know he is wrong. Suppose I had taken out this knife and told him all about it, what would he have said?" "It wouldn't have changed his opinion, for he is one of those men whose opinions are set and very difficult to change. He is confident he is right, and we shall know what it all means in a short time." "Perhaps I will find out something to-morrow." "More than likely you will fail altogether----" To the surprise of both, they heard the gate open and shut again, another series of hastening steps sounded upon the gravel, and in a moment a quick, nervous rap came upon the door. "Archie has come back to tell us the rest of his story," said Fred, springing up to answer the summons; "I thought he couldn't go away without letting us know----" But the lad was mistaken, for, when he opened the door, who should he see standing before him but Cyrus Sutton, the cattle drover, and the intimate friend of Bud Heyland? He smiled pleasantly, doffed his hat, bowed and apologized for his intrusion, adding: "I am sure you hardly expected me, and I only came because it was necessary that I should meet you both. Ah!" Mrs. Sheldon had risen and advanced a couple of steps to greet her visitor, but, while the words were in her mouth she stopped short and looked wonderingly at him. And Cyrus Sutton did the same respecting her; Fred, beholding the interesting spectacle of the two, whom he had believed to be utter strangers, staring at each other, with a fixidity of gaze, followed the next moment by an expression of looks and words which showed that this was not the first time they had met. Fred's first emotion was that of resentment that such a worthless and evil-disposed man should presume to smile, extend his hand and say, as he advanced: "This is a surprise, indeed! I had no idea that Mrs. Sheldon was you." "And when I heard of Mr. Cyrus Sutton I never dreamed that it could be you," she answered. She was about to add something more when he motioned her not to speak the words that he had reason to believe were on her tongue, and Fred knew not whether to be still angrier or more amazed. Mr. Cyrus Sutton took the chair to which he was invited and began talking about unimportant matters which it was plain were of no interest to either and were introductory to something that was to follow. This continued several minutes, and then Mrs. Sheldon asked her visitor to excuse her for a minute or two while she accompanied her son to bed. "My dear boy," she said, after they were alone in his little room, and he was about to kneel to say his prayers, "you must not be displeased at what you saw to-night. I know Mr. Cyrus Sutton very well and he has called on some business which he wishes to discuss with me alone." "But he's a thief and robber," said Fred, "and I don't like to have him in the house unless I'm awake to take care of you." "You need have no fears about me," replied the mother, stroking back his hair and kissing the forehead of the manly fellow. "I would be willing to talk before you, but I saw that he preferred not to do so, and as the matter is all in my interest, which you know is yours, it is proper that I should show that much deference to him." "Well, it's all right if you say so," was the hearty response of Fred, who now knelt down and went through his prayers as usual. His mother kissed him good-night and descended the stairs, and in a few minutes the murmur of voices reached the ears of the lad, who could have crept part way down-stairs and heard everything said. But nothing in the world would have induced him to do such a dishonorable thing, and he finally sank to slumber, with the dim words sounding to him, as they do to us in dreams. In the morning his mother laughingly told him he would have to restrain his curiosity for a day or two, but she would tell him all as soon as Mr. Sutton gave his permission. Fred felt all the eagerness natural to one of his years to know the meaning of the strange visit, but he was content to wait his mother's own good time, when she could make known the strange story which he realized she would soon have to tell him. This day was Saturday, and Fred Sheldon determined to use it to the utmost, for he knew the singular incidents in which he had become involved were likely to press forward to some conclusion. After breakfast and his morning chores, he started down the road in the direction of the village, it being his intention to pass through or rather into the wood where Sutton and Bud Heyland had held their meeting of the night before. He had not reached the stretch of forest when he caught sight of Bud himself coming toward him on foot. The sombrero-like hat, the briar-wood pipe and the big boots, with the trousers tucked in the top, could be recognized as far as visible. The bully had not his whip with him, both hands being shoved low down in his trousers pockets. He slouched along until close to Fred, when he stopped, and, leaning on the fence, waited for the boy to come up. Fred would have been glad to avoid him, but there was no good way of doing so. He walked forward, whistling a tune, and made a move as if to go by, nodding his head and saying: "Halloo, Bud." "Hold on; don't be in a hurry," said the other, "I want to see you." "Well, what is it?" asked Fred, stopping before him. "You want to play the thief, do you?" "I don't know what you mean," replied Fred, a half-dozen misgivings stirring his fears. "How about that twenty dollars I gave you to get changed?" "I declare I forgot all about it," replied Fred, greatly relieved that it was no worse. "Did you get it changed?" "Yes, and here are your ten dollars." Bud took the bills and scanned them narrowly, and Fred started on again. "Hold on!" commanded the other; "don't be in such a hurry; don't start ahead agin till I tell you to. Did they ask you any questions when you got it changed?" "Nothing very particular, but changed it very gladly." "Who was it that done it for you?" "I told him the one who gave me the bill didn't wish me to answer any questions, and then this gentleman said it was all right, and just for the fun of the thing I mustn't tell anything about him." Bud Heyland looked at the fellow standing a few feet away as if he hardly understood what this meant. Finally he asked, in his gruff, dictatorial way: "Who was he?" "I cannot tell you." "You cannot? You've got to." "But I can't break my promise, Bud; I wouldn't tell a story to save my life." "Bah, that's some of your mother's stuff; I'll soon take it out of you," said the bully, advancing threateningly toward him. "If you don't tell me all about him I'll break every bone in your body." "You can do it then, for you won't find out." Believing that he would have to fight for his very life, as the bully could catch him before he could get away, Fred drew his knife from his pocket, intending to use it as a weapon of defense. While in the act of opening it, Bud Heyland caught sight of it, and with an exclamation of surprise, he demanded: "Where did you get that?" "I found it," replied Fred, who saw how he had forgotten himself in his fear; "is it yours?" "Let me look at it," said Bud, reaching out his hand for it. Fred hardly knew whether he ought to surrender such a weapon or not, but, as the interest of the bully seemed to center entirely in it, he thought it best to do so. Bud Heyland examined the jack-knife with great interest. One glance was enough for him to recognize it as his own. He opened the blades and shut them two or three times, and then dropped it into his pocket with the remark: "I'll take charge of that, I reckon." "Is it yours?" "I rather think it is, now," answered Bud, with an impudent grin! "Where did you find it?" "Down yonder," answered Fred, pointing in a loose kind of way toward the old brick mansion. "It was stole from me two weeks ago by a tramp, and it's funny that he lost it in this neighborhood. You can go now; I'll let you off this time, 'cause I'm so glad to get my old knife agin that was give to me two years ago." And to the surprise and delight of Fred Sheldon, he was allowed to pass on without further questioning. "I wonder whether I was wrong," said Fred, recalling the words of the bully; "he said he had it stolen from him two weeks ago by a tramp, and mother says that it isn't any proof that Bud is guilty because his knife was found there. Some one might have put it on the floor on purpose, and she says that just such things have been done before by persons who didn't want to be suspected." "That agrees with what the constable says, too," added the boy, still following the same line of thought, "he is sure he has got the right man and it isn't Bud or Cyrus Sutton. Bud is bad enough to do anything of the kind, but maybe I was mistaken." The lad was sorely puzzled, for matters were taking a shape which would have puzzled an older head than his. Everything he had seen and heard for the last few days confirmed his theory that Heyland and Sutton were the guilty ones, and now the theory was being upset in a singular fashion. Fred was in this mental muddle when he awoke to the fact that he had passed the boundary of the wood and would soon be beyond the place where he had intended to make some observations that day. "I don't know whether there's any use in my trying to do anything," he said, still bewildered over what he had seen and heard within the last few hours. Nevertheless, he did try hard, and we may say, succeeded, too. He first looked hastily about him, and seeing no one, turned around and ran back into the wood. He did not remain in the highway itself, but entered the undergrowth, where it would be difficult for any one in the road to detect him. "I noticed that when I spoke about coming here this morning, mother encouraged me, and told me to be careful, and so I will." He now began picking his way through the dense wood with the care of a veritable American Indian stealing upon the camp of an enemy. CHAPTER XVIII. EUREKA! This was the wood where Bud Heyland and Cyrus Sutton held their stolen interview the night before. The former was now in the immediate neighborhood, so that Fred Sheldon had reason to think something would be done in the same place before the close of day, or at most, before the rising of to-morrow's sun. No one could have been more familiar with this small stretch of forest than was our young hero, who did not take a great while to reach a point close to the other side. He was near the road which wound its way through it, but was on the watch to escape being seen by any one passing by. Having reached this point, Fred stood several minutes, uncertain what he ought to do. Evidently there was nothing to be gained by advancing further, nor by turning back, so he waited. "I wonder where Bud has gone. There is something in the wood which he is interested in----" The thought was not expressed when the rustling of leaves was heard, and Fred knew some one was near him. Afraid of being discovered, he shrank close to the trunk of a large tree, behind which he could hide himself the moment it became necessary. No doubt the person moving through the wood was using some care, but he did not know how to prevent the rustling of the leaves, and it is not likely he made much effort. At any rate the advantage was on the side of Fred, who, a minute later, caught sight of a slouchy sombrero and briarwood pipe moving along at a height of five feet or so above the ground, while now and then the motion of the huge boots was seen beneath. "It's Bud, and he's looking for something," was the conclusion of Fred, fairly trembling with excitement; "and it won't do for him to see me watching him." The trouble was that it was now broad daylight, and it is no easy matter for one to shadow a person without being observed; but Fred had the advantage of the shelter in the dense growth of shrubbery which prevailed in most parts of the wood. However, he was in mortal dread of discovery by Bud, for he believed the ugly fellow would kill him should he find him watching his movements. It was this fear which caused the lad to wait a minute or two after Bud Heyland had disappeared, and until the rustling of the leaves could no longer be heard. Then, with the utmost care, he began picking his way through the undergrowth, stopping suddenly when he caught the sound again. The wood was not extensive enough to permit a very extended hunt, and when Fred paused a second time he was sure the end was at hand. He was alarmed when he found, from the stillness, that Bud Heyland was not moving. Fred waited quietly, and then began slowly rising until he stood at his full height, and looked carefully around him. Nothing could be seen of the bully, though the watcher was confident he was not far off, and it would not do to venture any further just then. "If it was only the night time," thought Fred, "I wouldn't be so scared, for he might take me for a man; but it would never do for him to find me here." The sudden ceasing of the rustling, which had betrayed the passage of Bud Heyland a few minutes previous could not be anything else but proof that he was near by. "Maybe he suspects something, and is waiting to find whether he is seen by any one. Strange that in looking round he does not look up," whispered Fred to himself, recalling an anecdote which he had once heard told in Sunday-school: "Bud looks everywhere but above, where there is that Eye which never sleeps, watching his wrong-doing." A boy has not the patience of a man accustomed to watching and waiting, and when several minutes had passed without any new developments, Fred began to get fidgety. "He has gone on further, and I have lost him; he has done this to lead me off, and I won't see anything more of him." But the boy was in error, and very speedily saw a good deal more of Bud Heyland than he wished. The rustling of the leaves, such as is heard when one is kicking them up as he walks along, aroused the watcher the next minute, and Fred stealthily arose, and scanned his surroundings. As he did so, he caught sight of Bud Heyland walking in such a direction that he was certain to pass close to him. Luckily the bully was looking another way at that moment, or he would have seen the scared face as is presented itself to view. As Fred dropped out of sight and hastily crept behind the large tree-trunk he felt that he would willingly give the two hundred dollars that he received in the way of a reward could he but be in any place half a mile or more away. It would never do to break into a run as he felt like doing, for then he would be sure to be discovered and captured, while there was a slight probability of not being seen if he should remain where he was. Shortly after Fred caught sight of a pair of huge boots stalking through the undergrowth, and he knew only too well what they contained. He shrank into as close quarters as possible, and prayed that he might not be noticed. The prayer was granted, although it will always remain a mystery to Fred Sheldon how it was Bud Heyland passed so very close to him and yet never turned his eyes from staring straight ahead. But Bud went on, vanished from sight, and in a few minutes the rattling of the dry leaves ceased and all was quiet. The sound of wagon wheels, as a vehicle moved over the road, was heard, and then all became still again. Not until sure the fellow was out of sight did Fred rise to his feet and move away from his hiding place. Then, instead of following Bud, he walked in the opposite direction. "He has been out here to hunt for something and didn't find it." Looking down to the ground the bright-eyed lad was able to see where Bud had stirred the leaves, as he carelessly walked along, no doubt oblivious of the fact that his own thoughtlessness might be used against him. "He's the only one who has been here lately, and I think I can track him through the wood. If he had been as careful as I, he wouldn't have left such tell-tale footprints." The work of trailing Bud, as it may be called, was not such an easy matter as Fred had supposed, for he soon found places where it was hard to tell whether or not the leaves had been disturbed by the boots of a person or the hoofs of some quadruped. But Fred persevered, and at the end of half an hour, by attentively studying the ground, he reached a point a little over two hundred yards from where he himself had been hiding, and where he was certain Bud Heyland had been. "Here's where he stopped, and after a while turned about and went back again," was the conclusion of Fred; "though I can't see what he did it for." It was no longer worth while to examine the ground, for there was nothing to be learned there, and Fred began studying the appearance of things above the earth. There were a number of varieties of trees growing about him--oak, maple, birch, chestnut and others, such as Fred had looked on many a time before, and nothing struck him as particularly worthy of notice. But, hold! only a short ways off was an oak, or rather the remains of one, for it had evidently been struck by lightning and shattered. It had never worn a comely appearance, for its trunk was covered with black, scraggy excrescences, like the warts which sometimes disfigure the human skin. Furthermore, the lower portion of the trunk was hollow, the width of the cavity being fully a foot at the base. The bolt from heaven had scattered the splinters, limbs and fragments in all directions, and no one could view this proof of the terrific power of that comparatively unknown force in nature without a shudder. Fred Sheldon stood looking around him until his eye rested on this interesting sight, when he viewed it some minutes more, with open eyes and mouth. Then, with a strange feeling, he walked slowly toward the remains of the trunk, and stepping upon one of the broken pieces, drew himself up and peered down into the hollow, rotten cavity. He had been standing in the sunshine but a short time before, and it takes the pupil of the eye some time to become adapted to such a sudden change. At first all was blank darkness, but shortly Fred saw something gleaming in the bottom of the opening. He thought it was that peculiar fungus growth known as "fox-fire," but his vision rapidly grew more distinct, and drawing himself further up, he reached down and touched the curious objects with his hand. Eureka! There was all the silver plate which had been stolen from the old brick mansion a few nights before. Not a piece was missing! Fred Sheldon had discovered it at last, and as he dropped back again on his feet, he threw his cap into the air and gave a shout, for just about that time he felt he was the happiest youngster in the United States of America! [Illustration: On finding the stolen silver, Fred threw his cap in the air and gave a shout.] CHAPTER XIX. A SLIGHT MISTAKE. When Archibald Jackson, constable of Tottenville and the surrounding country, strode forth from the home of Widow Sheldon on the night of the call which we have described, he felt like "shaking hands with himself," for he was confident he had made one of the greatest strikes that ever came in the way of any one in his profession--a strike that would render him famous throughout the country, and even in the city of New York. "A man has to be born a detective," he said, as he fell over a wheelbarrow at the side of the road; "for without great natural gifts he cannot attain to preeminence, as it were, in his profession. I was born a detective, and would have beaten any of those fellows from Irish Yard or Welsh Yard or Scotland Yard, or whatever they call it. "Queer I never thought of it before, but that was always the trouble with me; I've been too modest," he added, as he climbed over the fence to pick up his hat, which a limb had knocked off; "but when this robbery at the Misses Perkinpine's occurred, instead of relying on my own brains I must send for Mr. Carter, and was worried half to death because he didn't come. "I s'pose he found the task was too gigantic for him, so he wouldn't run the risk of failure. Then for the first time I sot down and begun to use my brains. It didn't take me long to work the thing out; it came to me like a flash, as it always does to men of genius--confound that root; it's ripped the toe of my shoe off." But Archie was so elevated in the region of conceit and self-satisfaction that he could not be disturbed by the petty annoyances of earth; he strode along the road with his chest thrust forward and his head so high in air that it was no wonder his feet tripped and bothered him now and then. "I don't see any use of delaying the blow," he added, as he approached his home; "it will make a sensation to-morrow when the exposure is made. The New York papers will be full of it and they will send their reporters to interview me. They'll print a sketch of my life and nominate me for governor, and the illustrated papers will have my picture, and my wife Betsey will find what a man of genius her husband--ah! oh! I forgot about that post!" He was recalled to himself by a violent collision with the hitching-post in front of his own house, and picking up his hat and waiting until he could gain full command of his breath, he entered the bosom of his family fully resolved to "strike the blow" on the morrow, which should make him famous throughout the country. With the rising of the sun he found himself feeling more important than ever. Swallowing his breakfast hastily and looking at his bruised knuckles, he bade his family good-by, telling his wife if anybody came after him they should be told that the constable had gone away on imperative business. With this farewell Archie went to the depot, boarded the cars and started for the country town of Walsingham, fifty miles distant. He bought a copy of a leading daily, and after viewing the scenery for several miles, pretended to read, while he gave free rein to his imagination and drew a gorgeous picture of the near future. "To-morrow the papers will be full of it," he said, not noticing that several were smiling because he held the journal upside down, "and they'll want to put me on the force in New York. They've got to pay me a good salary if they get me--that's sartin." Some time after he drew forth a couple of legal documents, which he read with care, as he had read them a score of times. They were correctly-drawn papers calling for the arrest of two certain parties. "The warrants are all right," mused the officer, as he replaced them carefully in the inside pocket of his coat, "and the two gentlemen--and especially one of them--will open his eyes when I place my hand on his shoulder and tell him he is wanted." A couple of hours later, the constable left the cars at the town of Walsingham, which was in the extreme corner of the county that also held Tottenville, and walked in his pompous fashion toward that portion where Colonel Bandman's menagerie and circus were making ready for the usual display. It was near the hour of noon, and the regular street parade had taken place, and the hundreds of people from the country were tramping back and forth, crunching peanuts, eating lunch and making themselves ill on the diluted stuff sold under the name of lemonade. The constable paid scarcely any heed to these, but wended his way to the hotel, where he inquired for Colonel Bandman, the proprietor of the establishment which was creating such an excitement through the country. Archie was told that he had just sat down to dinner, whereupon he said he would wait until the gentleman was through, as he did not wish to be too severe upon him. Then the officer occupied a chair by the window on the inside, and feeling in his pockets, to make sure the warrants were there, he kept an eye on the dining-room, to be certain the proprietor did not take the alarm and get away. After a long time Colonel Bandman, a tall, well-dressed gentleman, came forth, hat in hand, and looked about him, as if he expected to meet some one. "Are you the gentleman who was inquiring for me?" he asked, advancing toward the constable, who rose to his feet, and with all the impressiveness of manner which he could assume, said, as he placed his hand on his shoulder: "Colonel James Bandman, you are my prisoner!" The other donned his hat, looked somewhat surprised, as was natural, and with his eyes fixed on the face of the constable, asked: "On what charge am I arrested?" "Burglary." "Let me see the warrant." "Oh, that's all right," said Mr. Jackson, drawing forth a document from his pocket and opening it before him; "read it for yourself." The colonel glanced at it for a moment, and said with a half smile: "My name is not mentioned there; that calls upon you to arrest Thomas Gibby, who is my ticket agent." "Oh, ah--that's the wrong paper; here's the right one." With which he gave Colonel James Bandman the pleasure of reading the document, which, in due and legal form, commanded Archibald Jackson to take the gentleman into custody. "I presume the offense is bailable?" asked the colonel, with an odd smile. "Certainly, certainly, sir; I will accompany you before a magistrate who will fix your bail. Where can I find Mr. Gibby?" "I will bring him, if you will excuse me for a minute." Colonel Bandman started to enter the hotel again, but the vigilant constable caught his arm: "No you don't; I'll stay with you, please; we'll go together; I don't intend you shall slip through my fingers." The colonel was evidently good-natured, for he only laughed and then, allowing the officer to take his arm, started for the dining-room, but unexpectedly met the individual whom they wanted in the hall. When Gibby had been made acquainted with the business of the severe-looking official he was disposed to get angry, but a word and a suggestive look from Colonel Bandman quieted him, and the two walked with the officer in the direction of a magistrate. "I've got this thing down fine on you," ventured Mr. Jackson, by way of helping them to a feeling of resignation, "the proofs of the nefarious transaction in which you were engaged being beyond question." Colonel Bandman made no answer, though his companion muttered something which their custodian did not catch. As they walked through the street they attracted some attention, but it was only a short distance to the magistrate's office, where the official listened attentively to the complaints. When made aware of its character he turned smilingly toward the chief prisoner and said: "Well, colonel, what have you to say to this?" "I should like to ask Mr. Jackson on what grounds he bases his charge of burglary against me." "The house of the Misses Perkinpine, near Tottenville, in this county, was robbed of a lot of valuable silver plate and several hundred dollars in money on Monday night last. It was the night before the circus showed in that town. Fortunately for the cause of justice the two parties were seen and identified, especially the one who did the actual robbing. A bright young boy, who is very truthful, saw the robber at his work, identified him as the ungrateful wretch who was given his supper by the two excellent ladies, whom he basely robbed afterward. The description of the pretended tramp corresponds exactly with that of Colonel Bandman--so closely, indeed, that there can be no mistake about him. The account of his confederate is not so full, but it is sufficient to identify him as Mr. Gibby, there. When I was assured beyond all mistake that they were the two wretches I took out them warrants in proper form, as you will find, and I now ask that they may be held to await the action of the grand jury." Having delivered himself of this rather grandiloquent speech, Mr. Jackson bowed to the court and stepped back to allow the accused to speak. Colonel Bandman, instead of doing so, turned to the magistrate and nodded for him to say something. That official, addressing himself to the constable, asked: "You are certain this offense was committed on last Monday evening?" "There can be no possible mistake about it." "And it was done by these two?" "That is equally sartin." "If one is guilty both are; if one is innocent so is the other?" "Yes, sir; if you choose to put it that way." "It becomes my duty to inform you then, Mr. Jackson, that Colonel Bandman has not been out of the town of Walsingham for the past six weeks; he is an old schoolmate of mine, and on last Monday night he stayed in my house with his wife and daughter. This complaint is dismissed, and the best thing you can do is to hasten home by the next train. Good day, sir." Archie wanted to say something, but he could think of nothing appropriate, and, catching up his hat, he made haste to the station where he boarded the cars without a ticket. He was never known to refer to his great mistake afterward unless some one else mentioned it, and even then the constable always seemed anxious to turn the subject to something else. CHAPTER XX. ALL IN GOOD TIME. Between nine and ten o'clock on the Saturday evening succeeding the incidents I have described, a wagon similar to the one wrecked the night before, drove out of Tottenville with two persons on the front seat. The driver was Jacob Kincade, who, having safely passed the recaptured lion over to Colonel Bandman, secured a couple of days' leave of absence and hurried back to Tottenville, where he engaged the team, and, accompanied by Bud Heyland, drove out in the direction of the wood where matters went so unsatisfactorily when Bud assumed charge. "I was awful 'fraid you wouldn't come to time," said Bud, when they were fairly beyond the village, "which is why I tried to run the machine myself and got things mixed. Sutton insisted on waiting till you arriv', but when he seen how sot I was he give in and 'greed to meet me at the place." "That was all well enough," observed Mr. Kincade; "but there's some things you tell me which I don't like. You said some one was listening behind the fence the other night when you and Sutton was talking about this business." "That's so; but Sutton showed me afterwards that the man, who was short and stumpy, couldn't have heard anything that would let him know what he was driving at. We have a way of talking that anybody else might hear every word and yet he wouldn't understand it. That's an idee of mine." "But you said some one--and I've no doubt it's the same chap--was whistling round the wood last night and scared you, so you made up your mind to wait till to-night." "That rather got me, but Sut says that no man that 'spected anything wrong would go whistling round the woods in that style. That ain't the way detectives do." "Maybe not, but are you sure there ain't any of them detectives about?" "Me and Sut have been on the watch, and there hasn't been a stranger in the village that we don't know all about. That's the biggest joke I ever heard of," laughed Bud, "that 'ere Jackson going out to Walsingham and arresting the colonel and Gibby." "Yes," laughed Kincade, "it took place just as I was coming away. I wish they'd locked up the colonel for awhile, just for the fun of the thing. But he and Gibby were discharged at once. I came on in the same train with Jackson, though I didn't talk with him about it, for I saw he felt pretty cheap. "However," added Kincade, "that's got nothing to do with this business, which I feel a little nervous over. It was a mighty big load for us to get out in the wood last Monday night, and I felt as though my back was broke when we put the last piece in the tree. S'pose somebody has found it!" "No danger of that," said Bud. "I was out there to-day and seen that it was all right." "Sure nobody was watching you?" "I took good care of that. We'll find it there just as we left it, and after we get it into the wagon we'll drive over to Tom Carmen's and he'll dispose of it for us." Tom Carmen lived at the "Four Corners," as the place was called, and had the reputation of being engaged in more than one kind of unlawful business. It was about ten miles off, and the thieves intended to drive there and place their plunder in his hands, he agreeing to melt it up and give them full value, less a small commission for his services. The arrangement with Carmen had not been made until after the robbery, which accounts for the hiding of the spoils for several days. It did not take long, however, to come to an understanding with him, and the plunder would have been taken away the preceding night by Bud Heyland and Cyrus Sutton but for the mishaps already mentioned. "You're sure Sutton will be there?" asked Kincade, as they approached the wood. "You can depend on him every time," was the confident response; "he was to go out after dark to make sure that no one else is prowling around. He's one of the best fellows I ever met," added Bud, who was enthusiastic over his new acquaintance; "we've fixed up half a dozen schemes that we're going into as soon as we get this off our hands." "Am I in?" "Of course," said Bud; "the gang is to be us three, and each goes in on the ground floor. We're going to make a bigger pile than Colonel Bandman himself, even with all his menagerie and circus." "I liked Sutton--what little I seen of him," said Kincade. "Oh, he's true blue--well, here we are." Both ceased talking as they entered the shadow of the wood, for, bad as they were, they could not help feeling somewhat nervous over the prospect. The weather had been clear and pleasant all the week, and the stars were shining in an unclouded sky, in which there was no moon. A few minutes after they met a farmer's wagon, which was avoided with some difficulty, as it was hard to see each other, but the two passed in safety, and reached the spot they had in mind. Here Bud Heyland took the reins, because he knew the place so well, and drew the horse aside until he and the vehicle would clear any team that might come along. To prevent any such accident as that of the preceding night the animal was secured, and the man and big boy stepped carefully a little further into the wood, Bud uttering the same signal as before. It was instantly answered from a point near at hand, and the next minute Cyrus Sutton came forward, faintly visible as he stepped close to them and spoke: "I've been waiting more than two hours, and thought I heard you coming a half dozen times." He shook hands with Kincade and Bud, the latter asking: "Is everything all right?" "Yes, I've had my eyes open, you may depend." "Will there be any risk in leaving the horse here?" asked Kincade. "None at all--no one will disturb him." "Then we had better go on, for there's a pretty good load to carry." "I guess I can find the way best," said Bud, taking the lead. "I've been over the route so often I can follow it with my eyes shut." Sutton was also familiar with it, and though it cost some trouble and not a little care, they advanced without much difficulty. Bud regretted that he had not brought his bull's eye lantern with him, and beyond question it would have been of service, but Sutton said it might attract attention, and it was better to get along without it if possible. The distance was considerable, and all of half an hour was taken in making their way through the wood, the darkness being such in many places that they had to hold their hands in front of them to escape collision with limbs and trunks of trees. "Here we are!" It was Bud Heyland who spoke, and in the dim light his companions saw that he was right. There was a small, natural clearing, which enabled them to observe the blasted oak without difficulty. The little party stood close by the hiding-place of the plunder that had been taken from the old brick mansion several nights before. "You can reach down to it, can't you?" asked Sutton, addressing Bud Heyland. "Yes; it's only a little ways down." "Hand it out, then," added Kincade; "I shan't feel right till we have all this loot safely stowed away with Tom Carmen at the 'Four Corners.'" "All right," responded Bud, who immediately thrust his head and shoulders into the cavity. He remained in this bent position less than a minute, when he jerked out his head as though some serpent had struck at him with his fangs, and exclaimed: "It's all gone!" "What?" gasped Jake Kincade. "Somebody has taken everything away----" In the dim light, Bud Heyland at that juncture observed something which amazed him still more. Instead of two men there were three, and two of them were struggling fiercely together. These were Cyrus Sutton and Jacob Kincade, but the struggle was short. In a twinkling the showman was thrown on his back, and the nippers placed on his wrists. "It's no use," said Sutton, as he had called himself, in a low voice; "the game is up, Jacob." Before Bud Heyland could understand that he and Kincade were entrapped, the third man sprang forward and manipulated the handcuffs so dexterously that Bud quickly realized he was a helpless captive. This third man was Archie Jackson, the constable, who could not avoid declaring in a louder voice than was necessary. "We've got you both, and you may as well take it like men. This gentleman whom you two took for Cyrus Sutton, a cattle drover, is my old friend James Carter, the detective, from New York." And such was the truth indeed. CHAPTER XXI. HOW IT WAS DONE. As was intimated at the close of the preceding chapter, the individual who has figured thus far as Cyrus Sutton, interested in the cattle business, was in reality James Carter, the well-known detective of the metropolis. When he received word from Archie Jackson of the robbery that had been committed near Tottenville, he went out at once to the little town to investigate. Mr. Carter was a shrewd man, who understood his business, and he took the precaution to go in such a disguise that the fussy little constable never once suspected his identity. The detective wished to find out whether it would do to trust the officer, and he was quick to see that if Jackson was taken into his confidence, he would be likely to spoil everything, from his inability to keep a secret. So the real detective went to work in his own fashion, following up the clews with care, and allowing Jackson to disport himself as seemed best. He was not slow to fix his suspicions on the right parties, and he then devoted himself to winning the confidence of Bud Heyland. It would have been an easy matter to fasten the guilt on this bad boy, but the keen-witted officer was quick to perceive that he had struck another and more important trail, which could not be followed to a successful conclusion without the full confidence of young Heyland. He learned that Bud was being used as a tool by other parties, who were circulating counterfeit money, and Jacob Kincade was one of the leaders, with the other two who composed the company in New York. The detectives in that city were put to work and captured the knaves almost at the same time that Bud and Kincade were taken. It required a little time for Mr. Carter to satisfy himself beyond all mistake that the two named were the ones who were engaged in the dangerous pursuit of "shoving" spurious money, and he resolved that when he moved he would have the proof established beyond a shadow of doubt. He easily drew the most important facts from Bud, and thus it will be seen the recovery of the stolen silverware became secondary to the detection of the dealers in counterfeit money. The officer was annoyed by the failure of Kincade to appear on the night he agreed, and was fearful lest he suspected something and would keep out of the way. He could have taken him at the time Fred Sheldon was paid his reward, for he knew the showman at that time had a lot of bad money in his possession, though he paid good bills to Fred, who, it will be remembered, placed them in the hands of Squire Jones. Bud was determined to exchange bad currency for this, and waylaid Fred for that purpose, but failed, for the reason already given. He, however, gave Fred twenty dollars to change, which it will also be remembered fell into the hands of the detective a few minutes later, and was one of the several links in the chain of evidence that was forged about the unsuspecting youth and his employer. Then Bud, like many beginners in actual transgression, became careless, and worked off a great deal of the counterfeit money in the village where he was staying, among the lot being the one hundred dollars which he paid the liveryman for wrecking his wagon. When Fred Sheldon came into the village to claim his reward for securing the estray lion, Cyrus Sutton, as he was known, who was sitting on the hotel porch, became interested in him. He scrutinized him sharply, but avoided asking him any questions. It was natural, however, that he should feel some curiosity, and he learned that what he suspected was true; the boy was the child of Mary Sheldon, who was the widow of George Sheldon, killed some years before on the battle-field. George Sheldon and James Carter had been comrades from the beginning of the war until the former fell while fighting for his country. The two had "drank from the same canteen," and were as closely bound together as if brothers. Carter held the head of Sheldon when he lay dying, and sent the last message to his wife, who had also been a schoolmate of Carter's. An aptitude which the latter showed in tracing crime and wrong-doers led him into the detective business, and he lost sight of the widow of his old friend and their baby boy, until drawn to Tottenville in the pursuit of his profession. He reproached himself that he did not discover the truth sooner, but when he found that Mrs. Sheldon was absent he could only wait until she returned, and as we have shown, he took the first occasion to call upon her and renew the acquaintance of former years. But the moment Carter identified the brave little fellow who had earned his reward for capturing the wild beast he made up his mind to do a generous thing for him and his mother; he was determined that if it could possibly be brought about Fred should receive the five hundred dollars reward offered for the recovery of the silver plate stolen from the Misses Perkinpine. Circumstances already had done a good deal to help him in his laudable purpose, for, as we have shown, Fred had witnessed the robbery, and, in fact, had been brought in contact with both of the guilty parties. Mr. Carter was afraid to take Fred into his entire confidence, on account of his tender years; and though he was an unusually bright and courageous lad, the detective was reluctant to bring him into any more intimate association with crime than was necessary from the service he intended to do him. As he was too prudent to trust the constable, Archie Jackson, it will be seen that he worked entirely alone until the night that Mrs. Sheldon returned home. Then he called upon her and told her his whole plans, for he knew that Fred inherited a good deal of his bravery from her, and though it was contrary to his rule to make a confidant of any one, he did not hesitate to tell her all. She was deeply grateful for the kindness he contemplated, though she was not assured that it was for the best to involve Fred as was proposed. The detective, however, succeeded in overcoming her scruples, and they agreed upon the plan of action. The boy was encouraged to make his hunt in the wood, for Carter had already learned from Bud Heyland that the plunder was hidden somewhere in it, and he had agreed to assist in bringing it forth, though Bud would not agree to show him precisely where it was, until the time should come for taking it away. When Fred found the hiding place he was so overjoyed that for awhile he did not know what to do; finally he concluded, as a matter of safety, to remove and hide it somewhere else. Accordingly he tugged and lifted the heavy pieces out one by one, and then carried them all some distance, placed them on the ground at the foot of a large beech tree and covered them up as best he could with leaves. This took him until nearly noon, when he ran home to tell his mother what he had done. Within the next hour James Carter knew it and he laughed with satisfaction. "It was the wisest thing that could have been done." "Why so?" asked the widow. "Don't you see he has already earned the reward, and, what is more, he shall have it, too. He has recovered the plate without the slightest assistance from any one." "But the thieves have not been caught." "That is my work; I will attend to that." "And what shall Fred do?" "Keep him home to-night, give him a good supper and put him to bed early, and tell him it will be all right in the morning." Mrs. Sheldon did not feel exactly clear that it was "all right," but the good-hearted Carter had a way of carrying his point, and he would not listen to any argument from her. So she performed her part of the programme in spirit and letter, and when Fred Sheldon closed his eyes in slumber that Saturday evening it was in the belief that everything would come out as his mother promised, even though he believed that one of the guiltiest of the criminals was the man known as Cyrus Sutton. Mrs. Sheldon wanted to tell the little fellow the whole story that night, but the detective would not consent until the "case was closed." When Archie Jackson was called upon late in the afternoon by James Carter and informed how matters stood, he was dumfounded for several minutes. It seemed like doubting his own senses, to believe that the cattle drover was no other than the famous New York detective, but he was convinced at last, and entered with great ardor into the scheme for the capture of the criminals. Mr. Carter impressed upon the constable the fact that the offered reward had already been earned by Master Fred Sheldon. Archie was disposed to demur, but finally, with some show of grace, he gave in and said he would be pleased to extend his congratulations to the young gentleman. A little judicious flattery on the part of the detective convinced Archie that a point had been reached in the proceedings, where his services were indispensable, and that, if the two law breakers were to be captured, it must be through the help of the brave Tottenville constable, who would receive liberal compensation for his assistance. Accordingly, Archie was stationed near the spot where it was certain Bud Heyland and Jacob Kincade would appear, later in the evening. At a preconcerted signal, he sprang from his concealment, and the reader has learned that he performed his part in really creditable style. CHAPTER XXII. AN ATTEMPTED RESCUE. Now since the reader knows how it happened that Archie Jackson and he who had masqueraded under the name of Cyrus Sutton chanced to be at this particular spot in the woods when the thieves would have removed their booty, and also why the silver could not be found by these worthies, it is necessary to return to the place where the arrest was made. Bud Heyland did not take kindly to the idea of being a prisoner. None knew better than himself the proofs which could be brought against him, and, after the first surprise passed away, his only thought was of how he might escape. While the valiant Archie stood over him in an attitude of triumph, the detective was holding a short but very concise conversation with the second captive. "I'll make you smart for this," Bud heard Kincade say. "Things have come to a pretty pass when a man who is invited by a friend to stop on the road a minute in order to look for a whip that was lost while we were hunting for the lion, gets treated in this manner by a couple of drunken fools." Taking his cue from the speech, Bud added in an injured tone: "That's a fact. I was on my way to join the show; but thought it might be possible to find the whip, for it belongs to Colonel Bandman, an' he kicked because I left it." "After the plans we have laid, Heyland, do you think it is well to try such a story on me," Carter asked sternly. "I don't know what you're talkin' about. Jake has told how we happened to come here." "He didn't explain why you wanted Fred Sheldon to change a twenty-dollar bill for you, nor how it happened that you had an hundred dollars to pay for the wagon which was smashed." "I've got nothing to do with any counterfeit money that has been passed, and I defy you to prove it," Kincade cried, energetically. "Who said anything about counterfeits?" the detective asked, sternly. "It will be well for you to keep your mouth shut, unless you want to get deeper in the mire than you are already. It so chances, however, that I have ample proof of your connection with the robbery, aside from what Bud may have let drop, and, in addition, will show how long you have been engaged in the business of passing worthless money, so there is no need of any further talk. Will you walk to the road, or shall we be forced to carry you?" This question was asked because Bud had seated himself as if intending to remain for some time; but he sprung to his feet immediately, so thoroughly cowed, that he would have attempted to obey any command, however unreasonable, in the hope of finding favor in the sight of his captors. "We've got to do what you say, for awhile, anyhow," Kincade replied, sulkily; "but somebody will suffer because of this outrage." "I'll take the chances," Carter replied, laughingly. "Step out lively, for I intend to get some sleep to-night." "Hold on a minute," the fussy little constable cried, as he ran to the side of the detective and whispered: "I think we should take the silver with us. There may be more of this gang who will come after it when they find we have nabbed these two." "I fancy it's safe," was the careless reply, "and whether it is or not, we must wait until we see Fred again, for I haven't the slightest idea where he hid it." "But, you see----" "Now, don't fret, my friend," the detective interrupted, determined that Fred should take the silver himself to the maiden ladies. "You have conducted the case so admirably thus far that it would be a shame to run the risk of spoiling the job by loitering here where there may be an attempt at a rescue." This bit of flattery, coupled with the intimation that there might be a fight, caused Archie to remain silent. He was eager to be in town where he could relate his wonderful skill in trapping the thieves, as well as his fear lest there should be a hand-to-hand encounter with desperate men, and these desires caused him to make every effort to land the prisoners in jail. He even lost sight of the reward, for the time being, through the anxiety to sing his own praises, and in his sternest tones, which were not very dreadful, by the way, he urged Bud forward. "If you make the slightest show of trying to run away, I'll put a dozen bullets in your body," he said, and then, as he reached for his weapon to further intimidate the prisoner, he discovered, to his chagrin, that, as on a previous occasion, his revolver was at home; but in its place, put there while he labored under great excitement, was the tack-hammer, symbol of his trade as bill-poster. The two men went toward the road very meekly, evidently concluding that submission was the best policy, and for once Carter made a mistake. Having worked up the case to such a satisfactory conclusion, and believing these were the only two attachés of the circus in the vicinity, he allowed Archie Jackson to manage matters from this point. The valiant constable, thinking only of the glory with which he would cover himself as soon as he was at the hotel amid a throng of his acquaintances, simply paid attention to the fact that the prisoners were marching properly in front of him, heeding not the rumble of distant wheels on the road beyond. Kincade heard them, however, and he whispered softly to Bud: "There's just a chance that some of our people are coming. I heard Colonel Bandman say he should send Albers and Towsey back to look up some harness that was left to be repaired, and this is about the time they ought to be here." "Much good it will do us with that fool of a Jackson ready to shoot, the first move we make," Bud replied petulantly. "Go on without so much talk," Archie cried fiercely, from the rear. "You can't play any games on me." "From what I've heard, you know pretty well how a man can shoot in the dark, an' I'll take my chances of gettin' a bullet in the back rather than go to jail for ten years or so. When I give the word, run the best you know how." Bud promised to obey; but from the tone of his voice it could be told that he had much rather shoot at a person than act as target himself, and Archie ordered the prisoners to quicken their speed. Carter was several paces in the rear, remaining in the background in order, for the better carrying out of his own plans in regard to Fred, it should appear as if the constable was the commanding officer, and when the party arrived at the edge of the road where Bud had fastened the horse, the rumble of the approaching team could be heard very distinctly. "Now's our time! Run for your life!" Kincade whispered, staring up the road at the same instant, and as Bud followed at full speed both shouted for help at the utmost strength of their lungs. It was as if this daring attempt at escape deprived Archie of all power of motion. He lost several valuable seconds staring after his vanishing prisoners in speechless surprise, and followed this officer-like proceeding by attempting to shoot the fugitives with the tack-hammer. Carter, although not anticipating anything of the kind, had his wits about him, and, rushing past the bewildered constable, darted up the road in silence. He was well armed; but did not care to run the risk of killing one of the thieves, more especially since he felt positive of overtaking both in a short time, owing to the fact that the manacles upon their wrists would prevent them from any extraordinary speed. Neither Bud nor Kincade ceased to call for help, and almost before Carter was well in pursuit a voice from the oncoming team could be heard saying: "That's some of our crowd. I'm sure nobody but Jake could yell so loud." "It _is_ me!" Kincade shouted. "Hold hard, for there are a couple of officers close behind!" By the sounds which followed, Carter understood that the new-comers were turning their wagon, preparatory to carrying the arrested parties in the opposite direction, and he cried to the valiant Archie, who as yet had not collected his scattered senses sufficiently to join in the pursuit: "Bring that team on here, and be quick about it!" Now, to discharge a weapon would be to imperil the lives of the new actors on the scene, and this was not to be thought of for a moment. Carter strained every muscle to overtake his prisoners before they could clamber into the wagon; but in vain. Even in the gloom he could see the dark forms of the men as they leaped into the rear of the vehicle, and in another instant the horse was off at a full gallop in the direction from which he had just come. For the detective to go on afoot would have been folly, and once more he cried for Archie to bring the team, which had been left by the roadside when Kincade and Bud arrived. The little constable had by this time managed to understand at least a portion of what was going on around him, and, in a very bungling fashion, was trying to unfasten the hitching-rein; but he made such a poor job of it that Carter was forced to return and do the work himself. "Get in quickly," the detective said, sharply, as he led the horse into the road, and following Archie, the two were soon riding at a mad pace in pursuit, regardless alike of possible vehicles to be met, or the danger of being overturned. "Why didn't you shoot 'em when you had the chance?" Archie asked, as soon as he realized the startling change in the condition of affairs. "Because that should be done only when a man is actually in fear of his life, or believes a dangerous prisoner cannot be halted in any other way." "But that was the only chance of stoppin' them fellers." "I'll have them before morning," was the quiet reply, as the driver urged the horse to still greater exertions. "Those men have been traveling a long distance, while our animal is fresh, therefore it's only a question of time; but how does it happen that you didn't shoot? I left the fellows in your charge." "I was out putting up some bills this afternoon, and had my hammer with me, of course. When we got ready for this trip, I felt on the outside of my hip pocket, and made sure it was my revolver that formed such a bunch." "Another time I should advise you to be certain which of your many offices you intend to represent," Carter said, quietly. "I'm not positive, however, that we haven't cause to be thankful, for somebody might have been hurt." "There's no question about it, if I had been armed," was the reply, in a blood-thirsty tone, for Archie was rapidly recovering his alleged courage. "And I, being in the rear, stood as good a chance of receiving the bullet as did the men." "You have never seen me shoot," the little constable said, proudly. "Fortunately, I never did," Carter replied, and then the conversation ceased, as they were at the forks of a road where it was necessary to come to a halt in order to learn in which direction the fugitives had gone. This was soon ascertained, and as the detective applied the whip vigorously, he said, warningly: "Now keep your wits about you, for we are where they will try to give us the slip, and it is more than possible Heyland and Kincade may jump out of the wagon, leaving us to follow the team, while they make good their escape." Archie tried very hard to do as he was commanded; he stared into darkness, able now and then to distinguish the outlines of the vehicle in advance, and at the same time was forced to exert all his strength to prevent being thrown from his seat, so recklessly was Carter driving. "We'll be upset," he finally said, in a mild tone of protest. "The road seems to be very rough, and there must be considerable danger in going at such a pace." "No more for us than for them. I'll take a good many chances rather than go back to Tottenville and admit that we allowed two prisoners to escape after we had them ironed." The little constable had nothing more to say. He also thought it would be awkward to explain to his particular friends how, after such a marvelous piece of detective work, the criminals had got free. This, coupled with the story of his bruised hand, would give the fun-loving inhabitants of the village an opportunity to make his life miserable with pointless jokes and alleged witticisms, therefore he shut his teeth firmly, resolved not to make any further protest even though convinced that his life was actually in danger. During half an hour the chase continued, and for at least twenty minutes of this time the pursuers were so near the pursued that it would have been impossible for either occupant of the wagon to leap out unnoticed. Now the foremost horse was beginning to show signs of fatigue, owing to previous travel and the unusual load. Both whip and voice was used to urge him on; but in vain, and Carter said, in a low tone to Archie: "The chase is nearly ended! Be ready to leap out the instant we stop." Then, drawing his revolver, he cried, "There's no chance of your giving us the slip. Pull up, or I shall fire! If the prisoners are delivered to me at once there will be nothing said regarding the effort to aid them in escaping; but a delay of five minutes will result in imprisonment for the whole party." Kincade's friends evidently recognized the folly of prolonging the struggle, and, to save themselves from possible penalties of the law, the driver shouted: "I'll pull up. Look out that you don't run into us!" It required no great effort to bring both the panting steeds to a stand-still, and in a twinkling Carter was standing at one side of the vehicle with his revolver in hand, while Archie, with a boldness that surprised him afterward, stationed himself directly opposite, holding the tack-hammer as if on the point of shooting the culprits. Kincade realized that it was best to submit to the inevitable with a good grace, and he descended from the wagon, saying to the little constable as he did so: "Don't shoot! I'll agree to go peacefully." "Then see that you behave yourself, or I'll blow the whole top of your head off," Archie replied, in a blood-thirsty tone; but at the same time he took very good care to keep the hammer out of sight. Bud Heyland resisted even now when those who had tried to aid were ready to give him up. "I won't go back!" he cried, kicking vigorously as the detective attempted to pull him from the wagon. "I've done nothing for which I can be arrested, and you shan't take me." The long chase had exhausted all of Carter's patience, and he was not disposed to spend many seconds in expostulating. Seizing the kicking youth by one foot he dragged him with no gentle force to the ground, and an instant later the men in the wagon drove off, evidently preferring flight to the chances that the detective would keep his promise. "Bundle them into the carriage, and tie their legs," Carter said to the constable, and in a very short space of time the thieves were lying in the bottom of the vehicle unable to move hand or foot. Now that there was not the slightest possibility the culprits could escape, Archie kept vigilant watch over them. The least movement on the part of either, as Carter drove the tired horse back to the village, was the signal for him to use his hammer on any portion of their bodies which was most convenient, and this repeated punishment must have caused Bud to remember how often he had ill-treated those who were quite as unable to "strike back" as he now was. Not until the prisoners were safely lodged in the little building which served as jail did Archie feel perfectly safe, and then all his old pompous manner returned. But for the detective he would have hurried away to tell the news, late in the night though it was, for in his own opinion at least, this night's work had shown him to be not only a true hero, but an able detective. "It is considerably past midnight," Carter said, as they left the jail, "and we have a great deal to do before this job is finished." "What do you mean?" "Are we to leave the silver and money?" "Of course not; but you said we'd have to wait until we saw Fred." "Exactly so; but what is to prevent our doing that now? When the property has been delivered to its rightful owners you and I can take our ease; until then we are bound to keep moving." Archie was disappointed at not being able to establish, without loss of time, his claim to being a great man; but he had no idea of allowing anything to be done in the matter when he was not present, if it could be avoided, and he clambered into the wagon once more. The two drove directly to the Sheldon home, and Fred was dreaming that burglars were trying to get into the house, when he suddenly became conscious that some one was pounding vigorously on the front door. Leaping from the bed and looking out of the window he was surprised at seeing the man whom he knew as Cyrus Sutton, and at the same moment he heard his mother ask: "What is the matter, Mr. Carter?" "Nothing, except that we want Fred. The case is closed, and to save time we'd better get the property at once. Have you any objection to his going with me?" "Not the slightest. I will awaken him." "I'll be down in a minute," Fred cried, as he began to make a hurried toilet, wondering meanwhile why Bud Heyland's friend should be trusted so implicitly by his mother. As a matter of course it was necessary for Mrs. Sheldon to explain to her son who Cyrus Sutton really was and Fred was still in a maze of bewilderment when his mother admitted the detective. "Why didn't you tell me," he cried reproachfully. "No good could have come of it," the gentleman replied laughingly, "and, besides, I can't see how you failed to discover the secret, either when you ran away after listening behind the rock on the road-side, or when I passed so near while supposed to be hunting for you." "Did you see me then?" "Certainly, and but for such slight obstructions as I placed in Bud's way, he might have overtaken you." "Where is Archie?" "Out in the wagon waiting for you. Kincade and Bud are in the lock-up where we just left them, and now it is proposed to get the silver in order to deliver it early in the morning." "Did mother tell you I found it?" "She did, and I am heartily glad, since now the reward will be yours, and with it you can clear your home from debt." Fred did not wait to ask any further questions. In a very few moments he was ready for the journey, and, with the promise to "come home as soon as the work was done," he went out to where Archie greeted him in the most effusive manner. "We have covered ourselves with glory," the little constable cried. "This is a case which will be told throughout the country, and the fact that we arrested the culprits and recovered the property when there was absolutely no clew on which to work, is something unparalleled in the annals of detective history." Fred was neither prepared to agree to, nor dispute this statement. The only fact which remained distinct in his mind was that the reward would be his, and if there was any glory attached he felt perfectly willing Archie should take it all. "Get into the wagon, Fred," Carter said impatiently. "It will take us until daylight to get the stuff, and we don't want to shock the good people of Tottenville by doing too much driving after sunrise." Fred obeyed without delay, and during the ride Archie gave him all the particulars concerning the capture of the thieves, save in regard to his own stupidity which permitted the temporary escape. Knowing the woods in the vicinity of his home as well as Fred did, it was not difficult for him to go directly to the place where he had hidden the silver, even in the night, and half an hour later the stolen service was in the carriage. "It is nearly daylight," Carter said, when they were driving in the direction of the village again, "and the best thing we can do will be to go to Fred's home, where he and I can keep guard over the treasure until it is a proper time to return it to its owners." "In that case I may as well go home awhile," Archie said reflectively. "Doubtless my wife will be wondering what has kept me, and there is no need of three to watch the silver." "Very well, we shall not leave there until about nine o'clock," and Carter reined in the horse as they were in front of the fussy little constable's house, for him to alight. CHAPTER XXIII. THE SILVERWARE RETURNED. The sabbath morning dawned cool, breezy and delightful, and the maiden twin sisters, Misses Annie and Lizzie Perkinpine, made their preparations for driving to the village church, just as they had been in the habit of doing for many years. It required a storm of unusual violence to keep them from the Sunday service, which was more edifying to the good souls than any worldly entertainment could have been. They were not among those whose health permits them to attend secular amusements, but who invariably feel "indisposed" when their spiritual duties are involved. "I was afraid, sister," said Annie, "that when our silver was stolen, the loss would weigh so heavily upon me that I would not be able to enjoy the church service as much as usual, but I am thankful that it made no difference with me; how was it with _you_?" "I could not help feeling disturbed for some days," was the reply, "for it _was_ a loss indeed, but, when we have so much to be grateful for, how wrong it is to repine----" "What's that?" interrupted the other, hastening to the window as she heard the rattle of carriage wheels; "some one is coming here as sure as I live." "The folks must have forgot that it is the Sabbath," was the grieved remark of the other. "But this is something out of the common. Heigho!" This exclamation was caused by the sight of Cyrus Sutton, as he leaped lightly out of the wagon and tied his horse, while Fred Sheldon seemed to be tugging at something on the floor of the vehicle, which resisted his efforts. Mr. Sutton, having fastened the horse, went to the help of the youngster, and the next moment the two approached the house bearing a considerable burden. "My gracious!" exclaimed Aunt Lizzie, throwing up her hands, and ready to sink to the floor in her astonishment; "they have got our silverware." "You are right," added her sister, "they have the whole six pieces, slop-jar, sugar bowl, cream pitcher--not one of the six missing. They have them _all_; _now_ we can go to church and enjoy the sermon more than ever." The massive service of solid silver quaintly fashioned and carved by the puffy craftsmen of Amsterdam, who wrought and toiled when sturdy old Von Tromp was pounding the British tars off Goodwin Sands, more than two centuries ago, was carried into the house with considerable effort and set on the dining-room table, while for a minute or two the owners could do nothing but clasp and unclasp their hands and utter exclamations of wonder and thankfulness that the invaluable heirlooms had at last come back to them. The detective and lad looked smilingly at the ladies, hardly less pleased than they. "Where did you find them?" asked Aunt Lizzie, addressing herself directly to Mr. Carter, as was natural for her to do. The detective pointed to the boy and said: "Ask him." "Why, what can Fred know about it?" inquired the lady, beaming kindly upon the blushing lad. "He knows everything, for it was not I, but he, who found them." "Why, Fred, how can that be?" "I found them in an old tree in the woods," replied the little fellow, blushing to his ears. "This gentleman helped me to bring them here, for I never could have lugged them alone." "Of course you couldn't, but since you have earned the reward, you shall have it. To-day is the holy Sabbath, and it would be wrong, therefore, to engage in any business, but come around early to-morrow morning and we will be ready." "And I want to say," said Aunt Annie, pinching the chubby cheek of the happy youngster, "that there isn't any one in the whole world that we would rather give the reward to than you." "And there is none that it will please me more to see receive it," was the cordial remark of Mr. Carter, who, respecting the scruples of the good ladies, was about to bid them good-morning, when Aunt Lizzie, walking to the window, said: "I wonder what is keeping Michael." "I am afraid he will not be here to-day," said the officer. "Why not?" asked the sisters together in astonishment. "Well, to tell you the truth, he is in trouble." "Why, what has Michael done." "Nothing himself, but do you remember the tramp who came here last Monday night, and, after eating at your table, stole, or rather helped to steal, your silver service?" "Of course we remember him." "Well, that tramp was Michael's son Bud, who had put on false whiskers and disguised himself so that you never suspected who he was. Bud is a bad boy and is now in jail." "What is the world coming to?" gasped Aunt Lizzie, sinking into a chair with clasped hands, while her sister was no less shocked. In their kindness of heart they would have been glad to lose a large part of the precious silverware could it have been the means of restoring the boy to honesty and innocence. But that was impossible, and the sisters could only grieve over the depravity of one whom they had trusted. They asked nothing about the money that was taken with the silver, but Mr. Carter handed more than one-half of the sum to them. "Bud had spent considerable, but he gave me this; Kincade declared that he hadn't a penny left, but I don't believe him; this will considerably decrease your loss." At this moment, there was a resounding knock on the door, and in response to the summons to enter, Archie Jackson appeared, very red in the face and puffing hard. Bowing hastily to the ladies, he said impatiently to the officer: "It seems to me you're deef." "Why so?" "I've been chasing and yelling after you for half a mile, but you either pretended you didn't hear me or maybe you didn't." "I assure you, Archie, that I would have stopped on the first call, if I had heard you, for you know how glad I am always to have your company, and how little we could have done without your help." The detective knew how to mollify the fussy constable, whose face flushed a still brighter red, under the compliments of his employer, as he may be termed. "I knowed you was coming here," explained Archie, "and so I come along, so as to vouch to these ladies for you." "You are very kind, but they seem to be satisfied with Master Fred's indorsement, for he has the reputation of being a truthful lad." "I'm glad to hear it; how far, may I ask," he continued, clearing his throat, "have you progressed in the settlement of the various questions and complications arising from the nefarious transaction on Monday evening last?" "The plate has been returned to the ladies, as your eyes must have told you; but, since this is the first day of the week, the reward will not be handed over to Fred until to-morrow morning. "Accept my congratulations, sir, accept my congratulations," said the constable, stepping ardently toward the boy and effusively extending his hand. The ladies declined to accept the money which the detective offered, insisting that it belonged to him. He complied with their wishes, and, since it was evident that Archie had hastened over solely to make sure he was not forgotten in the general distribution of wages, the detective handed him one hundred dollars, which was received with delight, since it was far more than the constable had ever earned in such a short time in all his life before. "Before I leave," said Mr. Carter, addressing the ladies, "I must impress one important truth upon you." "You mean about the sin of stealing," said Aunt Annie; "Oh, we have thought a good deal about _that_." The officer smiled in spite of himself, but quickly became serious again. "You mistake me. I refer to your practice of keeping such valuable plate as loosely as you have been in the habit of doing for so many years. The fact of the robbery will cause it to be generally known that your silver can be had by any one who chooses to enter your house and take it, and you may rest assured, that if you leave it exposed it won't be long before it will vanish again, beyond the reach of all the Fred Sheldons and detectives in the United States." "Your words are wise," said Aunt Annie, "and I have made up my mind that we must purchase two or three more locks and put them on the chest." "I think I know a better plan than _that_," Aunt Lizzie hastened to say. "What's that?" inquired the visitor. "We'll get Michael to bring some real heavy stones to the house and place them on the lid of the chest, so as to hold it down." "Neither of your plans will work," said Mr. Carter solemnly; "you must either place your silver in the bank, where you can get it whenever you wish, or you must buy a burglar-proof safe and lock it up in that every night." "I have heard of such things," said Aunt Lizzie, "and I think we will procure a safe, for it is more pleasant to know that the silver is in the house than it is to have it in the bank, miles off, where it will be so hard to take and bring it. What do you think, sister?" "The same as you do." "Then we will buy the safe." "And until you do so, the silver must be deposited in the bank; though, as this is Sunday, you will have to keep it in the house until the morrow." "I shall not feel afraid to do that," was the serene response of sister Lizzie, "because no man, even if he is wicked enough to be a robber, would be so abandoned as to commit the crime on _Sunday_." The beautiful faith of the good soul was not shocked by any violent results of her trust. Though the silver remained in her house during the rest of that day and the following night, it was not disturbed, and on the morrow was safely delivered to the bank, where it stayed until the huge safe was set up in the old mansion, in which the precious stuff was deposited, and where at this writing it still remains, undisturbed by any wicked law-breakers. You may not know it, but it is a fact that there are circuses traveling over the country to-day whose ticket-sellers receive no wages at all, because they rely upon the short change and the bad money which they can work off on their patrons. Not only that, but I know of a case where a man paid twenty dollars monthly for the privilege of selling tickets for a circus. From this statement, I must except any and all enterprises with which my old friend, P. T. Barnum, has any connection. Nothing could induce him to countenance such dishonesty. Trained in this pernicious school, Jacob Kincade did not hesitate to launch out more boldly, and finally he formed a partnership with two other knaves, for the purpose of circulating counterfeit money, engaging now and then in the side speculation of burglary, as was the case at Tottenville, where he arrived a few hours in advance of the show itself. He and his two companions were deserving of no sympathy, and each was sentenced to ten years in the State prison. The youth of Bud Heyland, his honest repentance and the grief of his father and mother aroused great sympathy for him. It could not be denied that he was a bad boy, who had started wrong, and was traveling fast along the downward path. In truth, he had already gone so far that it may be said the goal was in sight when he was brought up with such a round turn. A fact greatly in his favor was apparent to all--he had been used as a cat's paw by others. He was ignorant of counterfeit money, though easily persuaded to engage in the scheme of passing it upon others. True, the proposition to rob the Perkinpine sisters came from him, but in that sad affair also he was put forward as the chief agent, while his partner took good care to keep in the background. Bud saw the fearful precipice on whose margin he stood. His parents were almost heart-broken, and there could be no doubt of his anxiety to atone, so far as possible, for the evil he had done. Fortunately, the judge was not only just but merciful, and, anxious to save the youth, he discharged him under a "suspended sentence," as it was called, a most unusual proceeding under the circumstances, but which proved most beneficent, since the lad never gave any evidence of a desire to return to his evil ways. As for Master Fred Sheldon, I almost feel as though it is unnecessary to tell you anything more about him, for, with such a mother, with such natural inclinations, and with such training, happiness, success and prosperity are as sure to follow as the morning is to succeed the darkness of night. I tell you, boys, you may feel inclined to slight the old saying that honesty is the best policy, but no truer words were ever written, and you should carry them graven on your hearts to the last hours of your life. Fred grew into a strong, sturdy boy, who held the respect and esteem of the neighborhood. The sisters Perkinpine, as well as many others, took a deep interest in him and gave him help in many ways, and often when the boy was embarrassed by receiving it. The time at last came, when our "Young Hero" bade good-by to his loved mother, and went to the great city of New York to carve his fortune. There he was exposed to manifold more temptations than ever could be the case in his simple country home, but he was encased in the impenetrable armor of truthfulness, honesty, industry and right principles, and from this armor all the darts of the great adversary "rolled off like rustling rain." Fred is now a man engaged in a prosperous business in the metropolis of our country, married to a loving and helpful wife, who seems to hold the sweetest and tenderest place in his affection, surpassed by that of no one else, but equalled by her who has been his guardian angel from infancy--HIS MOTHER. THE WALNUT ROD. BY R. F. COLWELL. My father was a physician of good practice in a wealthy quarter of Philadelphia, and we boys, four in number, were encouraged by him to live out of doors as much as possible. We played the national game, rowed, belonged to a well-equipped private gymnasium, and were hale and hearty accordingly; but especially did we prize the spring vacation which was always spent at our grandfather's farm, a beautiful spot in the Juanita valley, shut in by hills and warmed by the sunshine, which always seemed to us to shine especially bright on our annual visit, as if to make up for the cloudy and stormy weather of March. At the time of which I speak, the anticipations before starting were especially joyous. Harry, Carl and Francis, aged respectively eleven, fourteen and sixteen, had after earnest efforts in their school work been promoted each to the class above his former rank, and were in consequence proud and happy, though tired. I, Royal by name, a junior in a well-known New England college, working steadily in the course, was not unwilling to spend a week or two in quiet, searching the well-stored library which had the best that three generations of book lovers could buy on its shelves, and before whose cheery open fire we gathered at evening for stories and counsel from older and wiser minds. We packed our bags, took our rods--for trout fishing was often good, even in early April, in a well-stocked brook that ran along willow-fringed banks in the south pasture--and boarded the train. At the station the hired man met us with a pair of Morgan horses than which I do not remember to have seen better from that day to this, and we were soon at the hall door, shaking hands with grandmother and grandfather, and, to our pleasant surprise, with Aunt Celia, who, unexpectedly to us, was at home. She was a widow, having lost her husband in the Mexican war, and was a teacher of modern languages in a girl's private school in southern New York. She was one of those rare natures that the heart instinctively trusts, and no one of the many grandchildren hesitated about telling Aunt Celia his or her troubles, always confident that something would be done toward making the rough place smooth or gaining the object sought. We had a cozy tea. The special good things that only grandmothers seem to remember that a boy likes were found beside our plates, and we did them ample justice. This was Saturday evening. The next morning we occupied the family pew, and raised our young voices in the familiar hymns so clearly and joyously, that I remember to have seen many of the older people looking in our direction, and one old lady remarked as we were going out, "Henry's boys take after him for their good voices." Father had led the village choir for several years before he went away from his home to the medical school. The next morning we took our rods and went off for a long tramp. We fished some, and between us brought home enough for next morning's breakfast. The next day we climbed the favorite hills and gathered four large bunches of that spring beauty _Epigæa repens_, arbutus, or May flowers, whose pink cups and delicious woody fragrance we entrusted to damp moss, and sent the box with our cards to mother, for we knew how she loved the flowers she had picked from these same hills. Their scent comes back to me now, though it is many years since I have picked one. Carl and Francis were just at the age when feats of daring were a delight to them. Harry was of a naturally timid nature, modest, and lacking sometimes in confidence, and so was often urged on by the other two, when he shrank from attempting anything, by such expressions as "Don't be a coward, Harry!" "A girl could do that!" which, by such a sensitive spirit, were felt more than blows of the lash would be. When I was by, the boys would not indulge in these trials of strength or endurance, but in my absence I knew they hurt his tender feelings by their taunts, though really they did not intend to. A boy looks for what he calls courage in his playmate, and, if he does not see what apparently corresponds to his own, he thinks him a coward, while the braver of the two may really be the more diffident and shrinking one. It was Saturday afternoon; we were to leave Monday morning, and I had gone to the post-office to mail a letter to our father, telling him to expect us Monday noon. Behind the barn was a large oak tree from whose trunk a long branch ran horizontally toward the shed roof, though at a considerable distance above it. The boys had been pitching quoits near the tree, and, having finished the game, looked about for some more exciting sport. Francis thought he saw it, so he climbed the tree, crept out on the limb, hung by the arms a moment and then dropped, with something of a jar, to be sure, but safely, on the roof, where he sat with a satisfied look. He called to Carl to follow him. Carl, though unwilling to try it, was still more unwilling to acknowledge any superiority of his older brother in that line, so he, too, climbed up, crept out, and, when he had found what he thought was a good place, and had called out two or three times, "Fran, shall I strike all right?" dropped and was happy. Then they both called to Harry, "Come on, Hal," but he, overcome by the fear he had felt that they would fall while attempting it, refused to make the trial. When they began to speak about what "a girl could do," grandfather came out of the back door, where he had been a silent spectator of the whole affair, patted Harry on the shoulder, assuring him that he'd more good sense than Carl and Francis together, and bade the climbers come down at once. Grandfather was a man of few words, and they obeyed. Nothing more was said. I returned soon after. We had tea as usual and adjourned to the library, where a genial fire of hickory logs warmed and lighted the room. Grandmother and grandfather sat in their armchairs on each side of the broad hearth. I occupied an antique chair I had found in the attic, and which I was to carry home for my own room. Carl and Francis sat on old-fashioned crickets, while Aunt Celia had her low willow rocker in front of the fire, and Harry leaned against her, with her arm around his neck. We remained silent for some moments, when grandfather said quietly, "Celia, hadn't you better tell the boys the story of the walnut rod?" We looked up in swift surprise. The walnut rod spoken of was one that had rested, ever since we could remember, across a pair of broad antlers over the fireplace, with an old sword and two muskets that had seen service at Bunker Hill and Yorktown. Often had we, in boyish curiosity, asked what it was, and why it was kept there, tied by a piece of faded ribbon to one of the antlers, but had always been put off with "by-and-by," and "when you are older." Now, when we saw a chance to know about it, we chorused, "Oh, yes, Aunt Celia, do tell, please," and she quietly saying, "I suppose they can learn its lesson now," began: "I was, as you know, the only girl of the family, and also the youngest child, your father being two years older. There were few neighbors when we first came here to live; indeed, our nearest was fully a quarter of a mile away, so we saw few beside our own family. Your uncles, John, William, and Elijah, were several years older, and so were busy helping father in clearing the land and in its care. Accordingly, Henry and I were much together. We studied the same book at our mother's knee, played with the same toys, and were together so much that the older boys sometimes called us 'mother's two girls.' But your father, though tender and gentle in appearance, had a brave heart under his little jacket, and I knew better than they, that he was no coward. They called him so sometimes, thinking, because he seemed fearful about some things they counted trifles, that he really had no courage. I'm afraid boys have forgotten nowadays, that mere daring is no test of true courage." Here Francis and Carl felt their faces grow hot, but Aunt Celia said no more and went on. "It was one day in April, very like to-day, that we all went upon the side hill to pick May flowers. Henry was nearly twelve years old--his birthday, as you know, is next month--and I was ten. It had always been a habit, when people went out in the spring for flowers, to cut a stout stick, to be used partly as a walking-stick, and partly as a protection against snakes, which were often seen, but which usually escaped before they could be reached. Old people told of rattlesnakes that used to be seen, but they were very scarce, even then, and none of us had ever seen one. "We all had sticks, cut from a bunch of hickory saplings that grew beside the path, and your uncle Elijah said, as we were going along, 'I wonder what Hen would do if he heard a rattlesnake; turn pale and faint away, I guess,' at which the others laughed loudly, but Henry said nothing, though I saw his lips quiver at the taunt. "We found the flowers, thick and beautiful, just as you have this week. We picked all we wished, ate the lunch which mother had put up for us, and were sitting on a large, flat stone, talking of starting for home. I saw a bit of pretty moss under some twigs at the edge of the stone, and stepped down to get it, when suddenly a peculiar whir-r-r, that we never had heard before, struck our ears. All the boys started up, looking about eagerly. The bushes at my side parted slightly, and the flattened head of a large rattlesnake protruded, and again came that dreadful sound. Then the boys jumped from the rock, each in a different direction, and screamed, rather than cried, 'Jump, Celia, it's a rattlesnake!' "I could not move. I must have been paralyzed by fear, for, though I was but a child, I could not misunderstand my danger. Of course, what I am telling happened in a few seconds, but I remember hearing the swish that a stick makes when it cuts through the air, and the horrible head, with its forked, vibrating tongue, was severed from the writhing body, and fell at my feet. "Harry had quietly stepped down by my side, and with his stick--the one you see on the antlers yonder--had saved me from a dreadful death. There he stood, pale and trembling to be sure, but with such a light in his blue eyes, that none of his older brothers dared ever call him coward, or girl, again. We walked quietly home, bringing the body with its horrible horny scales to show to father and mother. I shall never forget how they clasped us in their arms as they listened to the story, and how I wondered, as a child will, if everybody, when they were grown up, cried when they were very glad. "Nothing was ever said to the older boys. They had learned what true bravery was, the scorn of self-protection when another needed help, and they have been better for it ever since. Your father has never had the story told to you, thinking that some time it might also teach you the lesson that true courage from its root word, the Latin _cor_, and down through the French _coeur_, is both below and above any outward manifestations, and belongs to the heart. "The snake must have come out into the sun from his den under the rock, and was not as active as in warmer weather, or the bite would have followed the first alarm. There has never since been seen another in this locality." We sat in silence for awhile, and then grandfather spoke, laying his hand on Harry's curls: "I seem to see my boy Henry again in his son, Harry. I hope he will grow up into the same brave, though tender manhood of his father, and remember, boys," he said, turning toward Francis and Carl, "that recklessness and a desire to be thought bold and daring are not an index of true courage and often have no connection with it. If the walnut rod teaches you this lesson, its story will be of great value to you." HOW THE HATCHET WAS BURIED. BY OCTAVIA CARROLL. A feud, as fierce as that between the Montagues and Capulets, had for several years raged between the boys of Valleytown and the country lads living on the breezy hills just above the small village. Originating in a feeling of jealousy, it waxed hotter and more bitter with every game of ball and every examination at the "Academy" where they were forced to meet the rival factions, tauntingly dubbing each other "Lilies of the Valley" and "Ground Moles," while if a Lily chanced to whip a Mole in a fair fight all the town-bred youths immediately stood on their heads for joy, and if a Mole went above a Lily in class, the entire hill company crowed as loudly as the chanticleers of the barnyard. By general consent two boys had come to be considered the leaders of the respective factions; handsome, quick-witted Roy Hastings of the former, and stronger, bright Carl Duckworth of the latter; while it was an annoyance to each that their sisters had struck up a "bosom friendship" and stubbornly refused to share in their brothers' feud. "It is so absurd in Roy," said Helen Hastings, "to want me not to visit Maizie, whom I love so dearly, just because one of her family has beaten him at baseball and shot more pigeons this spring." "And Helen shall come to tea as often as she likes to put up with our plain fare," declared little Miss Duckworth, "even if Carl does look like a thunder-cloud all supper time and has hardly enough politeness to pass the butter." So matters stood when, one evening in early June, the commander of the heights' coterie summoned his followers to a meeting in the loft of an old barn on his father's estate, that was only used as a storehouse since a better one had been built. "Hello, fellows, what is this pow-wow about?" asked agile Mark Tripp, as he sprang up a rickety ladder and popped his head through the square opening in the attic floor. "Dun'no; some bee, Duckworth, here, has buzzing round in his bonnet," replied lazy Hugh Blossom from the hay, where he reclined. "It takes the captain to have 'happy thoughts,'" while, playfully pulling a refractory lock of hair sticking out from Carl's head, he gaily chanted: "And the duck with the feather curled over his back, He leads all the others, with his quack! quack! quack!" "Good enough! All right, Ducky, proceed with your quacking! Let's know what's up! Are the 'low-ly lil-is of the val-ly' once more on the war path? And to what do they challenge us--a spelling match or a swimming race?" "To neither. Those very superior posies are about to seek glory in another way. I have learned from a most reliable source that they are now hoarding all their pocket money in order to astonish the natives. In fact, fellers, they intend to fresco Valleytown a decided carmine on the 'Glorious Fourth,' and we have got to make the hills hum to quench 'em." "What form is their celebration to take?" asked little Peter Wheatly. "Fireworks, principally. Real stunners! Not just a few Roman candles and sky-rockets, but flower-pots throwing up colored balls that burst into stars, zigzagging serpents, and all sorts of things, such as have never been seen round here before. Why, our big bonfire and giant crackers will be nowhere." "Right you are there, Cap," said Hugh. "They will have all the country down on the Green patting them on the back for their public spirit, while we occupy a back seat. It's a pretty bright move for the Lilies, and I don't see how we can prevent it." "Get up a counter-attraction. Pyro--pyro--what do you call 'em will make a good deal finer show from Round Knob than down yonder in the dale." "Sure. But where are your pyrotechnics to come from?" "From the city, of course. See here, I wrote to a firm there as soon as I learned the Lilies' secret, and they sent me a price-list." Young Duckworth produced a very gay red and yellow circular, but the boys only looked at each other in blank amazement. The hillside farmers were nearly all land poor, gaining but a bare subsistence out of the rocky New England soil and seldom had a dime, much less dollars, to squander on mere amusement. "Guess you think we are Rothschilds or Vanderbilts," snickered small Peter. "Pennies always burn a hole in my pocket and drop right out," said Mark. "I might chip in a copper cent and a nickel with a dig in it," drawled Hugh, and there was no one else who could do better. "Well, I know you are an impecunious lot," continued Carl, "but next week the strawberries will be dead ripe. If you fellows will only be patriotic and pitch in and pick for the cause we can put Roy Hastings and his top-lofty crowd to the blush by getting up a really respectable show with a 'piece' as a topper off. I don't believe the Valleyites ever thought of a 'piece.'" "What sort of a piece?" asked Bud Perkins. "Why, a fancy piece of fireworks, of course. Just listen to what Powder & Co. offer!" and Carl read aloud: "'Realistic spectacle of Mother Goose, in peaked hat and scarlet cloak, with her gander by her side. The head of George Washington, the Father of his Country, surrounded by thirteen stars. Very fine. Superb figure of Christopher Columbus landing from his Spanish galleon upon the American shore. One of our most magnificent designs." "There, don't that sound prime? They're expensive, awfully expensive, but we can economize on the rockets and little things to come out strong, in a blaze of glory, at the end. I warrant a Mother Goose or, better yet, a Washington would shut up the Lilies' leaves in a jiffy." "Or Christopher Columbus--I vote for old Chris," shouted Mark. "Yes, yes, Chris and his galleon," chorused the others. "It is the dearest of them all," remarked Carl, somewhat dubiously. "No matter, 'Chris or nothing,' say we." So it was decided, and before the boys parted they had all agreed, if they could win their parents' consent, to hire out for the berry-picking and to contribute every cent thus earned toward the Fourth of July celebration. There is no spur like competition, and for the next three weeks the ambitious youths devoted themselves heart, and soul, and fingers to the cause; but the pickers had their reward, when, the berry harvest over, they found they could send a tolerably satisfactory order to Powder & Co., and when, on the third of July, a great box arrived by express, was unpacked, and its contents secretly, and under the cover of night, stored away in the lower part of Farmer Duckworth's discarded barn, their exuberant delight burst forth in sundry ecstatic somersaults and Indian-like dances. It may be, however, that their exultation might have been tempered with caution had they been aware of two figures gliding stealthily through the darkness without, and known that the case, bearing the name of the city firm, when it was taken from the train, had not escaped the sharp eyes of Roy Hastings and his chum Ed Spafford. "How do you suppose they ever raised the money to buy all those fireworks?" asked one shadow of another shadow, as they flitted down the hill. "I don't know, confound 'em! But I do know their show is better than ours, and something has got to be done!" "Yes, indeed, and surely, Roy, there must be some way!" "There always is where there is a will, and--and--_matches_!" Boom, boom, boom! Old Captain Stone's ancient cannon announced the advent of another Independence Day shortly after midnight, and Young America was quickly abroad with the Chinese cracker and torpedo. Helen Hastings disliked the deafening racket of the village and, therefore, early beat a retreat to the hills, determined to enjoy the day in her own fashion with Maizie, who welcomed her with open arms. "I am so glad you have come, Nell, dear, for I was feeling as blue as your sash, if it is the Fourth of July!" "Why, darling, what is the matter?" "Oh, I am so worried because pa is worried. He don't act a bit like his dear, jolly, old self, but goes round with a long face and can neither eat nor sleep. Ma says it is because a mortgage or something is coming due, and the crops have been so bad for several years that he is afraid he may have to sell the farm and move out West. It would just break my heart to leave this place." "So it would mine. But there, Maizie, it is foolish to be troubled about what may never happen. It is so warm let us find a nice cool spot and finish the book we commenced the other day." "There is a good current of air through the loft of the old barn. We will go there if you can scramble up the ladder." This, with some assistance, Helen succeeded in doing, and the two girls were soon nestling in the sweet, new-mown hay. "Eleven o'clock," announced Helen, consulting her little chatelaine watch as they finally laid down the entertaining story they had been reading, "and I am both sleepy and thirsty." "Well, my dear, lie back and take a nap and I will go and make lemonade for us both." "Really? Oh, that will be delicious!" and throwing herself back on the fragrant mow she closed her eyes as her blithe, hospitable friend skipped off toward the house. The twittering of the swallows in the eaves and the hum of the insects in the meadows without were curiously soothing, and the fair maid fell into a light doze from which, however, she was rudely awakened by a terrific explosion. She sprang to her feet in alarm to find the floor heaving like the deck of a ship at sea and feel the tumble-down building rocking as though shaken to its very foundation. "What has happened! Is it an earthquake?" she gasped, rushing to the ladder-way; but she started back in affright at sight of a mass of flame and flying, fiery objects below. "Oh, this is terrible!" Was she, Helen Hastings--her father's pride, her brothers' pet--to meet a violent death here in this lonely spot? Expecting every instant to have the boards give way beneath her, she flew to the window and, in her desperation, would have leaped out, regardless of a huge pile of stones beneath, had not the voice of Maizie at that moment reached her ear calling: "Don't jump, Helen; don't jump! You will be killed! Wait! courage! I am going for help." Even as she faltered hesitatingly, her strength failed, her senses reeled and she fell fainting to the ground. Across lots from Round Knob, where they had been preparing for the evening exhibition, came Carl Duckworth, Hugh Blossom and Bud Perkins. They were in high spirits, discussing with animation the anticipated fun, when Bud suddenly stopped short, asking, "Who are those fellows making tracks so fast down the road?" "Looks like Roy Hastings and Ed Spafford," replied Hugh. "Though what brings them this way on such a day as this puzzles me." "I hope they haven't got wind of our plans and been up to some mischief," said Carl, uneasily, instinctively quickening his footsteps. A moment later, as they entered the farm gate, the explosion that had awakened Helen made them also start and gaze at each other in dismay. Then a howl of mingled rage, grief and astonishment burst from the trio as through the open door of the old barn shot a confused medley of rockets, pin-wheels, snakes and grasshoppers, popping and fizzing madly in the garish sunlight; a howl that culminated in a shriek when whirling and spinning out whizzed the famous "piece," the Landing of Columbus, thrown by the concussion far upon the grass, where it went off in a highly erratic manner, poor Christopher appearing perfectly demoralized as he stood on his head in the brilliant galleon, with his feet waving amid a galaxy of stars. "All our three weeks' labor and all our money gone up in smoke!" groaned Bud, flinging himself down in an agony of despair. "And it is Roy Hastings' mean, dastardly work," growled Hugh; while Carl turned pale with wrath and shook his fist in a way that boded no good to his enemy. Indeed, at that instant, he felt that revenge, swift and telling, would be the sweetest thing in life. Truly, then, it seemed the very irony of fate, when, from amid the wreaths of smoke pouring from the upper loft window, emerged for a brief second a girlish, white-robed figure, with beseeching, outstretched hands, that paused, swayed, then fell back and disappeared, while Maizie rushed toward them crying, "Oh, Carl, Carl! The old barn is on fire, and Helen is in there!" "What! Roy Hastings' sister?" and Hugh actually laughed aloud. "Serves the mean rascal right, too, if she was killed, for he would have no one but himself to blame," said Bud Perkins, whose bark was always worse than his bite, and who was really as kind-hearted a chap as ever lived. "Oh, you bad, cruel boys!" exclaimed Maizie; "but Carl, I know, will not be so wicked," and she turned imploringly to her brother, in whose mind a fierce struggle was going on. In a flash, he saw his foe bowed and crushed with remorse, a "paying back" far beyond anything he could have dreamed of! Besides, the risk was tremendous, and why should he endanger his life? But the next moment humanity triumphed, and shouting, "We can't stand idle and see a girl perish before our eyes! So here goes," he sped off toward the burning building, stripping off his jacket, as he ran, which he plunged into a barrel of water and then wrapped closely about his head. Thus protected, he bravely dashed through the flames lapping at him with their fiery tongues. His breath came in short, quick pants, he was nearly suffocated, and falling rafters warned him that he had no time to spare. Valiantly, however, he struggled to the already charred ladder and groped his way up it, until, gasping and exhausted, he reached the window with the unconscious girl in his arms, as the fire was eating through the floor at his feet. To the anxious watchers outside, it appeared an eternity before the lad reached the window and deftly caught the rope they had ready to toss to him. With trembling fingers he knotted this about Helen's waist, gently let her down into the arms of Bud and Hugh and then prepared to descend himself, when a groan of horror from the onlookers rent the air; there was a quiver, a sudden giving way, a deafening crash and roar. The flooring had at length succumbed to the destroying element and gone down. Mrs. Duckworth sank on her knees sobbing. "Oh, my boy! my boy!" and Maizie hid her face. But, as the smoke cleared away, the groan changed to a joyous shout and all looked up to behold the youth clinging to the casement, which was still upheld by two feeble supports. Hugh sprang forward. "Carl, drop! Let yourself drop," he called. "We will catch you," and Carl, as a great darkness overwhelmed him, dropped like a dead weight and was borne, a begrimed and senseless burden, to his own little room in the cozy old homestead. Summer was over ere a mere wraith of sturdy, lively Carl Duckworth was able to creep down stairs to sit on the veranda and gaze listlessly out upon the mountain landscape in its early autumn dress. But, after weary weeks of pain and anxiety, he was on the mend, and there was something of the old merriment in his laugh when he caught sight of a row of urchins, perched on the fence like a motley flock of birds, singing with hearty good will, "See, the Conquering Hero Comes!" and he was surprised to recognize in the welcoming choristers many "Lilies" of Valleytown, as well as his own familiar friends. It was something of an astonishment, too, to have Roy Hastings hurry forward to offer his hand and say: "I can't tell you, Duckworth, how glad I am to see you out again and only wish you would give me a good sound kicking;" while surely there were tears in his eyes and a curious break in his voice. It was a boy's way of begging pardon, but, being a boy, Carl understood, while as he looked into the other's white worn face, so changed since he saw it last, he dimly comprehended that there might be "coals of fire" which burn more sharply even than the blisters and stings that had caused him such days and nights of agony. So the grasp he gave Roy was warm and cordial as he said, "Well, I'm not equal to much kicking yet, old fellow; but, for one, I am tired of this old feud and think it is time we buried the hatchet." "Oh, I am so glad!" cried a merry voice in the doorway, and out danced Helen with her hands full of flowers. "You dear, heroic Carl. I have come to thank you, too, though I never, never can, for rescuing me on that dreadful day, and, as some small return, they have let me be the first to tell you of the silver lining hidden behind that cloud of smoke." "What do you mean?" asked Carl, thoroughly mystified. "I mean that Christopher Columbus and his combustible companions did a pretty good turn after all. They plowed up the ground under the old barn so well that when the rubbish was cleared away there came to light what promises to be the finest paint mine in the whole country." "Paint mine!" "Yes, sir. Non-inflammable, mineral paint that will not only save the farm, but, perhaps, make all our fortunes." "It's true, Carl, every word true," laughed Maizie, who had stolen softly up. "Papa has had the ore analyzed, and is so happy he beams like a full moon. Judge Hastings, too, has been so kind, advancing funds, getting up a company and preparing to build a kiln. It has been quite the excitement of the summer in Valleytown." "Well, well! This is glorious news! Hip, hip, hooray!" a feeble cheer that was echoed and re-echoed by the faction on the fence. "Dear me, haven't you finished your revelations yet?" exclaimed Mark Tripp, suddenly tumbling up the steps. "For if you have the 'Lilies of the Valley' request the captain of the 'Ground Moles' and the young ladies to occupy the piazza chairs and witness a pyrotechnical display postponed from the Fourth of July, but now given in honor of the recovery of our esteemed citizen, Carl Duckworth, and of our Peace Jubilee." All laughed at Mark's pompous little speech and hastened to take their places. So at last in a shower of golden sparks they buried the hatchet and the feud between Valleytown and Hillside ended forever amid a generous display of fire-works. HANSCHEN AND THE HARES. FROM THE GERMAN, BY ELLEN T. SULLIVAN. Long ago, in a little house near a forest in Germany lived a shoemaker and his wife. They were poor but contented and happy; for they were willing to work and they had their snug little house and food enough for themselves and their little Hanschens. "Oh! if Hanschen would only grow like other boys, I should be the happiest woman in the land," the mother used to say. "He is six years old, yet he can stand on the palm of my hand." "Well, if he is not so big as some of our neighbors' boys, he is brighter than many of them," the father used to answer. Then the mother felt so glad she would dance around the room with Hans and say, "Yes, he is bright as a child can be and as spry too. When he runs around the room I can hardly catch him." One day she said to her husband, "I am going to the forest meadow to cut fodder for the goat. The grass there is so sweet and juicy that, if the goat eats it, we shall have the richest milk for Hanschen. That will make him grow faster. I will take him with me; he can sit in the grass and play with the flowers." "Very well," said the father; "take care that he does not stray away from you. Give him some clover blossoms to suck. We are too poor to buy candy for him." Out through the green forest went Hanschen and his mother. The boy was so happy that his mother could hardly hold him, as he laughed and jumped and clapped his hands. He thought the blue sky was playing hide-and-seek with him through the treetops; that the birds were singing a welcome to him, and that the bees, the butterflies, and great dragon-flies were all glad to see him. When they came to the meadow his mother put him down and gave him some clover blossoms. Then she began to cut the grass and soon she was quite a way from Hanschen, who was entirely hidden by the tall grass. While the mother was working Hanschen sat sucking his sweet clover blossoms. All at once he heard a rustling, and there, beside him were two little hares. He was not at all afraid. He nodded to them and said, "How do you do?" The little hares had never seen a child. They thought he was a hare, dressed up in a coat and having a different kind of face from their own. They stared at him a minute and then one said, "Hop! hop!" and sprang over a grass stalk. "Can you do that?" said they to Hanschen. "Yes, indeed!" said he, leaping quickly over a stalk, as he spoke. "Now," said the hares, "we shall have a fine time playing together." And a fine time they did have, leaping and racing until the sun was low in the west, and the little hares began to think of supper and bed. "Come home with us; our father and mother will be good to you;" they said to Hanschen. So he leaped away with the little hares toward the green bushes where they lived. Now there was another little hare, who had staid at home with his mother that day. His bright eyes were the first to see the three merry friends leaping toward the bushes. "Oh, mammy! mammy!" he cried: "Just look through the bushes. Did you ever see such a queer-looking hare as that little chap with my brothers?" "Bring me my spectacles, child," said Mrs. Hare. "It may be the poor thing has been hurt. That terrible hunter is around again. He chased your poor father yesterday. Then that wicked old fox is prowling about, too. It may be that one of them hurt the poor little stranger so that he does not look natural. If so, I'll soon cure him by good nursing." That was what kind Mrs. Hare said to her little son. He brought her spectacles, which she wiped and put on. Then she cried out, "Why bless me! this is no hare! This is a human child! He is lost and his parents will be wild with grief for him. My children, I fear you led him astray. Tell just where you found him and we will carry him back there in the morning. It is so late now he must stay with us to-night." "We thought he was a hare because he can spring and leap as well as we can. We found him in the forest meadow and we have had splendid fun together," said the little hares. Then good Mrs. Hare gave Hanschen some hares' bread for his supper, and soon after she tucked him snugly in bed with her sons. Before putting him to bed she drew over him, a soft silky hare coat. It fitted him nicely from the two furry ears to the little stubby tail. The three little hares were delighted and said, "He's a hare now, isn't he, mammy?" "Well, dears, he does look just like one of you; but you must all lie still now and go to sleep for we must get up with the sun, to-morrow," said Mrs. Hare. In the meantime Hanschen's mother had finished cutting the grass, and she looked for Hanschen and called him until it grew quite dark. Then she went home, weeping bitterly, and told her husband that their child was lost. Out ran the father then to look for his boy; but he could not find him. All that night the poor parents wept and moaned, while Hanschen was sleeping peacefully with the little hares. The Hare family got up at daylight, and all of them put on their Sunday clothes, for Mr. Hare had said to his wife, "I want folks to see that their child has been with good company; so please put on your very best cap and brush all our children's coats until they shine. I'll wear a high collar and my tall silk hat, and you must tie my cravat in a nice bow." When all were dressed they ate a good breakfast, locked up their green gate and started for the meadow. They had scarcely reached the edge of the forest, when they heard Hanschen's mother calling, "Hanschen! Hanschen! darling!" "Here I am, mother;" cried he. "I hear him! I hear him! Oh husband! don't you?" said the mother. "I do hear his voice but I can see nothing except a little brown hare." Hanschen laughed in delight--sprang forward and pulled off his furry coat. How surprised his father and mother were! By this time the Hare family had come up and Mr. Hare took off his hat and bowing very low, he said, "Mr. Man, this is my good wife and these youngsters are my three sons. Their mother and I try to teach them to do right, and they really are pretty good children. Two of them were playing around here yesterday, and invited your son to play with them, not knowing what sorrow and trouble they caused you by leading him astray. They brought him home with them last night. My good wife gave him plenty to eat; he slept with my sons and you see the fine suit of hare-clothes he has just taken off. I hope you will let him keep it to remember us by. It is a present from all of us. We are only hares but we have done by your child just what we should like you to do by one of our children if you should find one of them astray. And now, my dear sir, we will bid you farewell and go back to our home." "Not yet! not yet!" cried Hanschen's father and mother. "Tell us, do you have sorrows or troubles? One good turn deserves another. We should be so glad to do something for you." "Sorrows and troubles are plentiful in our lives," said Mr. Hare. "If you can stop that terrible hunter from chasing us; and if you can manage to trap that wicked Mr. Fox, will make us very happy. And good Mrs. Man, if you will just throw a few cabbage leaves out on the snow for us in the winter, when every green thing is dead or buried; then we shall not have to go to bed hungry." Hanschen's father and mother gladly promised to do all they could for the good Hare family; then the two happy families went home. One day soon after Hanschen's visit to the hares, his father got up very early, for he had two pairs of shoes to finish that day. He had scarcely begun his work when a very loud knock was heard at the door. "Who can it be so early as this?" thought the shoemaker. He opened the door and there stood--Mr. Fox! "Good morning, shoemaker," said he; "I want you to make me a pair of shoes and do it right off, too, or I'll kill every one of your hens to-night. I'm hare hunting, to-day. I know where a whole family of hares live, down near the forest. I mean to bag them all before they leave their house this morning. They run so fast it is hard to catch them when they are out. But, see one of my shoes is torn, so I must have a new pair before I can walk so far." The shoemaker bowed and invited the fox to come in and sit down. Then he said, "Mr. Fox, a great hunter like you ought to wear high boots; not low shoes like common folks." That pleased Mr. Fox, so he said, "Well, make high boots; but make them of the finest, softest leather, and do not make them tight." The shoemaker took the hardest, heaviest, leather he could find and soon finished the boots. He put a piece of sticky wax into each boot. He said to himself, "Mr. Fox thinks he is very sly but we'll see whether he can catch our friends, the hares, when he puts on these boots." Mr. Fox proudly drew on his boots but he said: "They seem stiff and tight. I fear I cannot run very fast in them." "Just wait till you have worn them a little while--new boots generally feel stiff," said the shoemaker. "Well, I will hurry off now; but I'll soon come back and bring you the hares' skins to pay for the boots," said Mr. Fox. A little while after the fox had gone the shoemaker's wife jumped up in alarm from her chair. A hare had leaped in through the window behind her. It was one of their friends--the father of the Hare family. "Save me! the hunter is after me," he cried. "Here, quick! jump into bed," said the shoemaker's wife. He did so, and she covered him up, then she dressed Hanschen in the suit that the hares had given him. She had scarcely done so when the hunter came in and said, "Give me the hare that I have been chasing. I saw him leap into your window. I must have him. There he is now, springing on your table." "There is my little Hanschen," said the shoemaker. "No wonder you think he is a hare, for he can run as fast and leap as well as any hare." "Yes," said Hanschen's mother, "and he often goes out to play in this hare-suit--see how nicely it fits him. But, Mr. Hunter, you must not shoot my Hanschen when you are out chasing hares." "Well," said the hunter, "if that isn't wonderful. But say, good people, how in the world am I to know whether I am chasing Hanschen or a hare?" "Oh, easily enough," said the shoemaker. "You have only to wait a minute and call out, 'Hanschen!' If the little creature sits up still and straight like a child, don't shoot, for that will be Hanschen." "I will remember and call out," said the hunter. "Well, then, to pay you for your kindness, I'll tell you that if you hurry toward the forest, now, you will be able to bag a fox that cannot be far away; for the rogue has on a pair of boots of my making, and he has hard work to move with them by this time, I'll be bound." "Thank you, Mr. Shoemaker," said the hunter; "I'll soon finish him and bring you his hide to prove it. Only last night he killed three of my hens." The hunter soon caught up with the fox, brought his hide to the shoemaker and went away. Then Hanschen's father told the hare to go home to his folks and tell them that the old fox would never trouble them again, and when they heard the hunter they were just to sit still and straight on their hind legs. Mr. Hare flew over the ground on his way home. His good news made him light-hearted and swift-footed. Oh, how happy the hares were! To this day hares often sit up like a child. Hanschen often spent a day with the hares, and learned to run so well, and spring forward so quickly, that all the people said when he grew up, "He is the best man to have for a postman for the villages around." So Hanschen became postman. He never forgot his friends, the hares, but always carried some cabbage leaves for them when snow and ice covered up or killed the green leaves. 'Tis said the hares used to watch for his coming, and sing this song when they caught sight of him: "Our good friend, Hans, Is a brave young man; hip, hurrah! He springs as well As the best hare can; hip, hurrah! Beneath his coat Is a good, warm heart; hip, hurrah! We may be sure He will take our part; hip, hurrah! We need not starve Though the world be white; hip, hurrah! Our good friend, Hans Will give us a bite; hip, hurrah! This is his time He is drawing near; hip, hurrah! Off with hats; now Cheer upon cheer; hip, hip, hurrah!" THE END. 
21728	----	THE DOG CRUSOE AND HIS MASTER, BY R.M. BALLANTYNE. CHAPTER ONE. THE BACKWOODS SETTLEMENT--CRUSOE'S PARENTAGE AND EARLY HISTORY--THE AGONISING PAINS AND SORROWS OF HIS PUPPYHOOD, AND OTHER INTERESTING MATTERS. The dog Crusoe was once a pup. Now do not, courteous reader, toss your head contemptuously, and exclaim, "Of course he was; I could have told _you_ that." You know very well that you have often seen a man above six feet high, broad and powerful as a lion, with a bronzed shaggy visage and the stern glance of an eagle, of whom you have said, or thought, or heard others say, "It is scarcely possible to believe that such a man was once a squalling baby." If you had seen our hero in all the strength and majesty of full-grown doghood, you would have experienced a vague sort of surprise had we told you--as we now repeat-- that the dog Crusoe was once a pup--a soft, round, sprawling, squeaking pup, as fat as a tallow candle, and as blind as a bat. But we draw particular attention to the fact of Crusoe's having once been a pup, because in connection with the days of his puppyhood there hangs a tale. This peculiar dog may thus be said to have had two tails--one in connection with his body, the other with his career. This tale, though short, is very harrowing, and, as it is intimately connected with Crusoe's subsequent history, we will relate it here. But before doing so we must beg our reader to accompany us beyond the civilised portions of the United States of America--beyond the frontier settlements of the "far west," into those wild prairies which are watered by the great Missouri river--the Father of Waters--and his numerous tributaries. Here dwell the Pawnees, the Sioux, the Delawares, the Crows, the Blackfeet, and many other tribes of Red Indians, who are gradually retreating step by step towards the Rocky Mountains as the advancing white man cuts down their trees and ploughs up their prairies. Here, too, dwell the wild horse and the wild ass, the deer, the buffalo, and the badger; all, men and brutes alike, wild as the power of untamed and ungovernable passion can make them, and free as the wind that sweeps over their mighty plains. There is a romantic and exquisitely beautiful spot on the banks of one of the tributaries above referred to--a long stretch of mingled woodland and meadow, with a magnificent lake lying like a gem in its green bosom--which goes by the name of the Mustang Valley. This remote vale, even at the present day, is but thinly peopled by white men, and is still a frontier settlement round which the wolf and the bear prowl curiously, and from which the startled deer bounds terrified away. At the period of which we write the valley had just been taken possession of by several families of squatters, who, tired of the turmoil and the squabbles of the then frontier settlements, had pushed boldly into the far west to seek a new home for themselves, where they could have "elbow room," regardless alike of the dangers they might encounter in unknown lands and of the Red-skins who dwelt there. The squatters were well armed with axes, rifles, and ammunition. Most of the women were used to dangers and alarms, and placed implicit reliance in the power of their fathers, husbands, and brothers to protect them--and well they might, for a bolder set of stalwart men than these backwoodsmen never trod the wilderness. Each had been trained to the use of the rifle and the axe from infancy, and many of them had spent so much of their lives in the woods, that they were more than a match for the Indian in his own peculiar pursuits of hunting and war. When the squatters first issued from the woods bordering the valley, an immense herd of wild horses or mustangs were browsing on the plain. These no sooner beheld the cavalcade of white men, than, uttering a wild neigh, they tossed their flowing manes in the breeze and dashed away like a whirlwind. This incident procured the valley its name. The newcomers gave one satisfied glance at their future home, and then set to work to erect log huts forthwith. Soon the axe was heard ringing through the forests, and tree after tree fell to the ground, while the occasional sharp ring of a rifle told that the hunters were catering successfully for the camp. In course of time the Mustang Valley began to assume the aspect of a thriving settlement, with cottages and waving fields clustered together in the midst of it. Of course the savages soon found it out, and paid it occasional visits. These dark-skinned tenants of the woods brought furs of wild animals with them, which they exchanged with the white men for knives, and beads, and baubles and trinkets of brass and tin. But they hated the "Pale-faces" with bitter hatred, because their encroachments had at this time materially curtailed the extent of their hunting grounds, and nothing but the numbers and known courage of the squatters prevented these savages from butchering and scalping them all. The leader of this band of pioneers was a Major Hope, a gentleman whose love for nature in its wildest aspects determined him to exchange barrack life for a life in the woods. The major was a first-rate shot, a bold, fearless man, and an enthusiastic naturalist. He was past the prime of life, and, being a bachelor, was unencumbered with a family. His first act on reaching the site of the new settlement was to commence the erection of a block-house, to which the people might retire in case of a general attack by the Indians. In this block-house Major Hope took up his abode as the guardian of the settlement,--and here the dog Crusoe was born; here he sprawled in the early morn of life; here he leaped, and yelped, and wagged his shaggy tail in the excessive glee of puppyhood, and from the wooden portals of this block-house he bounded forth to the chase in all the fire, and strength, and majesty of full-grown doghood. Crusoe's father and mother were magnificent Newfoundlanders. There was no doubt as to their being of the genuine breed, for Major Hope had received them as a parting gift from a brother officer, who had brought them both from Newfoundland itself. The father's name was Crusoe; the mother's name was Fan. Why the father had been so called no one could tell. The man from whom Major Hope's friend had obtained the pair was a poor, illiterate fisherman, who had never heard of the celebrated "Robinson" in all his life. All he knew was that Fan had been named after his own wife. As for Crusoe, he had got him from a friend, who had got him from another friend, whose cousin had received him as a marriage gift from a friend of _his_; and that each had said to the other that the dog's name was "Crusoe," without reasons being asked or given on either side. On arriving at New York the major's friend, as we have said, made him a present of the dogs. Not being much of a dog fancier, he soon tired of old Crusoe, and gave him away to a gentleman, who took him down to Florida, and that was the end of him. He was never heard of more. When Crusoe, junior, was born, he was born, of course, without a name. That was given to him afterwards in honour of his father. He was also born in company with a brother and two sisters, all of whom drowned themselves accidentally, in the first month of their existence, by falling into the river which flowed past the block-house,--a calamity which occurred, doubtless, in consequence of their having gone out without their mother's leave. Little Crusoe was with his brother and sisters at the time, and fell in along with them, but was saved from sharing their fate by his mother, who, seeing what had happened, dashed with an agonised howl into the water, and, seizing him in her mouth, brought him ashore in a half-drowned condition. She afterwards brought the others ashore one by one, but the poor little things were dead. And now we come to the harrowing part of our tale, for the proper understanding of which the foregoing dissertation was needful. One beautiful afternoon, in that charming season of the American year called the Indian summer, there came a family of Sioux Indians to the Mustang Valley, and pitched their tent close to the block-house. A young hunter stood leaning against the gate-post of the palisades, watching the movements of the Indians, who, having just finished a long "palaver" or "talk" with Major Hope, were now in the act of preparing supper. A fire had been kindled on the green sward in front of the tent, and above it stood a tripod, from which depended a large tin camp-kettle. Over this hung an ill-favoured Indian woman, or squaw, who, besides attending to the contents of the pot, bestowed sundry cuffs and kicks upon her little child, which sat near to her playing with several Indian curs that gambolled round the fire. The master of the family and his two sons reclined on buffalo robes, smoking their stone pipes or calumets in silence. There was nothing peculiar in their appearance. Their faces were neither dignified nor coarse in expression, but wore an aspect of stupid apathy, which formed a striking contrast to the countenance of the young hunter, who seemed an amused spectator of their proceedings. The youth referred to was very unlike, in many respects, to what we are accustomed to suppose a backwoods hunter should be. He did not possess that quiet gravity and staid demeanour which often characterise these men. True, he was tall and strongly made, but no one would have called him stalwart, and his frame indicated grace and agility rather than strength. But the point about him which rendered him different from his companions was his bounding, irrepressible flow of spirits, strangely coupled with an intense love of solitary wandering in the woods. None seemed so well fitted for social enjoyment as he; none laughed so heartily, or expressed such glee in his mischief-loving eye; yet for days together he went off alone into the forest, and wandered where his fancy led him, as grave and silent as an Indian warrior. After all, there was nothing mysterious in this. The boy followed implicitly the dictates of nature within him. He was amiable, straightforward, sanguine, and intensely _earnest_. When he laughed he let it out, as sailors have it, "with a will." When there was good cause to be grave, no power on earth could make him smile. We have called him boy, but in truth he was about that uncertain period of life when a youth is said to be neither a man nor a boy. His face was good-looking (_every_ earnest, candid face is) and masculine; his hair was reddish-brown, and his eye bright blue. He was costumed in the deerskin cap, leggings, moccasins, and leathern shirt common to the western hunter. "You seem tickled wi' the Injuns, Dick Varley," said a man who at that moment issued from the block-house. "That's just what I am, Joe Blunt," replied the youth, turning with a broad grin to his companion. "Have a care, lad; do not laugh at 'em too much. They soon take offence; an' them Red-skins never forgive." "But I'm only laughing at the baby," returned the youth, pointing to the child, which, with a mixture of boldness and timidity, was playing with a pup, wrinkling up its fat visage into a smile when its playmate rushed away in sport, and opening wide its jet-black eyes in grave anxiety as the pup returned at full gallop. "It 'ud make an owl laugh," continued young Varley, "to see such a queer pictur' o' itself." He paused suddenly, and a dark frown covered his face as he saw the Indian woman stoop quickly down, catch the pup by its hind-leg with one hand, seize a heavy piece of wood with the other, and strike it several violent blows on the throat. Without taking the trouble to kill the poor animal outright, the savage then held its still writhing body over the fire in order to singe off the hair before putting it into the pot to be cooked. The cruel act drew young Varley's attention more closely to the pup, and it flashed across his mind that this could be no other than young Crusoe, which neither he nor his companion had before seen, although they had often heard others speak of and describe it. Had the little creature been one of the unfortunate Indian curs, the two hunters would probably have turned from the sickening sight with disgust, feeling that, however much they might dislike such cruelty, it would be of no use attempting to interfere with Indian usages. But the instant the idea that it was Crusoe occurred to Varley he uttered a yell of anger, and sprang towards the woman with a bound that caused the three Indians to leap to their feet and grasp their tomahawks. Blunt did not move from the gate, but threw forward his rifle with a careless motion, but an expressive glance, that caused the Indians to resume their seats and pipes with an emphatic "Wah!" of disgust at having been startled out of their propriety by a trifle, while Dick Varley snatched poor Crusoe from his dangerous and painful position, scowled angrily in the woman's face, and, turning on his heel, walked up to the house, holding the pup tenderly in his arms. Joe Blunt gazed after his friend with a grave, solemn expression of countenance till he disappeared; then he looked at the ground and shook his head. Joe was one of the regular out-and-out backwoods hunters, both in appearance and in fact--broad, tall, massive, lion-like,--gifted with the hunting, stalking, running, and trail--following powers of the savage, and with a superabundance of the shooting and fighting powers, the daring and dash of the Anglo-Saxon. He was grave, too seldom smiled, and rarely laughed. His expression almost at all times was a compound of seriousness and good-humour. With the rifle he was a good, steady shot; but by no means a "crack" one. _His_ ball never failed to _hit_, but it often failed to kill. After meditating a few seconds, Joe Blunt again shook his head, and muttered to himself; "The boy's bold enough, but he's too reckless for a hunter. There was no need for that yell, now--none at all." Having uttered this sagacious remark, he threw his rifle into the hollow of his left arm, turned round, and strode off with a long, slow step towards his own cottage. Blunt was an American by birth, but of Irish extraction, and to an attentive ear there was a faint echo of the _brogue_ in his tone, which seemed to have been handed down to him as a threadbare and almost worn-out heirloom. Poor Crusoe was singed almost naked. His wretched tail seemed little better than a piece of wire filed off to a point, and he vented his misery in piteous squeaks as the sympathetic Varley confided him tenderly to the care of his mother. How Fan managed to cure him no one can tell, but cure him she did, for, in the course of a few weeks, Crusoe was as well, and sleek, and fat as ever. CHAPTER TWO. A SHOOTING MATCH AND ITS CONSEQUENCES--NEW FRIENDS INTRODUCED TO THE READER--CRUSOE AND HIS MOTHER CHANGE MASTERS. Shortly after the incident narrated in the last chapter, the squatters of the Mustang Valley lost their leader. Major Hope suddenly announced his intention of quitting the settlement, and returning to the civilised world. Private matters, he said, required his presence there--matters which he did not choose to speak of but which would prevent his returning again to reside among them. Go he must, and, being a man of determination, go he did; but before going he distributed all his goods and chattels among the settlers. He even gave away his rifle, and Fan, and Crusoe. These last, however, he resolved should go together; and as they were well worth having, he announced that he would give them to the best shot in the valley. He stipulated that the winner should escort him to the nearest settlement eastward, after which he might return with the rifle on his shoulder. Accordingly, a long level piece of ground on the river's bank, with a perpendicular cliff at the end of it, was selected as the shooting ground, and, on the appointed day, at the appointed hour, the competitors began to assemble. "Well, lad, first as usual," exclaimed Joe Blunt, as he reached the ground and found Dick Varley there before him. "I've bin here more than an hour lookin' for a new kind o' flower that Jack Morgan told me he'd seen. And I've found it too. Look here; did you ever see one like it before?" Blunt leaned his rifle against a tree, and carefully examined the flower. "Why, yes, I've seed a-many o' them up about the Rocky Mountains, but never one here-away. It seems to have gone lost itself. The last I seed, if I remimber rightly, wos near the head-waters o' the Yellowstone River, it wos--jest where I shot a grizzly bar." "Was that the bar that gave you the wipe on the cheek?" asked Varley, forgetting the flower in his interest about the bear. "It was. I put six balls in that bar's carcase, and stuck my knife into its heart ten times afore it gave out; an' it nearly ripped the shirt off my back afore I was done with it." "I would give my rifle to get a chance at a grizzly!" exclaimed Varley, with a sudden burst of enthusiasm. "Whoever got it wouldn't have much to brag of," remarked a burly young backwoodsman, as he joined them. His remark was true, for poor Dick's weapon was but a sorry affair. It missed fire, and it hung fire, and even when it did fire it remained a matter of doubt in its owner's mind whether the slight deviations from the direct line made by his bullets were the result of _his_ or _its_ bad shooting. Further comment upon it was checked by the arrival of a dozen or more hunters on the scene of action. They were a sturdy set of bronzed, bold, fearless men, and one felt, on looking at them, that they would prove more than a match for several hundreds of Indians in open fight. A few minutes after, the major himself came on the ground with the prize rifle on his shoulder, and Fan and Crusoe at his heels--the latter tumbling, scrambling, and yelping after its mother, fat and clumsy, and happy as possible, having evidently quite forgotten that it had been nearly roasted alive only a few weeks before. Immediately all eyes were on the rifle, and its merits were discussed with animation. And well did it deserve discussion, for such a piece had never before been seen on the western frontier. It was shorter in the barrel and larger in the bore than the weapons chiefly in vogue at that time, and, besides being of beautiful workmanship, was silver-mounted. But the grand peculiarity about it, and that which afterwards rendered it the mystery of mysteries to the savages, was, that it had two sets of locks--one percussion, the other flint--so that, when caps failed, by taking off the one set of locks and affixing the others, it was converted into a flint-rifle. The major, however, took care never to run short of caps, so that the flint locks were merely held as a reserve in case of need. "Now, lads," cried Major Hope, stepping up to the point whence they were to shoot, "remember the terms. He who first drives the nail obtains the rifle, Fan, and her pup, and accompanies me to the nearest settlements. Each man shoots with his own gun, and draws lots for the chance." "Agreed," cried the men. "Well, then, wipe your guns and draw lots. Henri will fix the nail. Here it is." The individual who stepped, or rather plunged forward to receive the nail was a rare and remarkable specimen of mankind. Like his comrades, he was half a farmer and half a hunter. Like them, too, he was clad in deerskin, and was tall and strong--nay, more, he was gigantic. But, unlike them, he was clumsy, awkward, loose-jointed, and a bad shot. Nevertheless Henri was an immense favourite in the settlement, for his good-humour knew no bounds. No one ever saw him frown. Even when fighting with the savages, as he was sometimes compelled to do in self-defence, he went at them with a sort of jovial rage that was almost laughable. Inconsiderate recklessness was one of his chief characteristics, so that his comrades were rather afraid of him on the war-trail or in the hunt, where caution, and frequently _soundless_ motion, were essential to success or safety. But when Henri had a comrade at his side to check him he was safe enough, being humble-minded and obedient. Men used to say he must have been born under a lucky star, for, notwithstanding his natural inaptitude for all sorts of backwoods life, he managed to scramble through everything with safety, often with success, and sometimes with credit. To see Henri stalk a deer was worth a long day's journey. Joe Blunt used to say he was "all jints together, from the top of his head to the sole of his moccasin." He threw his immense form into the most inconceivable contortions, and slowly wound his way, sometimes on hands and knees, sometimes flat, through bush and brake, as if there was not a bone in his body, and without the slightest noise. This sort of work was so much against his plunging nature, that he took long to learn it, but when, through hard practice and the loss of many a fine deer, he came at length to break himself in to it, he gradually progressed to perfection, and ultimately became the best stalker in the valley. This, and this alone, enabled him to procure game, for, being short-sighted, he could hit nothing beyond fifty yards, except a buffalo or a barn door. Yet that same lithe body, which seemed as though totally unhinged, could no more be bent, when the muscles were strung, than an iron post. No one wrestled with Henri unless he wished to have his back broken. Few could equal and none could beat him at running or leaping except Dick Varley. When Henri ran a race even Joe Blunt laughed outright, for arms and legs went like independent flails. When he leaped, he hurled himself into space with a degree of violence that seemed to insure a somersault--yet he always came down with a crash on his feet. Plunging was Henri's forte. He generally lounged about the settlement, when unoccupied, with his hands behind his back, apparently in a reverie, and when called on to act, he seemed to fancy he must have lost time, and could only make up for it by _plunging_. This habit got him into many awkward scrapes, but his herculean power as often got him out of them. He was a French-Canadian, and a particularly bad speaker of the English language. We offer no apology for this elaborate introduction of Henri, for he was as good-hearted a fellow as ever lived, and deserves special notice. But to return. The sort of rifle practice called "driving the nail," by which this match was to be decided, was, and we believe still is, common among the hunters of the far west. It consisted in this,--an ordinary large-headed nail was driven a short way into a plank or a tree, and the hunters, standing at a distance of fifty yards or so, fired at it until they succeeded in driving it home. On the present occasion the major resolved to test their shooting by making the distance seventy yards. Some of the older men shook their heads. "It's too far," said one; "ye might as well try to snuff the nose o' a mosquito." "Jim Scraggs is the only man as'll hit that," said another. The man referred to was a long, lank, lantern-jawed fellow with a cross-grained expression of countenance. He used the long, heavy, Kentucky rifle, which, from the ball being little larger than a pea, was called a pea-rifle. Jim was no favourite, and had been named Scraggs by his companions on account of his appearance. In a few minutes the lots were drawn, and the shooting began. Each hunter wiped out the barrel of his piece with his ramrod as he stepped forward; then, placing a ball in the palm of his left hand, he drew the stopper of his powder-horn with his teeth, and poured out as much powder as sufficed to cover the bullet. This was the regular _measure_ among them. Little time was lost in firing, for these men did not "hang" on their aim. The point of the rifle was slowly raised to the object, and, the instant the sight covered it, the ball sped to its mark. In a few minutes the nail was encircled by bullet-holes, scarcely two of which were more than an inch distant from the mark, and one--fired by Joe Blunt--entered the tree close beside it. "Ah, Joe!" said the major, "I thought you would have carried off the prize." "So did not I, sir," returned Blunt, with a shake of his head. "Had it a-bin a half-dollar at a hundred yards, I'd ha' done better, but I never _could_ hit the nail. It's too small to _see_." "That's cos ye've got no eyes," remarked Jim Scraggs, with a sneer, as he stepped forward. All tongues were now hushed, for the expected champion was about to fire. The sharp crack of the rifle was followed by a shout, for Jim had hit the nail-head on the edge, and part of the bullet stuck to it. "That wins if there's no better," said the major, scarce able to conceal his disappointment. "Who comes next?" To this question Henri answered by stepping up to the line, straddling his legs, and executing preliminary movements with his rifle, that seemed to indicate an intention on his part to throw the weapon bodily at the mark. He was received with a shout of mingled laughter and applause. After gazing steadily at the mark for a few seconds, a broad grin overspread his countenance, and, looking round at his companions, he said--"Ha! mes boys, I cannot behold de nail at all!" "Can ye `behold' the _tree_?" shouted a voice, when the laugh that followed this announcement had somewhat abated. "Oh! oui," replied Henri quite coolly; "I can see _him_, an' a goot small bit of de forest beyond." "Fire at it, then. If ye hit the tree ye desarve the rifle--leastwise ye ought to get the pup." Henri grinned again, and fired instantly, without taking aim. The shot was followed by an exclamation of surprise, for the bullet was found close beside the nail! "It's more be good luck than good shootin'," remarked Jim Scraggs. "Possiblement," answered Henri modestly, as he retreated to the rear and wiped out his rifle; "mais I have kill most of my deer by dat same goot luck." "Bravo! Henri," said Major Hope as he passed; "you _deserve_ to win, anyhow. Who's next?" "Dick Varley," cried several voices; "where's Varley? Come on, youngster, an' take yer shot." The youth came forward with evident reluctance. "It's of no manner o' use," he whispered to Joe Blunt as he passed, "I can't depend on my old gun." "Never give in," whispered Blunt encouragingly. Poor Varley's want of confidence in his rifle was merited, for, on pulling the trigger, the faithless lock missed fire. "Lend him another gun," cried several voices. "'Gainst rules laid down by Major Hope," said Scraggs. "Well, so it is; try again." Varley did try again, and so successfully, too, that the ball hit the nail on the head, leaving a portion of the lead sticking to its edge. Of course this was greeted with a cheer, and a loud dispute began as to which was the better shot of the two. "There are others to shoot yet," cried the major. "Make way. Look out." The men fell back, and the few hunters who had not yet fired took their shots, but without coming nearer the mark. It was now agreed that Jim Scraggs and Dick Varley, being the two best shots, should try over again; and it was also agreed that Dick should have the use of Blunt's rifle. Lots were again drawn for the first shot, and it fell to Dick, who immediately stepped out, aimed somewhat hastily, and fired. "Hit again!" shouted those who had run forward to examine the mark. "_Half_ the bullet cut off by the nail-head!" Some of the more enthusiastic of Dick's friends cheered lustily, but the most of the hunters were grave and silent, for they knew Jim's powers, and felt that he would certainly do his best. Jim now stepped up to the line, and, looking earnestly at the mark, threw forward his rifle. At that moment our friend Crusoe--tired of tormenting his mother-- waddled stupidly and innocently into the midst of the crowd of men, and, in so doing, received Henri's heel and the full weight of his elephantine body on its fore-paw. The horrible and electric yell that instantly issued from his agonised throat could only be compared, as Joe Blunt expressed it, "to the last dyin' screech o' a bustin' steam biler!" We cannot say that the effect was startling, for these backwoodsmen had been born and bred in the midst of alarms, and were so used to them that a "bustin' steam biler" itself, unless it had blown them fairly off their legs, would not have startled them. But the effect, such as it was, was sufficient to disconcert the aim of Jim Scraggs, who fired at the same instant, and missed the nail by a hair's-breadth. Turning round in towering wrath, Scraggs aimed a kick at the poor pup, which, had it taken effect, would certainly have terminated the innocent existence of that remarkable dog on the spot, but quick as lightning Henri interposed the butt of his rifle, and Jim's shin met it with a violence that caused him to howl with rage and pain. "Oh! pardon me, broder," cried Henri, shrinking back, with the drollest expression of mingled pity and glee. Jim's discretion, on this occasion, was superior to his valour; he turned away with a coarse expression of anger and left the ground. Meanwhile the major handed the silver rifle to young Varley. "It couldn't have fallen into better hands," he said. "You'll do it credit, lad, I know that full well, and let me assure you it will never play you false. Only keep it clean, don't overcharge it, aim true, and it will never miss the mark." While the hunters crowded round Dick to congratulate him and examine the piece, he stood with a mingled feeling of bashfulness and delight at his unexpected good fortune. Recovering himself suddenly he seized his old rifle, and, dropping quietly to the outskirts of the crowd, while the men were still busy handling and discussing the merits of the prize, went up, unobserved, to a boy of about thirteen years of age, and touched him on the shoulder. "Here, Marston, you know I often said ye should have the old rifle when I was rich enough to get a new one. Take it _now_, lad. It's come to ye sooner than either o' us expected." "Dick," said the boy, grasping his friend's hand warmly, "yer true as heart of oak. It's good of 'ee, that's a fact." "Not a bit, boy; it costs me nothin' to give away an old gun that I've no use for, an's worth little, but it makes me right glad to have the chance to do it." Marston had longed for a rifle ever since he could walk, but his prospects of obtaining one were very poor indeed at that time, and it is a question whether he did not at that moment experience as much joy in handling the old piece as his friend felt in shouldering the prize. A difficulty now occurred which had not before been thought of. This was no less than the absolute refusal of Dick Varley's canine property to follow him. Fan had no idea of changing masters without her consent being asked, or her inclination being consulted. "You'll have to tie her up for a while, I fear," said the major. "No fear," answered the youth. "Dog natur's like human natur'!" Saying this he seized Crusoe by the neck, stuffed him comfortably into the bosom of his hunting shirt, and walked rapidly away with the prize rifle on his shoulder. Fan had not bargained for this. She stood irresolute, gazing now to the right and now to the left, as the major retired in one direction and Dick with Crusoe in another. Suddenly Crusoe, who, although comfortable in body, was ill at ease in spirit, gave utterance to a melancholy howl. The mother's love instantly prevailed. For one moment she pricked up her ears at the sound, and then, lowering them, trotted quietly after her new master, and followed him to his cottage on the margin of the lake. CHAPTER THREE. SPECULATIVE REMARKS WITH WHICH THE READER MAY OR MAY NOT AGREE--AN OLD WOMAN--HOPES AND WISHES COMMINGLED WITH HARD FACTS--THE DOG CRUSOE'S EDUCATION BEGUN. It is pleasant to look upon a serene, quiet, humble face. On such a face did Richard Varley look every night when he entered his mother's cottage. Mrs Varley was a widow, and she had followed the fortunes of her brother, Daniel Hood, ever since the death of her husband. Love for her only brother induced her to forsake the peaceful village of Maryland, and enter upon the wild life of a backwoods settlement. Dick's mother was thin, and old, and wrinkled, but her face was stamped with a species of beauty which _never_ fades--the beauty of a loving look. Ah! the brow of snow and the peach-bloom cheek may snare the heart of man for a time, but the _loving look_ alone can forge that adamantine chain that time, age, eternity, shall never break. Mistake us not, reader, and bear with us if we attempt to analyse this look which characterised Mrs Varley. A rare diamond is worth stopping to glance at, even when one is in a hurry! The brightest jewel in the human heart is worth a thought or two! By a _loving look_, we do not mean a look of love bestowed on a beloved object. That is common enough, and thankful should we be that it is so common in a world that's over-full of hatred. Still less do we mean that smile and look of intense affection with which some people--good people too--greet friends and foe alike, and by which effort to work out their _beau ideal_ of the expression of Christian love, they do signally damage their cause, by saddening the serious and repelling the gay. Much less do we mean that _perpetual_ smile of good-will which argues more of personal comfort and self-love than anything else. No, the loving look we speak of is as often grave as gay. Its character depends very much on the face through which it beams. And it cannot be counterfeited. Its _ring_ defies imitation. Like the clouded sun of April, it can pierce through tears of sorrow; like the noontide sun of summer, it can blaze in warm smiles; like the northern lights of winter, it can gleam in depths of woe--but it is always the same, modified, doubtless, and rendered more or less patent to others, according to the natural amiability of him or her who bestows it. No one can put it on. Still less can any one put it off. Its range is universal; it embraces all mankind, though, _of course_, it is intensified on a few favoured objects; its seat is in the depths of a renewed heart, and its foundation lies in love to God. Young Varley's mother lived in a cottage which was of the smallest possible dimensions consistent with comfort. It was made of logs, as, indeed, were all the other cottages in the valley. The door was in the centre, and a passage from it to the back of the dwelling divided it into two rooms. One of these was subdivided by a thin partition, the inner room being Mrs Varley's bedroom, the outer Dick's. Daniel Hood's dormitory was a corner of the kitchen, which apartment served also as a parlour. The rooms were lighted by two windows, one on each side of the door, which gave to the house the appearance of having a nose and two eyes. Houses of this kind have literally got a sort of _expression_ on--if we may use the word--their countenances. _Square_ windows give the appearance of easy-going placidity; _longish_ ones, that of surprise. Mrs Varley's was a surprised cottage, and this was in keeping with the scene in which it stood, for the clear lake in front, studded with islands, and the distant hills beyond, composed a scene so surprisingly beautiful that it never failed to call forth an expression of astonished admiration from every new visitor to the Mustang Valley. "My boy," exclaimed Mrs Varley, as her son entered the cottage with a bound, "why so hurried to-day? Deary me! where got you the grand gun?" "Won it, mother!" "Won it, my son?" "Ay, won it, mother. Druve the nail _almost_, and would ha' druve it _altogether_ had I bin more used to Joe Blunt's rifle." Mrs Varley's heart beat high, and her face flushed with pride as she gazed at her son, who laid the rifle on the table for her inspection, while he rattled off an animated and somewhat disjointed account of the match. "Deary me! now that was good; that was cliver. But what's that scraping at the door?" "Oh! that's Fan; I forgot her. Here! here! Fan! Come in, good dog," he cried rising and opening the door. Fan entered and stopped short, evidently uncomfortable. "My boy, what do ye with the major's dog?" "Won her too, mother!" "Won her, my son?" "Ay, won her, and the pup too; see, here it is!" and he plucked Crusoe from his bosom. Crusoe, having found his position to be one of great comfort, had fallen into a profound slumber, and on being thus unceremoniously awakened, he gave forth a yelp of discontent that brought Fan in a state of frantic sympathy to his side. "There you are, Fan, take it to a corner and make yourself at home. Ay, that's right, mother, give her somethin' to eat; she's hungry, I know by the look o' her eye." "Deary me, Dick," said Mrs Varley, who now proceeded to spread the youth's mid-day meal before him, "did ye drive the nail three times?" "No, only once, and that not parfetly. Brought 'em all down at one shot--rifle, Fan, an' pup!" "Well, well, now that was cliver; but--" Here the old woman paused and looked grave. "But what, mother?" "You'll be wantin' to go off to the mountains now, I fear me, boy." "Wantin' _now_!" exclaimed the youth earnestly; "I'm _always_ wantin'. I've bin wantin' ever since I could walk; but I won't go till you let me, mother, that I won't!" And he struck the table with his fist so forcibly that the platters rung again. "You're a good boy, Dick; but you're too young yit to ventur' among the Red-skins." "An' yit, if I don't ventur' young, I'd better not ventur' at all. You know, mother dear, I don't want to leave you; but I was born to be a hunter, and everybody in them parts is a hunter, and I can't hunt in the kitchen you know, mother!" At this point the conversation was interrupted by a sound that caused young Varley to spring up and seize his rifle, and Fan to show her teeth and growl. "Hist! mother; that's like horses' hoofs," he whispered, opening the door and gazing intently in the direction whence the sound came. Louder and louder it came, until an opening in the forest showed the advancing cavalcade to be a party of white men. In another moment they were in full view--a band of about thirty horsemen, clad in the leathern costume, and armed with the long rifle of the far west. Some wore portions of the gaudy Indian dress which gave to them a brilliant, dashing look. They came on straight for the block-house, and saluted the Varleys with a jovial cheer as they swept past at full speed. Dick returned the cheer with compound interest, and calling out, "They're trappers, mother, I'll be back in an hour," bounded off like a deer through the woods, taking a short cut in order to reach the block-house before them. He succeeded, for, just as he arrived at the house, the cavalcade wheeled round the bend in the river, dashed up the slope, and came to a sudden halt on the green. Vaulting from their foaming steeds they tied them to the stockades of the little fortress, which they entered in a body. Hot haste was in every motion of these men. They were trappers, they said, on their way to the Rocky Mountains to hunt and trade furs. But one of their number had been treacherously murdered and scalped by a Pawnee chief, and they resolved to revenge his death by an attack on one of the Pawnee villages. They would teach these "red reptiles" to respect white men, they would, come of it what might; and they had turned aside here to procure an additional supply of powder and lead. In vain did the major endeavour to dissuade these reckless men from their purpose. They scoffed at the idea of returning good for evil, and insisted on being supplied. The log hut was a store as well as a place of defence, and as they offered to pay for it there was no refusing their request--at least so the major thought. The ammunition was therefore given to them, and in half an hour they were away again at full gallop over the plains on their mission of vengeance. "Vengeance is Mine, I will repay, saith the Lord." But these men knew not what God said, because they never read His Word, and did not own His sway. Young Varley's enthusiasm was considerably damped when he learned the errand on which the trappers were bent. From that time forward he gave up all desire to visit the mountains in company with such men, but he still retained an intense longing to roam at large among their rocky fastnesses, and gallop out upon the wide prairies. Meanwhile he dutifully tended his mother's cattle and sheep, and contented himself with an occasional deer-hunt in the neighbouring forests. He devoted himself also to the training of his dog Crusoe--an operation which at first cost him many a deep sigh. Every one has heard of the sagacity and almost reasoning capabilities of the Newfoundland dog. Indeed, some have even gone the length of saying that what is called instinct in these animals is neither more nor less than reason. And, in truth, many of the noble, heroic, and sagacious deeds that have actually been performed by Newfoundland dogs incline us almost to believe that, like man, they are gifted with reasoning powers. But every one does not know the trouble and patience that is required in order to get a juvenile dog to understand what its master means when he is endeavouring to instruct it. Crusoe's first lesson was an interesting, but not a very successful one. We may remark here that Dick Varley had presented Fan to his mother to be her watch-dog, resolving to devote all his powers to the training of the pup. We may also remark, in reference to Crusoe's appearance (and we did not remark it sooner, chiefly because up to this period in his eventful history he was little better than a ball of fat and hair), that his coat was mingled jet-black and pure white, and remarkably glossy, curly, and thick. A week after the shooting match Crusoe's education began. Having fed him for that period with his own hand, in order to gain his affection, Dick took him out one sunny forenoon to the margin of the lake to give him his first lesson. And here again we must pause to remark that, although a dog's heart is generally gained in the first instance through his mouth, yet, after it is thoroughly gained, his affection is noble and disinterested. He can scarcely be driven from his master's side by blows, and even when thus harshly repelled is always ready, on the shortest notice and with the slightest encouragement, to make it up again. Well, Dick Varley began by calling out, "Crusoe! Crusoe! come here, pup." Of course Crusoe knew his name by this time, for it had been so often used as a prelude to his meals, that he naturally expected a feed whenever he heard it. This portal to his brain had already been open for some days; but all the other doors were fast locked, and it required a great deal of careful picking to open them. "Now, Crusoe, come here." Crusoe bounded clumsily to his master's side, cocked his ears, and wagged his tail--so far his education was perfect. We say he bounded _clumsily_, for it must be remembered that he was still a very young pup, with soft, flabby muscles. "Now, I'm goin' to begin yer edication, pup; think o' that." Whether Crusoe thought of that or not we cannot say, but he looked up in his master's face as he spoke, cocked his ears very high, and turned his head slowly to one side, until it could not turn any further in that direction; then he turned it as much to the other side, whereat his master burst into an uncontrollable fit of laughter, and Crusoe immediately began barking vociferously. "Come, come," said Dick, suddenly checking his mirth, "we mustn't play, pup, we must work." Drawing a leathern mitten from his belt, the youth held it to Crusoe's nose, and then threw it a yard away, at the same time exclaiming in a loud, distinct tone, "_Fetch it_." Crusoe entered at once into the spirit of this part of his training; he dashed gleefully at the mitten, and proceeded to worry it with intense gratification. As for "_Fetch it_," he neither understood the words nor cared a straw about them. Dick Varley rose immediately, and rescuing the mitten, resumed his seat on a rock. "Come here, Crusoe," he repeated. "Oh! certainly, by all means," said Crusoe--no! he didn't exactly _say_ it, but really he _looked_ these words so evidently, that we think it right to let them stand as they are written. If he could have finished the sentence he would certainly have said, "Go on with that game over again, old boy; it's quite to my taste--the jolliest thing in life, I assure you!" At least, if we may not positively assert that he would have said that, no one else can absolutely affirm that he wouldn't. Well, Dick Varley did do it over again, and Crusoe worried the mitten over again--utterly regardless of "_Fetch it_." Then they did it again, and again, and again, but without the slightest apparent advancement in the path of canine knowledge,--and then they went home. During all this trying operation Dick Varley never once betrayed the slightest feeling of irritability or impatience. He did not expect success at first; he was not, therefore, disappointed at failure. Next day he had him out again--and the next--and the next--and the next again, with the like unfavourable result. In short, it seemed at last as if Crusoe's mind had been deeply imbued with the idea that he had been born expressly for the purpose of worrying that mitten, and he meant to fulfil his destiny to the letter. Young Varley had taken several small pieces of meat in his pocket each day, with the intention of rewarding Crusoe when he should at length be prevailed on to fetch the mitten, but as Crusoe was not aware of the treat that awaited him, of course the mitten never was "fetched." At last Dick Varley saw that this system would never do, so he changed his tactics, and the next morning gave Crusoe no breakfast, but took him out at the usual hour to go through his lesson. This new course of conduct seemed to perplex Crusoe not a little, for on his way down to the beach he paused frequently and looked back at the cottage, and then expressively up at his master's face. But the master was inexorable; he went on and Crusoe followed, for _true_ love had now taken possession of the pup's young heart, and he preferred his master's company to food. Varley now began by letting the learner smell a piece of meat which he eagerly sought to devour, but was prevented, to his immense disgust. Then the mitten was thrown as heretofore, and Crusoe made a few steps towards it, but being in no mood for play he turned back. "_Fetch it_," said the teacher. "I won't," replied the learner mutely, by means of that expressive sign--_not doing it_. Hereupon Dick Varley rose, took up the mitten, and put it into the pup's mouth. Then, retiring a couple of yards, he held out the piece of meat and said, "_Fetch it_." Crusoe instantly spat out the glove and bounded towards the meat--once more to be disappointed. This was done a second time, and Crusoe came forward _with the mitten in his mouth_. It seemed as if it had been done accidentally, for he dropped it before coming quite up. If so it was a fortunate accident, for it served as the tiny fulcrum on which to place the point of that mighty lever which was destined ere long to raise him to the pinnacle of canine erudition. Dick Varley immediately lavished upon him the tenderest caresses and gave him a lump of meat. But he quickly tried it again lest he should lose the lesson. The dog evidently felt that if he did not fetch that mitten he should have no meat or caresses. In order, however, to make sure that there was no mistake, Dick laid the mitten down beside the pup, instead of putting it into his mouth, and, retiring a few paces, cried, "_Fetch it_." Crusoe looked uncertain for a moment, then he _picked up_ the mitten and laid it at his master's feet. The lesson was learned at last! Dick Varley tumbled all the meat out of his pocket on the ground, and, while Crusoe made a hearty breakfast, he sat down on a rock and whistled with glee at having fairly picked the lock, and opened _another_ door into one of the many chambers of his dog's intellect! CHAPTER FOUR. OUR HERO ENLARGED UPON--GRUMPS. Two years passed away--the Mustang Valley settlement advanced prosperously, despite one or two attacks made upon it by the savages, who were, however, firmly repelled; Dick Varley had now become a man, and his pup Crusoe had become a full-grown dog. The "silver rifle," as Dick's weapon had come to be named, was well-known among the hunters and the Red-skins of the border-lands, and in Dick's hands its bullets were as deadly as its owner's eye was quick and true. Crusoe's education, too, had been completed. Faithfully and patiently had his young master trained his mind, until he fitted him to be a meet companion in the hunt. To "carry" and "fetch" were now but trifling portions of the dog's accomplishments. He could dive a fathom deep in the lake and bring up any article that might have been dropped or thrown in. His swimming powers were marvellous, and so powerful were his muscles, that he seemed to spurn the water while passing through it, with his broad chest high out of the curling wave, at a speed that neither man nor beast could keep up with for a moment. His intellect now was sharp and quick as a needle; he never required a second bidding. When Dick went out hunting he used frequently to drop a mitten or a powder-horn unknown to the dog, and, after walking miles away from it, would stop short and look down into the mild, gentle face of his companion. "Crusoe," he said, in the same quiet tones with which he would have addressed a human friend, "I've dropped my mitten, go fetch it, pup." Dick continued to call it "pup" from habit. One glance of intelligence passed from Crusoe's eye, and in a moment he was away at full gallop; nor did he rest until the lost article was lying at his master's feet. Dick was loath to try how far back on his track Crusoe would run if desired. He had often gone back five and six miles at a stretch; but his powers did not stop here. He could carry articles back to the spot from which they had been taken and leave them there. He could head the game that his master was pursuing and turn it back; and he would guard any object he was desired to "watch" with unflinching constancy. But it would occupy too much space and time to enumerate all Crusoe's qualities and powers. His biography will unfold them. In personal appearance he was majestic, having grown to an immense size even for a Newfoundland. Had his visage been at all wolfish in character, his aspect would have been terrible. But he possessed in an eminent degree that mild, humble expression of face peculiar to his race. When roused or excited, and especially when bounding through the forest with the chase in view, he was absolutely magnificent. At other times his gait was slow, and he seemed to prefer a _quiet_ walk with Dick Varley to anything else under the sun. But when Dick was inclined to be boisterous Crusoe's tail and ears rose at a moment's notice, and he was ready for _anything_. Moreover, he obeyed commands instantly and implicitly. In this respect he put to shame most of the _boys_ of the settlement, who were by no means famed for their habits of prompt obedience. Crusoe's eye was constantly watching the face of his master. When Dick said "Go" he went, when he said "Come" he came. If he had been in the midst of an excited bound at the throat of a stag, and Dick had called out, "Down, Crusoe," he would have sunk to the earth like a stone. No doubt it took many months of training to bring the dog to this state of perfection; but Dick accomplished it by patience, perseverance, and _love_. Besides all this, Crusoe could speak! He spoke by means of the dog's dumb alphabet in a way that defies description. He conversed, so to speak, with his extremities--his head and his tail. But his eyes, his soft brown eyes, were the chief medium of communication. If ever the language of the eyes was carried to perfection, it was exhibited in the person of Crusoe. But, indeed, it would be difficult to say which part of his expressive face expressed most. The cocked ears of expectation; the drooped ears of sorrow; the bright, full eye of joy; the half-closed eye of contentment; and the frowning eye of indignation accompanied with a slight, a very slight, pucker of the nose and a gleam of dazzling ivory--ha! no enemy ever saw this last piece of canine language without a full appreciation of what it meant. Then as to the tail--the modulations of meaning in the varied wag of that expressive member! Oh! it's useless to attempt description. Mortal man cannot conceive of the delicate shades of sentiment expressible by a dog's tail, unless he has studied the subject--the wag, the waggle, the cock, the droop, the slope, the wriggle! Away with description--it is impotent and valueless here! As we have said, Crusoe was meek and mild. He had been bitten, on the sly, by half the ill-natured curs in the settlement, and had only shown his teeth in return. He had no enmities--though several enemies--and he had a thousand friends, particularly among the ranks of the weak and the persecuted, whom he always protected and avenged when opportunity offered. A single instance of this kind will serve to show his character. One day Dick and Crusoe were sitting on a rock beside the lake--the same identical rock near which, when a pup, the latter had received his first lesson. They were conversing as usual, for Dick had elicited such a fund of intelligence from the dog's mind, and had injected such wealth of wisdom into it, that he felt convinced it understood every word he said. "This is capital weather, Crusoe; ain't it pup?" Crusoe made a motion with his head which was quite as significant as a nod. "Ha! my pup, I wish that you and I might go and have a slap at the grizzly bars and a look at the Rocky Mountains. Wouldn't it be nuts, pup?" Crusoe looked dubious. "What, you don't agree with me! Now, tell me, pup, wouldn't ye like to grip a bar?" Still Crusoe looked dubious, but made a gentle motion with his tail, as though he would have said, "I've seen neither Rocky Mountains nor grizzly bars, and know nothin' about 'em, but I'm open to conviction." "You're a brave pup," rejoined Dick, stroking the dog's huge head affectionately. "I wouldn't give you for ten times your weight in golden dollars--if there be sich things." Crusoe made no reply whatever to this. He regarded it as a truism unworthy of notice; he evidently felt that a comparison between love and dollars was preposterous. At this point in the conversation a little dog with a lame leg hobbled to the edge of the rocks in front of the spot where Dick was seated, and looked down into the water, which was deep there. Whether it did so for the purpose of admiring its very plain visage in the liquid mirror, or finding out what was going on among the fish, we cannot say, as it never told us; but at that moment a big, clumsy, savage-looking dog rushed out from the neighbouring thicket and began to worry it. "Punish him, Crusoe," said Dick quickly. Crusoe made one bound that a lion might have been proud of, and seizing the aggressor by the back, lifted him off his legs and held him, howling, in the air--at the same time casting a look towards his master for further instructions. "Pitch him in," said Dick, making a sign with his hand. Crusoe turned and quietly dropped the dog into the lake. Having regarded his struggles there for a few moments with grave severity of countenance, he walked slowly back and sat down beside his master. The little dog made good its retreat as fast as three legs would carry it, and the surly dog, having swam ashore, retired sulkily, with his tail very much between his legs. Little wonder, then, that Crusoe was beloved by great and small among the well-disposed of the canine tribes of the Mustang Valley. But Crusoe was not a mere machine. When not actively engaged in Dick Varley's service, he busied himself with private little matters of his own. He undertook modest little excursions into the woods or along the margin of the lake, sometimes alone, but more frequently with a little friend whose whole heart and being seemed to be swallowed up in admiration of his big companion. Whether Crusoe botanised or geologised on these excursions we will not venture to say. Assuredly he seemed as though he did both, for he poked his nose into every bush and tuft of moss, and turned over the stones, and dug holes in the ground--and, in short, if he did not understand these sciences, he behaved very much as if he did. Certainly he knew as much about them as many of the human species do. In these walks he never took the slightest notice of Grumps (that was the little dog's name), but Grumps made up for this by taking excessive notice of _him_. When Crusoe stopped, Grumps stopped and sat down to look at him. When Crusoe trotted on, Grumps trotted on too. When Crusoe examined a bush Grumps sat down to watch him, and when he dug a hole Grumps looked into it to see what was there. Grumps never helped him; his sole delight was in looking on. They didn't converse much, these two dogs. To be in each other's company seemed to be happiness enough--at least Grumps thought so. There was one point at which Grumps stopped short, however, and ceased to follow his friend; and that was when he rushed headlong into the lake and disported himself for an hour at a time in its cool waters. Crusoe was, both by nature and training, a splendid water-dog. Grumps, on the contrary, held water in abhorrence, so he sat on the shores of the lake disconsolate when his friend was bathing, and waited till he came out. The only time when Grumps was thoroughly nonplussed, was when Dick Varley's whistle sounded faintly in the far distance. Then Crusoe would prick up his ears, and stretch out at full gallop, clearing ditch, and fence, and brake with his strong elastic bound, and leaving Grumps to patter after him as fast as his four-inch legs would carry him. Poor Grumps usually arrived at the village, to find both dog and master gone, and would betake himself to his own dwelling, there to lie down and sleep, and dream, perchance, of rambles and gambols with his gigantic friend. CHAPTER FIVE. A MISSION OF PEACE--UNEXPECTED JOYS--DICK AND CRUSOE SET OFF FOR THE LAND OF THE RED-SKINS, AND MEET WITH ADVENTURES BY THE WAY AS A MATTER OF COURSE--NIGHT IN THE WILD WOODS. One day the inhabitants of Mustang Valley were thrown into considerable excitement by the arrival of an officer of the United States army and a small escort of cavalry. They went direct to the block-house, which, since Major Hope's departure, had become the residence of Joe Blunt-- that worthy having, by general consent, been deemed the fittest man in the settlement to fill the major's place. Soon it began to be noised abroad that the strangers had been sent by Government to endeavour to bring about, if possible, a more friendly state of feeling between the whites and the Indians, by means of presents, and promises, and fair speeches. The party remained all night in the block-house, and ere long it was reported that Joe Blunt had been requested, and had consented, to be the leader and chief of a party of three men who should visit the neighbouring tribes of Indians, to the west and north of the valley, as Government agents. Joe's knowledge of two or three different Indian dialects, and his well-known sagacity, rendered him a most fitting messenger on such an errand. It was also whispered that Joe was to have the choosing of his comrades in this mission, and many were the opinions expressed and guesses made as to who would be chosen. That same evening Dick Varley was sitting in his mother's kitchen cleaning his rifle; his mother was preparing supper and talking quietly about the obstinacy of a particular hen that had taken to laying her eggs in places where they could not be found; Fan was coiled up in a corner sound asleep, and Crusoe was sitting at one side of the fire looking on at things in general. "I wonder," remarked Mrs Varley, as she spread the table with a pure white napkin; "I wonder what the sodgers are doin' wi' Joe Blunt." As often happens when an individual is mentioned, the worthy referred to opened the door at that moment and stepped into the room. "Good-e'en t'ye, dame," said the stout hunter, doffing his cap, and resting his rifle in a corner, while Dick rose and placed a chair for him. "The same to you, Master Blunt," answered the widow; "you've jist comed in good time for a cut o' venison." "Thanks, mistress, I s'pose we're beholden to the silver rifle for that." "To the hand that aimed it, rather," suggested the widow. "Nay, then, say raither to the dog that turned it," said Dick Varley. "But for Crusoe that buck would ha' bin couched in the woods this night." "Oh! if it comes to that," retorted Joe, "I'd lay it to the door o' Fan, for if she'd niver bin born nother would Crusoe. But it's good an' tender meat, whativer ways ye got it. Howsiver, I've other things to talk about jist now. Them sodgers that are eatin' buffalo tongues up at the block-house as if they'd niver ate meat before, and didn't hope to eat agin for a twelve-month--" "Ay, what o' them?" interrupted Mrs Varley; "I've bin wonderin' what was their errand." "Of coorse ye wos, Dame Varley; and I've comed here a' purpis to tell ye. They want me to go to the Red-skins to make peace between them and us; and they've brought a lot o' goods to make them presents withal,-- beads, an' knives, an' lookin'-glasses, an vermilion paint, an' sich-like, jist as much as'll be a light load for one horse--for, ye see, nothin' can be done wi' the Red-skins without gifts." "'Tis a blessed mission," said the widow, "I wish it may succeed. D'ye think ye'll go?" "Go? ay, that will I." "I only wish they'd made the offer to me," said Dick with a sigh. "An' so they do make the offer, lad. They've gin me leave to choose the two men I'm to take with me, and I've comed straight to ask _you_. Ay or no, for we must up an' away by break o' day to-morrow." Mrs Varley started. "So soon?" she said, with a look of anxiety. "Ay; the Pawnees are at the Yellow Creek jist at this time, but I've heer'd they're 'bout to break up camp an' away west; so we'll need to use haste." "May I go, mother?" asked Dick, with a look of anxiety. There was evidently a conflict in the widow's breast, but it quickly ceased. "Yes, my boy," she said in her own low, quiet voice, "an' God go with ye. I knew the time must come soon, an' I thank Him that your first visit to the Red-skins will be on an errand o' peace. `Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called the children of God.'" Dick grasped his mother's hand and pressed it to his cheek in silence. At the same moment Crusoe, seeing that the deeper feelings of his master were touched, and deeming it his duty to sympathise, rose up and thrust his nose against him. "Ah! pup," cried the young man hastily, "you must go too. Of course Crusoe goes, Joe Blunt?" "Hum! I don't know that. There's no dependin' on a dog to keep his tongue quiet in times o' danger." "Believe me," exclaimed Dick, flashing with enthusiasm, "Crusoe's more trustworthy than I am myself. If ye can trust the master yer safe to trust the pup." "Well, lad, ye may be right. We'll take him." "Thanks, Joe. And who else goes with us?" "I've bin castin' that in my mind for some time, an' I've fixed to take Henri. He's not the safest man in the valley, but he's the truest, that's a fact. And now, younker, get yer horse an' rifle ready, and come to the block-house at daybreak to-morrow. Good luck to ye, mistress, till we meet agin." Joe Blunt rose, and taking up his rifle,--without which he scarcely ever moved a foot from his own door,--left the cottage with rapid strides. "My son," said Mrs Varley, kissing Dick's cheek as he resumed his seat, "put this in the little pocket I made for it in your hunting shirt." She handed him a small pocket Bible. "Dear mother," he said, as he placed the book carefully within the breast of his coat, "the Red-skin that takes that from me must take my scalp first. But don't fear for me. You've often said the Lord would protect me. So He will, mother, for sure it's an errand o' peace!" "Ay, that's it, that's it," murmured the widow in a half-soliloquy. Dick Varley spent that night in converse with his mother, and next morning at daybreak he was at the place of meeting mounted on his sturdy little horse, with the "silver rifle" on his shoulder, and Crusoe by his side. "That's right, lad, that's right. Nothin' like keepin' yer time," said Joe, as he led out a pack-horse from the gate of the block-house, while his own charger was held ready saddled by a man named Daniel Brand, who had been appointed to the charge of the block-house in his absence. "Where's Henri?--oh! here he comes," exclaimed Dick, as the hunter referred to came thundering up the slope at a charge, on a horse that resembled its rider in size, and not a little in clumsiness of appearance. "Ah! mes boy. Him is a goot one to go," cried Henri, remarking Dick's smile as he pulled up. "No hoss on de plain can beat dis one, surement." "Now then, Henri, lend a hand to fix this pack, we've no time to palaver." By this time they were joined by several of the soldiers and a few hunters who had come to see them start. "Remember, Joe," cried one, "if you don't come back in three months we'll all come out in a band to seek you." "If we don't come back in less than that time, what's left o' us won't be worth seekin' for," said Joe, tightening the girth of his saddle. "Put a bit in yer own mouth, Henri," cried another, as the Canadian arranged his steed's bridle; "ye'll need it more than yer horse when ye git 'mong the red reptiles." "Vraiment, if mon mout' needs one bit yours will need one padlock." "Now, lads, mount!" cried Joe Blunt as he vaulted into the saddle. Dick Varley sprang lightly on his horse, and Henri made a rush at his steed and hurled his huge frame across its back with a violence that _ought_ to have brought it to the ground; but the tall, raw-boned, broad-chested roan was accustomed to the eccentricities of its master, and stood the shock bravely. Being appointed to lead the pack-horse, Henri seized its halter; then the three cavaliers shook their reins, and, waving their hands to their comrades, they sprang into the woods at full gallop, and laid their course for the "far west." For some time they galloped side by side in silence, each occupied with his own thoughts, Crusoe keeping close beside his master's horse. The two elder hunters evidently ruminated on the object of their mission and the prospects of success, for their countenances were grave and their eyes cast on the ground. Dick Varley, too, thought upon the Red-men, but his musings were deeply tinged with the bright hues of a _first_ adventure. The mountains, the plains, the Indians, the bears, the buffaloes, and a thousand other objects, danced wildly before his mind's eye, and his blood careered through his veins and flushed his forehead as he thought of what he should see and do, and felt the elastic vigour of youth respond in sympathy to the light spring of his active little steed. He was a lover of nature, too, and his flashing eyes glanced observantly from side to side as they swept along,--sometimes through glades of forest trees; sometimes through belts of more open ground and shrubbery; anon by the margin of a stream, or along the shores of a little lake, and often over short stretches of flowering prairie-land,-- while the firm, elastic turf sent up a muffled sound from the tramp of their mettlesome chargers. It was a scene of wild, luxuriant beauty, that might almost (one could fancy) have drawn involuntary homage to its bountiful Creator from the lips even of an infidel. After a time Joe Blunt reined up, and they proceeded at an easy ambling pace. Joe and his friend Henri were so used to these beautiful scenes that they had long ceased to be _enthusiastically_ affected by them, though they never ceased to delight in them. "I hope," said Joe, "that them sodgers 'll go their ways soon. I've no notion o' them chaps when they're left at a place wi' nothin' to do but whittle sticks." "Why, Joe!" exclaimed Dick Varley in a tone of surprise, "I thought you were admirin' the beautiful face o' nature all this time, and yer only thinkin' about the sodgers. Now, that's strange!" "Not so strange after all, lad," answered Joe. "When a man's used to a thing he gits to admire an' enjoy it without speakin' much about it. But it _is_ true, boy, that mankind gits in coorse o' time to think little o' the blissins he's used to." "Oui, c'est _vrai_!" murmured Henri emphatically. "Well, Joe Blunt, it may be so; but I'm thankful _I'm_ not used to this sort o' thing yet," exclaimed Varley. "Let's have another gallop--so ho! come along, Crusoe!" shouted the youth, as he shook his reins, and flew over a long stretch of prairie on which at that moment they entered. Joe smiled as he followed his enthusiastic companion, but after a short run he pulled up. "Hold on, youngster," he cried, "ye must larn to do as yer bid, lad; it's trouble enough to be among wild Injuns and wild buffaloes, as I hope soon to be, without havin' wild comrades to look after." Dick laughed and reined in his panting horse. "I'll be as obedient as Crusoe," he said, "and no one can beat him." "Besides," continued Joe, "the horses won't travel far if we begin by runnin' all the wind out o' them." "Wah!" exclaimed Henri, as the led horse became restive; "I think we must give to him de pack-hoss for to lead, eh!" "Not a bad notion, Henri. We'll make that the penalty of runnin' off again; so look out, Master Dick." "I'm down," replied Dick with a modest air, "obedient as a baby, and won't run off again--till--the next time. By the way, Joe, how many days' provisions did ye bring?" "Two. That's 'nough to carry us to the Great Prairie, which is three weeks distant from this; our own good rifles must make up the difference, and keep us when we git there." "And s'pose we neither find deer nor buffalo," suggested Dick. "I s'pose we'll have to starve." "Dat is cumfer'able to tink upon," remarked Henri. "More comfortable to think o' than to undergo," said Dick, "but I s'pose there's little chance o' that." "Well, not much," replied Joe Blunt, patting his horse's neck; "but d'ye see, lad, ye niver can count for sartin on anythin'. The deer and buffalo ought to be thick in them plains at this time--and when the buffalo _are_ thick they covers the plains till ye can hardly see the end o' them; but, ye see, sometimes the rascally Red-skins takes it into their heads to burn the prairies, and sometimes ye find the place that should ha' bin black wi' buffalo, black as a coal wi' fire for miles an' miles on end. At other times the Red-skins go huntin' in 'ticlar places, and sweeps them clean o' every hoof that don't git away. Sometimes, too, the animals seems to take a scunner at a place and keeps out o' the way. But one way or another men gin'rally manage to scramble through." "Look yonder, Joe," exclaimed Dick, pointing to the summit of a distant ridge, where a small black object was seen moving against the sky, "that's a deer, ain't it?" Joe shaded his eyes with his hand and gazed earnestly at the object in question. "Yer right, boy; and by good luck we've got the wind of him. Cut in an' take your chance now. There's a long strip o' wood as'll let ye git close to him." Before the sentence was well finished, Dick and Crusoe were off at full gallop. For a few hundred yards they coursed along the bottom of a hollow; then turning to the right they entered the strip of wood, and in a few minutes gained the edge of it. Here Dick dismounted. "You can't help me here, Crusoe. Stay where you are, pup, and hold my horse." Crusoe seized the end of the line, which was fastened to the horse's nose, in his mouth, and lay down on a hillock of moss, submissively placing his chin on his fore-paws, and watching his master as he stepped noiselessly through the wood. In a few minutes Dick emerged from among the trees, and, creeping from bush to bush, succeeded in getting to within six hundred yards of the deer, which was a beautiful little antelope. Beyond the bush behind which he now crouched all was bare open ground, without a shrub or hillock large enough to conceal the hunter. There was a slight undulation in the ground, however, which enabled him to advance about fifty yards further, by means of lying down quite flat and working himself forward like a serpent. Further than this he could not move without being seen by the antelope, which browsed on the ridge before him in fancied security. The distance was too great even for a long shot, but Dick knew of a weak point in this little creature's nature which enabled him to accomplish his purpose--a weak point which it shares in common with animals of a higher order,--namely, curiosity. The little antelope of the North American prairies is intensely curious about everything that it does not quite understand, and will not rest satisfied until it has endeavoured to clear up the mystery. Availing himself of this propensity, Dick did what both Indians and hunters are accustomed to do on these occasions,--he put a piece of rag on the end of his ramrod, and, keeping his person concealed and perfectly still, waved this miniature flag in the air. The antelope noticed it at once, and, pricking up its ears, began to advance, timidly and slowly, step by step, to see what remarkable phenomenon it could be. In a few seconds the flag was lowered, a sharp crack followed, and the antelope fell dead upon the plain. "Ha, boy! that's a good supper, anyhow," cried Joe, as he galloped up and dismounted. "Goot! dat is better nor dried meat," added Henri. "Give him to me; I will put him on my hoss, vich is strongar dan yourn. But ver is your hoss?" "He'll be here in a minute," replied Dick, putting his fingers to his mouth and giving forth a shrill whistle. The instant Crusoe heard the sound he made a savage and apparently uncalled-for dash at the horse's heels. This wild act, so contrary to the dog's gentle nature, was a mere piece of acting. He knew that the horse would not advance without getting a fright, so he gave him one in this way which sent him off at a gallop. Crusoe followed close at his heels, so as to bring the line alongside of the nag's body, and thereby prevent its getting entangled; but despite his best efforts the horse got on one side of a tree and he on the other, so he wisely let go his hold of the line, and waited till more open ground enabled him to catch it again. Then he hung heavily back, gradually checked the horse's speed, and finally trotted him up to his master's side. "'Tis a cliver cur, good sooth," exclaimed Joe Blunt in surprise. "Ah, Joe! you haven't seen much of Crusoe yet. He's as good as a man any day. I've done little else but train him for two years gone by, and he can do most anything but shoot--he can't handle the rifle nohow." "Ha! then, I tink perhaps hims could if he wos try," said Henri, plunging on to his horse with a laugh, and arranging the carcase of the antelope across the pommel of his saddle. Thus they hunted and galloped, and trotted and ambled on through wood and plain all day, until the sun began to descend below the tree-tops of the bluffs on the west--then Joe Blunt looked about him for a place on which to camp, and finally fixed on a spot under the shadow of a noble birch by the margin of a little stream. The carpet of grass on its banks was soft like green velvet, and the rippling waters of the brook were clear as crystal--very different from the muddy Missouri into which it flowed. While Dick Varley felled and cut up firewood, Henri unpacked the horses and turned them loose to graze, and Joe kindled the fire and prepared venison steaks and hot tea for supper. In excursions of this kind it is customary to "hobble" the horses; that is, to tie their fore-legs together, so that they cannot run either fast or far, but are free enough to amble about with a clumsy sort of hop in search of food. This is deemed a sufficient check on their tendency to roam, although some of the knowing horses sometimes learn to hop so fast with their hobbles as to give their owners much trouble to recapture them. But when out in the prairies where Indians are known or supposed to be in the neighbourhood, the horses are picketed by means of a pin or stake attached to the ends of their long laryats, as well as hobbled-- for Indians deem it no disgrace to steal or tell lies, though they think it disgraceful to be found out in doing either. And so expert are these dark-skinned natives of the western prairies, that they will creep into the midst of an enemy's camp, cut the laryats and hobbles of several horses, spring suddenly on their backs, and gallop away. They not only steal from white men, but tribes that are at enmity steal from each other, and the boldness with which they do this is most remarkable. When Indians are travelling in a country where enemies are prowling, they guard their camps at night with jealous care. The horses in particular are both hobbled and picketed, and sentries are posted all round the camp. Yet, in spite of these precautions, hostile Indians manage to elude the sentries, and creep into the camp. When a thief thus succeeds in effecting an entrance, his chief danger is past. He rises boldly to his feet, and, wrapping his blanket or buffalo robe round him, he walks up and down as if he were a member of the tribe. At the same time he dexterously cuts the laryats of such horses as he observes are not hobbled. He dare not stoop to cut the hobbles, as the action would be observed, and suspicion would be instantly aroused. He then leaps on the best horse he can find, and uttering a terrific war-whoop darts away into the plains, driving the loosened horses before him. No such dark thieves were supposed to be near the camp under the birch-tree, however, so Joe, and Dick, and Henri ate their supper in comfort, and let their horses browse at will on the rich pasturage. A bright ruddy fire was soon kindled, which created, as it were, a little ball of light in the midst of surrounding darkness for the special use of our hardy hunters. Within this magic circle all was warm, comfortable, and cheery. Outside all was dark, and cold, and dreary by contrast. When the substantial part of supper was disposed of, tea and pipes were introduced, and conversation began to flow. Then the three saddles were placed in a row; each hunter wrapped himself in his blanket, and, pillowing his head on his saddle, stretched his feet towards the fire and went to sleep, with his loaded rifle by his side and his hunting-knife handy in his belt. Crusoe mounted guard by stretching himself out _couchant_ at Dick Varley's side. The faithful dog slept lightly and never moved all night, but had any one observed him closely he would have seen that every fitful flame that burst from the sinking fire, every unusual puff of wind, and every motion of the horses that fed or rested hard by, had the effect of revealing a speck of glittering white in Crusoe's watchful eye. CHAPTER SIX. THE GREAT PRAIRIES OF THE "FAR WEST"--A REMARKABLE COLONY DISCOVERED, AND A MISERABLE NIGHT ENDURED. Of all the hours of the night or day the hour that succeeds the dawn is the purest, the most joyous and the best. At least so think we; and so think hundreds and thousands of the human family; and so thought Dick Varley, as he sprung suddenly into a sitting posture next morning, and threw his arms with an exulting feeling of delight round the neck of Crusoe, who instantly sat up to greet him. This was an unusual piece of enthusiasm on the part of Dick, but the dog received it with marked satisfaction, rubbed his big hairy cheek against that of his young master, and arose from his sedentary position in order to afford free scope for the use of his tail. "Ho! Joe Blunt! Henri! Up, boys, up! The sun will have the start o' us. I'll catch the nags." So saying Dick bounded away into the woods with Crusoe gambolling joyously at his heels. Dick soon caught his own horse and Crusoe caught Joe's. Then the former mounted and quickly brought in the other two. Returning to the camp he found everything packed and ready to strap on the back of the pack-horse. "That's the way to do it, lad," cried Joe. "Here Henri, look alive and git yer beast ready. I do believe yer goin' to take another snooze!" Henri was indeed, at that moment, indulging in a gigantic stretch and a cavernous yawn, but he finished both hastily, and rushed at his poor horse as if he intended to slay it on the spot. He only threw the saddle on its back, however, and then threw himself on the saddle. "Now then, all ready?" "Ay,--oui, yis!" And away they went at full stretch again on their journey. Thus day after day they travelled, and night after night they laid them down to sleep under the trees of the forest, until at length they reached the edge of the Great Prairie. It was a great, a memorable day in the life of Dick Varley, that on which he first beheld the prairie,--the vast boundless prairie. He had heard of it, talked of it, dreamed about it, but he had never,--no, he had never realised it. 'Tis always thus. Our conceptions of things that we have not seen are almost invariably wrong. Dick's eyes glittered, and his heart swelled, and his cheeks flushed, and his breath came thick and quick. "There it is," he gasped, as the great rolling plain broke suddenly on his enraptured gaze; "that's it--oh!--" Dick uttered a yell that would have done credit to the fiercest chief of the Pawnees, and, being unable to utter another word, he swung his cap in the air and sprang like an arrow from a bow over the mighty ocean of grass. The sun had just risen to send a flood of golden glory over the scene; the horses were fresh, so the elder hunters, gladdened by the beauty of all around them, and inspired by the irresistible enthusiasm of their young companion, gave the reins to the horses and flew after him. It was a glorious gallop, that first headlong dash over the boundless prairie of the "far west!" The prairies have often been compared, most justly, to the ocean. There is the same wide circle of space bounded on all sides by the horizon; there is the same swell, or undulation, or succession of long low unbroken waves that marks the ocean when it is calm; they are canopied by the same pure sky, and swept by the same untrammelled breezes. There are islands, too--clumps of trees and willow-bushes,--which rise out of this grassy ocean to break and relieve its uniformity; and these vary in size and numbers as do the isles of ocean--being numerous in some places, while in others they are so scarce that the traveller does not meet one in a long day's journey. Thousands of beautiful flowers decked the green sward, and numbers of little birds hopped about among them. "Now, lads," said Joe Blunt, reining up, "our troubles begin to-day." "Our troubles! our joys, you mean!" exclaimed Dick Varley. "P'raps I don't mean nothin' o' the sort," retorted Joe. "Man wos never intended to swaller his joys without a strong mixtur' o' troubles. I s'pose he couldn't stand 'em pure. Ye see we've got to the prairie now--" "One blind hoss might see dat!" interrupted Henri. "An' we may or may not diskiver buffalo. An' water's scarce, too, so we'll need to look out for it pretty sharp, I guess, else we'll lose our horses, in which case we may as well give out at once. Besides, there's rattlesnakes about in sandy places--we'll ha' to look out for them; an' there's badger holes--we'll need to look sharp for them lest the horses put their feet in 'em; an' there's Injuns, who'll look out pretty sharp for _us_ if they once get wind that we're in them parts." "Oui, yis, mes boys, and there's rain, and tunder, and lightin'," added Henri, pointing to a dark cloud which was seen rising on the horizon ahead of them. "It'll be rain," remarked Joe, "but there's no thunder in the air jist now; we'll make for yonder clump o' bushes and lay by till it's past." Turning a little to the right of the course they had been following, the hunters galloped along one of the hollows between the prairie waves before mentioned, in the direction of a clump of willows. Before reaching it however, they passed over a bleak and barren plain where there was neither flower nor bird. Here they were suddenly arrested by a most extraordinary sight--at least it was so to Dick Varley, who had never seen the like before. This was a colony of what Joe called "prairie-dogs." On first beholding them Crusoe uttered a sort of half growl, half bark of surprise, cocked his tail and ears, and instantly prepared to charge, but he glanced up at his master first for permission. Observing that his finger and his look commanded "silence" he dropped his tail at once and stepped to the rear. He did not, however, cease to regard the prairie-dogs with intense curiosity. These remarkable little creatures have been egregiously misnamed by the hunters of the west, for they bear not the slightest resemblance to dogs, either in formation or habits. They are, in fact, the marmot, and in size are little larger than squirrels, which animals they resemble in some degree. They burrow under the light soil and throw it up in mounds like moles. Thousands of them were running about among their dwellings when Dick first beheld them, but the moment they caught sight of the horsemen rising over the ridge, they set up a tremendous hubbub of consternation; each little beast instantly mounted guard on the top of his house and prepared, as it were, to "receive cavalry." The most ludicrous thing about them was, that although the most timid and cowardly creatures in the world, they seemed the most impertinent things that ever lived! Knowing that their holes afforded them a perfectly safe retreat they sat close beside them, and as the hunters slowly approached, they elevated their heads, wagged their little tails, showed their teeth, and chattered at them like monkeys. The nearer they came the more angry and furious did the prairie-dogs become, until Dick Varley almost fell off his horse with suppressed laughter. They let the hunters come close up, waxing louder and louder in their wrath; but the instant a hand was raised to throw a stone or point a gun, a thousand little heads dived into a thousand holes, and a thousand little tails wriggled for an instant in the air--then, a dead silence reigned over the deserted scene. "Bien, them's have dive into de bo'-els of de eart'," said Henri with a broad grin. Presently a thousand noses appeared, and nervously disappeared like the wink of an eye. Then they appeared again, and a thousand pairs of eyes followed. Instantly, like Jack in the box, they were all on the top of their hillocks again, chattering and wagging their little tails as vigorously as ever. You could not say that you _saw_ them jump out of their holes. Suddenly, as if by magic, they _were_ out; then Dick tossed up his arms, and, suddenly, as if by magic, they were gone! Their number was incredible, and their cities were full of riotous activity. What their occupations were the hunters could not ascertain, but it was perfectly evident that they visited a great deal and gossiped tremendously, for they ran about from house to house, and sat chatting in groups; but it was also observed that they never went far from their own houses. Each seemed to have a circle of acquaintance in the immediate neighbourhood of his own residence, to which in case of sudden danger he always fled. But another thing about these prairie-dogs (perhaps, considering their size, we should call them prairie-doggies), another thing about them, we say, was that each doggie lived with an owl, or, more correctly, an owl lived with each doggie! This is such an extraordinary _fact_, that we could scarce hope that men would believe us, were our statement not supported by dozens of trustworthy travellers who have visited and written about these regions. The whole plain was covered with these owls. Each hole seemed to be the residence of an owl and a doggie, and these incongruous couples lived together apparently in perfect harmony. We have not been able to ascertain from travellers _why_ the owls have gone to live with these doggies, so we beg humbly to offer our own private opinion to the reader. We assume, then, that owls find it absolutely needful to have holes. Probably prairie-owls cannot dig holes for themselves. Having discovered, however, a race of little creatures that could, they very likely determined to take forcible possession of the holes made by them. Finding, no doubt, that, when they did so, the doggies were too timid to object, and discovering, moreover, that they were sweet, innocent little creatures, the owls resolved to take them into partnership, and so the thing was settled-- that's how it came about, no doubt of it! There is a report that rattlesnakes live in these holes also; but we cannot certify our reader of the truth of this,--still it is well to be acquainted with a report that is current among the men of the backwoods. If it be true, we are of opinion that the doggie's family is the most miscellaneous and remarkable on the face of--or, as Henri said, in the bo'-els--of the earth. Dick and his friends were so deeply absorbed in watching these curious little creatures that they did not observe the rapid spread of the black clouds over the sky. _A_ few heavy drops of rain now warned them to seek shelter, so wheeling round they dashed off at speed for the clump of willows, which they gained just as the rain began to descend in torrents. "Now, lads, do it slick. Off packs and saddles," cried Joe Blunt, jumping from his horse. "I'll make a hut for ye, right off." "A hut, Joe! what sort o' hut can ye make here?" inquired Dick. "Ye'll see, boy, in a minute." "Ach! lend me hand here, Dick; de bockle am tight as de hosse's own skin. Ah! dere all right." "Hallo! what's this?" exclaimed Dick, as Crusoe advanced with something in his mouth. "I declare, it's a bird of some sort." "A prairie-hen," remarked Joe, as Crusoe laid the bird at Dick's feet; "capital for supper." "Ah! dat chien is superb! goot dog. Come here, I vill clap you." But Crusoe refused to be caressed. Meanwhile, Joe and Dick formed a sort of beehive-looking hut by bending down the stems of a tall bush and thrusting their points into the ground. Over this they threw the largest buffalo robe, and placed another on the ground below it, on which they laid their packs of goods. These they further secured against wet by placing several robes over them and a skin of parchment. Then they sat down on this pile to rest and consider what should be done next. "'Tis a bad look out," said Joe, shaking his head. "I fear it is," replied Dick in a melancholy tone. Henri said nothing, but he sighed deeply on looking up at the sky, which was now of a uniform watery grey, while black clouds drove athwart it. The rain was pouring in torrents, and the wind began to sweep it in broad sheets over the plains, and under their slight covering, so that in a short time they were wet to the skin. The horses stood meekly beside them, with their tails and heads equally pendulous, and Crusoe sat before his master, looking at him with an expression that seemed to say, "Couldn't you put a stop to this if you were to try?" "This'll never do. I'll try to git up a fire," said Dick, jumping up in desperation. "Ye may save yerself the trouble," remarked Joe, drily--at least as drily as was possible in the circumstances. However, Dick did try, but he failed signally. Everything was soaked and saturated. There were no large trees; most of the bushes were green, and the dead ones were soaked. The coverings were slobbery; the skins they sat on were slobbery; the earth itself was slobbery; so Dick threw his blanket (which was also slobbery) round his shoulders, and sat down beside his companions to grin and bear it. As for Joe and Henri, they were old hands, and accustomed to such circumstances. From the first they had resigned themselves to their fate, and wrapping their wet blankets round them sat down, side by side, wisely to endure the evils that they could not cure. There is an old rhyme, by whom composed we know not--and it matters little--which runs thus-- "For every evil under the sun There is a remedy--or there's none. If there is--try and find it; If there isn't--never mind it!" There is deep wisdom here in small compass. The principle involved deserves to be heartily recommended. Dick never heard of the lines, but he knew the principle well; so he began to "never mind it," by sitting down beside his companions and whistling vociferously. As the wind rendered this a difficult feat he took to singing instead. After that he said, "Let's eat a bite, Joe, and then go to bed." "Be all means," said Joe, who produced a mass of dried deer's meat from a wallet. "It's cold grub," said Dick, "and tough." But the hunters' teeth were sharp and strong, so they ate a hearty supper and washed it down with a drink of rain water collected from a pool on the top of their hut. They now tried to sleep, for the night was advancing, and it was so dark that they could scarce see their hands when held up before their faces. They sat back to back, and thus, in the form of a tripod, began to snooze. Joe's and Henri's seasoned frames would have remained stiff as posts till morning; but Dick's body was young and pliant, so he hadn't been asleep a few seconds when he fell forward into the mud and effectually awakened the others. Joe gave a grunt, and Henri exclaimed, "Hah!" but Dick was too sleepy and miserable to say anything. Crusoe, however, rose up to show his sympathy, and laid his wet head on his master's knee as he resumed his place. This catastrophe happened three times in the space of an hour, and by the third time they were all wakened up so thoroughly that they gave up the attempt to sleep, and amused each other by recounting their hunting experiences and telling stories. So engrossed did they become that day broke sooner than they had expected--and just in proportion as the grey light of dawn rose higher into the eastern sky did the spirits of these weary men rise within their soaking bodies. CHAPTER SEVEN. THE "WALLERING" PECULIARITIES OF BUFFALO BULLS--THE FIRST BUFFALO HUNT AND ITS CONSEQUENCES--CRUSOE COMES TO THE RESCUE--PAWNEES DISCOVERED--A MONSTER BUFFALO HUNT--JOE ACTS THE PART OF AMBASSADOR. Fortunately the day that succeeded the dreary night described in the last chapter was warm and magnificent. The sun rose in a blaze of splendour and filled the atmosphere with steam from the moist earth. The unfortunates in the wet camp were not slow to avail themselves of his cheering rays. They hung up everything on the bushes to dry, and by dint of extreme patience and cutting out the comparatively dry hearts of several pieces of wood, they lighted a fire and boiled some rain water, which was soon converted into soup. This, and the exercise necessary for the performance of these several duties, warmed and partially dried them, so that when they once more mounted their steeds and rode away they were in a state of comparative comfort and in excellent spirits. The only annoyance was the clouds of mosquitoes and large flies that assailed men and horses whenever they checked their speed. "I tell ye wot it is," said Joe Blunt, one fine morning about a week after they had begun to cross the prairie, "it's my 'pinion that we'll come on buffaloes soon. Them tracks are fresh, an' yonder's one o' their wallers that's bin used not long agone." "I'll go have a look at it," cried Dick, trotting away as he spoke. Everything in these vast prairies was new to Dick Varley, and he was kept in a constant state of excitement during the first week or two of his journey. It is true he was quite familiar with the names and habits of all the animals that dwelt there, for many a time and oft had he listened to the "yarns" of the hunters and trappers of the Mustang Valley, when they returned laden with rich furs from their periodical hunting expeditions. But this knowledge of his only served to whet his curiosity and his desire to _see_ the denizens of the prairies with his own eyes, and now that his wish was accomplished, it greatly increased the pleasures of his journey. Dick had just reached the "wallow" referred to by Joe Blunt, and had reined up his steed to observe it leisurely, when a faint hissing sound reached his ear. Looking quickly back he observed his two companions crouching on the necks of their horses, and slowly descending into a hollow of the prairie in front of them, as if they wished to bring the rising ground between them and some object in advance. Dick instantly followed their example and was soon at their heels. "Ye needn't look at the waller," whispered Joe, "for a' t'other side o' the ridge there's a bull _wallerin'_." "Ye don't mean it!" exclaimed Dick, as they all dismounted and picketed their horses to the plain. "Oui," said Henri, tumbling off his horse, while a broad grin overspread his good-natured countenance; "it is one fact! One buffalo bull be wollerin' like a enormerous hog. Also, dere be t'ousands o' buffaloes farder on." "Can ye trust yer dog keepin' back?" inquired Joe, with a dubious glance at Crusoe. "Trust him! Ay, I wish I was as sure o' myself." "Look to your primin', then, an' we'll have tongues and marrow-bones for supper to-night, I'se warrant. Hist! down on yer knees, and go softly. We might ha' run them down on horseback, but its bad to wind yer beasts on a trip like this, if ye can help it; an' it's about as easy to stalk them. Leastways, we'll try. Lift yer head slowly, Dick, an' don't show more nor the half o't above the ridge." Dick elevated his head as directed, and the scene that met his view was indeed well calculated to send an electric shock to the heart of an ardent sportsman. The vast plain beyond was absolutely blackened with countless herds of buffaloes, which were browsing on the rich grass. They were still so far distant that their bellowing, and the trampling of their myriad hoofs, only reached the hunters like a faint murmur on the breeze. In the immediate foreground, however, there was a group of about half a dozen buffalo cows feeding quietly, and in the midst of them an enormous old bull was enjoying himself in his wallow. The animals, towards which our hunters now crept with murderous intent, are the fiercest and the most ponderous of the ruminating inhabitants of the western wilderness. The name of buffalo, however, is not correct. The animal is the _bison_, and bears no resemblance whatever to the buffalo proper; but as the hunters of the far west--and, indeed, travellers generally, have adopted the misnomer, we bow to the authority of custom and adopt it too. Buffaloes roam in countless thousands all over the North American prairies, from the Hudson's Bay territories, north of Canada, to the shores of the Gulf of Mexico. The advance of white men to the west has driven them to the prairies between the Missouri and the Rocky Mountains, and has somewhat diminished their numbers; but even thus diminished, they are still innumerable in the more distant plains. Their colour is dark brown, but it varies a good deal with the seasons. The hair or fur, from its great length in winter and spring and exposure to the weather, turns quite light; but when the winter coat is shed off the new growth is a beautiful dark brown, almost approaching to jet-black. In form the buffalo somewhat resembles the ox, but its head and shoulders are much larger, and are covered with a profusion of long shaggy hair, which adds greatly to the fierce aspect of the animal. It has a large hump on the shoulder, and its fore-quarters are much larger, in proportion, than the hindquarters. The horns are short and thick; the hoofs are cloven, and the tail is short, with a tuft of hair at the extremity. It is scarcely possible to conceive a wilder or more ferocious and terrible monster than a buffalo bull. He often grows to the enormous weight of two thousand pounds. His lion-like mane falls in shaggy confusion quite over his head and shoulders, down to the ground. When he is wounded he becomes imbued with the spirit of a tiger; he stamps, bellows, roars, and foams forth his rage with glaring eyes and steaming nostrils; and charges furiously at man and horse with utter recklessness. Fortunately, however, he is not naturally pugnacious, and can be easily thrown into a sudden panic. Moreover, the peculiar position of his eye renders this creature not so terrible as he would otherwise be to the hunter. Owing to the stiff structure of the neck, and the sunken, downward-looking eyeball, the buffalo cannot, without an effort, see beyond the direct line of vision presented to the habitual carriage of his head. When, therefore, he is wounded, and charges, he does so in a straight line, so that his pursuer can leap easily out of his way. The pace of the buffalo is clumsy, and _apparently_ slow, yet, when chased, he dashes away over the plains in blind blundering terror, at a rate that leaves all but good horses far behind. He cannot keep the pace up, however, and is usually soon overtaken. Were the buffalo capable of the same alert and agile motions of head and eye peculiar to the deer or wild horse, in addition to his "bovine rage," he would be the most formidable brute on earth. There is no object, perhaps, so terrible as the headlong advance of a herd of these animals when thoroughly aroused by terror. They care not for their necks. All danger in front is forgotten, or not seen, in the terror of that from which they fly. No thundering cataract is more tremendously irresistible than the black bellowing torrent which sometimes pours through the narrow defiles of the Rocky Mountains, or sweeps like a roaring flood over the trembling plains. The wallowing, to which we have referred, is a luxury usually indulged in during the hot months of summer, when the buffaloes are tormented by flies, and heat, and drought. At this season they seek the low grounds in the prairies where there is a little stagnant water lying amongst the grass, and the ground underneath, being saturated, is soft. The leader of the herd, a shaggy old bull, usually takes upon himself to prepare the wallow. It was a rugged monster of the largest size that did so on the present occasion, to the intense delight of Dick Varley, who begged Joe to lie still and watch the operation before trying to shoot one of the buffalo cows. Joe consented with a nod, and the four spectators--for Crusoe was as much taken up with the proceedings as any of them--crouched in the grass, and looked on. Coming up to the swampy spot the old bull gave a grunt of satisfaction, and, going down on one knee, plunged his short thick horns into the mud, tore it up, and cast it aside. Having repeated this several times he plunged his head in, and brought it forth saturated with dirty water, and bedaubed with lumps of mud, through which his fierce eyes gazed, with a ludicrous expression of astonishment, straight in the direction of the hunters, as if he meant to say, "I've done it that time, and no mistake!" The other buffaloes seemed to think so too, for they came up and looked, on with an expression that seemed to say, "Well done, old fellow; try that again!" The old fellow did try it again, and again, and again, plunging, and ramming, and tearing up the earth, until he formed an excavation large enough to contain his huge body. In this bath he laid himself comfortably down, and began to roll and wallow about until he mixed up a trough full of thin soft mud, which completely covered him. When he came out of the hole there was scarcely an atom of his former self visible! The coat of mud thus put on by bulls is usually permitted by them to dry, and is not finally got rid of until long after, when oft-repeated rollings on the grass and washings by rain at length clear it away. When the old bull vacated this delectable bath, another bull, scarcely, if at all, less ferocious-looking, stepped forward to take his turn, but he was interrupted by a volley from the hunters, which scattered the animals right and left, and sent the mighty herds in the distance flying over the prairie in wild terror. The very turmoil of their own mad flight added to their panic, and the continuous thunder of their hoofs was heard until the last of them disappeared on the horizon. The family party which had been fired at, however, did not escape so well. Joe's rifle wounded a fat young cow, and Dick Varley brought it down. Henri had done his best, but, as the animals were too far distant for his limited vision, he missed the cow he fired at and hit the young bull whose bath had been interrupted. The others scattered and fled. "Well done, Dick," exclaimed Joe Blunt, as they all ran up to the cow that had fallen. "Your first shot at the buffalo was a good 'un. Come now an I'll show ye how to cut it up an' carry off the titbits." "Ah! mon dear ole bull," exclaimed Henri, gazing after the animal which he had wounded, and which was now limping slowly away. "You is not worth goin' after. Varewell,--adieu." "He'll be tough enough, I warrant," said Joe, "an' we've more meat here nor we can lift." "But wouldn't it be as well to put the poor brute out o' pain?" suggested Dick. "Oh, he'll die soon enough," replied Joe, tucking up his sleeves and drawing his long hunting-knife. Dick, however, was not satisfied with this way of looking at it. Saying that he would be back in a few minutes he re-loaded his rifle, and calling Crusoe to his side, walked quickly after the wounded bull, which was now hid from view in a hollow of the plain. In a few minutes he came in sight of it, and ran forward with his rifle in readiness. "Down, Crusoe," he whispered; "wait for me here." Crusoe crouched in the grass instantly, and Dick advanced. As he came on, the bull observed him, and turned round bellowing with rage and pain to receive him. The aspect of the brute on a near view was so terrible, that Dick involuntarily stopped too, and gazed with a mingled feeling of wonder and awe, while it bristled with passion, and blood-streaked foam dropped from its open jaws, and its eyes glared furiously. Seeing that Dick did not advance, the bull charged him with a terrific roar; but the youth had firm nerves, and although the rush of such a savage creature at full speed was calculated to try the courage of any man, especially one who had never seen a buffalo bull before, Dick did not lose presence of mind. He remembered the many stories he had listened to of this very thing that was now happening, so, crushing down his excitement as well as he could, he cocked his rifle and awaited the charge. He knew that it was of no use to fire at the head of the advancing foe, as the thickness of the skull, together with the matted hair on the forehead, rendered it impervious to a bullet. When the bull was within a yard of him he leaped lightly to one side and it passed. Just as it did so, Dick aimed at its heart and fired, but his knowledge of the creature's anatomy was not yet correct. The ball entered the shoulder too high, and the bull, checking himself as well as he could in his headlong rush, turned round and made at Dick again. The failure coupled with the excitement proved too much for Dick; he could not resist discharging his second barrel at the brute's head as it came on. He might as well have fired at a brick wall; it shook its shaggy front, and with a hideous bellow thundered forward. Again Dick sprang to one side, but in doing so a tuft of grass or a stone caught his foot, and he fell heavily to the ground. Up to this point Crusoe's admirable training had nailed him to the spot where he had been left, although the twitching of every fibre in his body and a low continuous whine showed how gladly he would have hailed permission to join in the combat; but the instant he saw his master down and the buffalo turning to charge again, he sprang forward with a roar that would have done credit to his bovine enemy, and seized him by the nose. So vigorous was the rush that he well-nigh pulled the bull down on its side. One toss of its head, however, sent Crusoe high into the air, but it accomplished this feat at the expense of its nose, which was torn and lacerated by the dog's teeth. Scarcely had Crusoe touched the ground, which he did with a sounding thump, than he sprang up and flew at his adversary again. This time, however, he adopted the plan of barking furiously and biting by rapid yet terrible snaps as he found opportunity, thus keeping the bull entirely engrossed, and affording Dick an opportunity of re-loading his rifle, which he was not slow to do. Dick then stepped close up, and, while the two combatants were roaring in each other's face; he shot the buffalo through the heart. It fell to the earth with a deep groan. Crusoe's rage instantly vanished on beholding this, and he seemed to be filled with tumultuous joy at his master's escape, for he gambolled round him, and whined and fawned upon him in a manner that could not be misunderstood. "Good dog; thank'ee, my pup," said Dick, patting Crusoe's head as he stooped to brush the dust from his leggings; "I don't know what would ha' become o' me but for your help, Crusoe." Crusoe turned his head a little to one side, wagged his tail, and looked at Dick with an expression that said quite plainly, "I'd die for you, I would--not once, or twice, but ten times, fifty times if need be--and that not merely to save your life, but even to please you." There is no doubt whatever that Crusoe felt something of this sort. The love of a Newfoundland dog to its master is beyond calculation or expression. He who once gains such love carries the dog's life in his hand. But let him who reads note well, and remember, that there is only one coin that can purchase such love, and that is _kindness_; the coin, too, must be genuine. Kindness merely _expressed_ will not do, it must be _felt_. "Hallo! boy, ye've bin i' the wars!" exclaimed Joe, raising himself from his task as Dick and Crusoe returned. "You look more like it than I do," retorted Dick, laughing. This was true, for cutting up a buffalo carcase with no other instrument than a large knife is no easy matter. Yet western hunters and Indians can do it without cleaver or saw, in a way that would surprise a civilised butcher not a little. Joe was covered with blood up to the elbows. His hair, happening to have a knack of getting into his eyes, had been so often brushed off with bloody hands, that his whole visage was speckled with gore, and his dress was by no means immaculate. While Dick related his adventure, or _mis-adventure_ with the bull, Joe and Henri completed the cutting out of the most delicate portions of the buffalo, namely, the hump on its shoulder--which is a choice piece, much finer than the best beef--and the tongue, and a few other parts. The tongues of buffaloes are superior to those of domestic cattle. When all was ready the meat was slung across the back of the pack-horse, and the party, remounting their horses, continued their journey, having first cleansed themselves as well as they could in the rather dirty waters of an old wallow. "See," said Henri, turning to Dick and pointing to a circular spot of green as they rode along, "that is one old _dry_ waller." "Ay," remarked Joe, "after the waller dries, it becomes a ring o' greener grass than the rest o' the plain, as ye see. 'Tis said the first hunters used to wonder greatly at these myster'ous circles, and they invented all sorts o' stories to account for 'em. Some said they wos fairy-rings, but at last they comed to know they wos nothin' more nor less than places where buffaloes wos used to waller in. It's often seemed to me that if we knowed the _raisons_ o' things we wouldn't be so much puzzled wi' them as we are." The truth of this last remark was so self-evident and incontrovertible that it elicited no reply, and the three friends rode on for a considerable time in silence. It was now past noon, and they were thinking of calling a halt for a short rest to the horses and a pipe to themselves, when Joe was heard to give vent to one of those peculiar hisses that always accompanied either a surprise or a caution. In the present case it indicated both. "What now, Joe?" "Injuns!" ejaculated Joe. "Eh! fat you say? ou is de?" Crusoe at this moment uttered a low growl. Ever since the day he had been partially roasted he had maintained a rooted antipathy to Red-men. Joe immediately dismounted, and placing his ear to the ground listened intently. It is a curious fact that by placing the ear close to the ground sounds can be heard distinctly which could not be heard at all if the listener were to maintain an erect position. "They're arter the buffalo," said Joe, rising, "an' I think it's likely they're a band o' Pawnees. Listen an' ye'll hear their shouts quite plain." Dick and Henri immediately lay down and placed their ears to the ground. "Now, me hear noting," said Henri, jumping up, "but me ear is like me eyes; ver' short-sighted." "I do hear something," said Dick as he got up, "but the beating o' my own heart makes row enough to spoil my hearin'." Joe Blunt smiled. "Ah! lad, yer young an' yer blood's too hot yet, but bide a bit; you'll cool down soon. I wos like you once. Now, lads, what think ye we should do?" "You know best, Joe." "Oui, nodoubtedly." "Then wot I advise is that we gallop to the broken sand hillocks ye see yonder, get behind them an' take a peep at the Red-skins. If they are Pawnees we'll go up to them at once; if not, we'll hold a council o' war on the spot." Having arranged this they mounted and hastened towards the hillocks in question, which they reached after ten minutes' gallop, at full stretch. The sandy mounds afforded them concealment, and enabled them to watch the proceedings of the savages in the plain below. The scene was the most curious and exciting that can be conceived. The centre of the plain before them was crowded with hundreds of buffaloes, which were dashing about in the most frantic state of alarm. To whatever point they galloped they were met by yelling savages on horseback, who could not have been fewer in numbers than a thousand--all being armed with lance, bow, and quiver, and mounted on active little horses. The Indians had completely surrounded the herd of buffaloes, and were now advancing steadily towards them, gradually narrowing the circle, and, whenever the terrified animals endeavoured to break through the line, they rushed to that particular spot in a body, and scared them back again into the centre. Thus they advanced until they closed in on their prey, and formed an unbroken circle round them, whilst the poor brutes kept eddying and surging to and fro in a confused mass, hooking and climbing upon each other, and bellowing furiously. Suddenly the horsemen made a rush, and the work of destruction began. The tremendous turmoil raised a cloud of dust that obscured the field in some places, and hid it from our hunters' view. Some of the Indians galloped round and round the circle, sending their arrows whizzing up to the feathers in the sides of the fattest cows. Others dashed fearlessly into the midst of the black heaving mass, and, with their long lances, pierced dozens of them to the heart. In many instances the buffaloes, infuriated by wounds, turned fiercely on their assailants and gored the horses to death, in which cases the men had to trust to their nimble legs for safety. Sometimes a horse got jammed in the centre of the swaying mass, and could neither advance nor retreat. Then the savage rider leaped upon the buffaloes' backs, and springing from one to another, like an acrobat, gained the outer edge of the circle, not failing, however, in his strange flight, to pierce with his lance several of the fattest of his stepping-stones as he sped along. A few of the herd succeeded in escaping from the blood and dust of this desperate battle, and made off over the plains, but they were quickly overtaken, and the lance or arrow brought them down on the green turf. Many of the dismounted riders were chased by bulls, but they stepped lightly to one side, and, as the animals passed, drove their arrows deep into their sides. Thus the tumultuous war went on, amid thundering tread, and yell, and bellow, till the green plain was transformed into a sea of blood and mire, and every buffalo of the herd was laid low. It is not to be supposed that such reckless warfare is invariably waged without damage to the savages. Many were the wounds and bruises received that day, and not a few bones were broken, but happily no lives were lost. "Now, lads, now's our time. A bold and fearless look's the best at all times. Don't look as if ye doubted their friendship; and mind, wotever ye do, don't use yer arms. Follow me." Saying this, Joe Blunt leaped on his horse, and, bounding over the ridge at full speed, galloped headlong across the plain. The savages observed the strangers instantly, and a loud yell announced the fact as they assembled from all parts of the field brandishing their bows and spears. Joe's quick eye soon distinguished their chief, towards whom he galloped, still at full speed, till within a yard or two of his horse's head; then he reined up suddenly. So rapidly did Joe and his comrades approach, and so instantaneously did they pull up, that their steeds were thrown almost on their haunches. The Indian chief did not move a muscle. He was a tall powerful savage, almost naked, and mounted on a coal-black charger, which he sat with the ease of a man accustomed to ride from infancy. He was, indeed, a splendid-looking savage, but his face wore a dark frown, for, although he and his band had visited the settlements and trafficked with the fur-traders on the Missouri, he did not love the "Pale-faces," whom he regarded as intruders on the hunting grounds of his fathers, and the peace that existed between them at that time was of a very fragile character. Indeed, it was deemed by the traders impossible to travel through the Indian country at that period except in strong force, and it was the very boldness of the present attempt that secured to our hunters anything like a civil reception. Joe, who could speak the Pawnee tongue fluently, began by explaining the object of his visit, and spoke of the presents which he had brought for the great chief; but it was evident that his words made little impression. As he discoursed to them the savages crowded round the little party, and began to handle and examine their dresses and weapons with a degree of rudeness that caused Joe considerable anxiety. "Mahtawa believes that the heart of the Pale-face is true," said the savage, when Joe paused, "but he does not choose to make peace. The Pale-faces are grasping. They never rest. They turn their eyes to the great mountains, and say, `There we will stop.' But even there they will not stop. They are never satisfied, Mahtawa knows them well." This speech sank like a death-knell into the hearts of the hunters, for they knew that if the savages refused to make peace, they would scalp them all and appropriate their goods. To make things worse, a dark-visaged Indian suddenly caught hold of Henri's rifle, and, ere he was aware, plucked it from his hand. The blood rushed to the gigantic hunter's forehead, and he was on the point of springing at the man, when Joe said in a deep, quiet voice-- "Be still, Henri. You will but hasten death." At this moment there was a movement in the outskirts of the circle of horsemen, and another chief rode into the midst of them. He was evidently higher in rank than Mahtawa, for he spoke authoritatively to the crowd, and stepped in before him. The hunters drew little comfort from the appearance of his face, however, for it scowled upon them. He was not so powerful a man as Mahtawa, but he was more gracefully formed, and had a more noble and commanding countenance. "Have the Pale-faces no wigwams on the great river that they should come to spy out the lands of the Pawnee?" he demanded. "We have not come to spy your country," answered Joe, raising himself proudly as he spoke, and taking off his cap. "We have come with a message from the great chief of the Pale-faces, who lives in the village far beyond the great river where the sun rises. He says, why should the Pale-face and the Red-man fight? They are brothers. The same Manitou [the Indian name for God] watches over both. The Pale-faces have more beads, and guns, and blankets, and knives, and vermilion than they require; they wish to give some of these things for the skins and furs which the Red-man does not know what to do with. The great chief of the Pale-faces has sent me to say, `Why should we fight? let us smoke the pipe of peace!'" At the mention of beads and blankets the face of the wily chief brightened for a moment. Then he said, sternly-- "The heart of the Pale-face is not true. He has come here to trade for himself. San-it-sa-rish has eyes that can see--they are not shut. Are not these your goods?" The chief pointed to the pack-horse as he spoke. "Trappers do not take their goods into the heart of an enemy's camp," returned Joe; "San-it-sa-rish is wise and will understand this. These are gifts to the chief of the Pawnees. There are more awaiting him when the pipe of peace is smoked. I have said,--What message shall we take back to the great chief of the Pale-faces?" San-it-sa-rish was evidently mollified. "The hunting field is not the council tent," he said. "The Pale-faces will go with us to our village." Of course Joe was only too glad to agree to this proposal, but he now deemed it politic to display a little firmness. "We cannot go till our rifle is restored. It will not do to go back and tell the great chief of the Pale-faces that the Pawnees are thieves." The chief frowned angrily. "The Pawnees are true--they are not thieves. They choose to _look_ at the rifle of the Pale-face. It shall be returned." The rifle was instantly restored, and then our hunters rode off with the Indians towards their camp. On the way they met hundreds of women and children going to the scene of the great hunt, for it was their special duty to cut up the meat and carry it into camp. The men, considering that they had done quite enough in killing it, returned to smoke and eat away the fatigues of the chase. As they rode along Dick Varley observed that some of the "braves," as Indian warriors are styled, were eating pieces of the bloody livers of the buffaloes in a raw state, at which he expressed not a little disgust. "Ah! boy, you're green yet," remarked Joe Blunt in an undertone. "Mayhap ye'll be thankful to do that same yerself some day." "Well, I'll not refuse to try when it is needful," said Dick with a laugh; "meanwhile I'm content to see the Red-skins do it, Joe Blunt." CHAPTER EIGHT. DICK AND HIS FRIENDS VISIT THE INDIANS AND SEE MANY WONDERS--CRUSOE, TOO, EXPERIENCES A FEW SURPRISES AND TEACHES INDIAN DOGS A LESSON--AN INDIAN DANDY--A FOOT-RACE. The Pawnee village, at which they soon arrived, was situated in the midst of a most interesting and picturesque scene. It occupied an extensive plain which sloped gently down to a creek, [In America small rivers or riverlets are termed "creeks"] whose winding course was marked by a broken line of wood, here and there interspersed with a fine clump of trees, between the trunks of which the blue waters of the lake sparkled in the distance. Hundreds of tents or "lodges" of buffalo skins covered the ground, and thousand of Indians--men, women, and children--moved about the busy scene. Some were sitting in their lodges, lazily smoking their pipes. But these were chiefly old and infirm veterans, for all the young men had gone to the hunt which we have just described. The women were stooping over their fires, busily preparing maize and meat for their husbands and brothers, while myriads of little brown and naked children romped about everywhere, filling the air with their yells and screams, which were only equalled, if not surpassed, by the yelping dogs that seemed innumerable. Far as the eye could reach were seen scattered herds of horses. These were tended by little boys who were totally destitute of clothing, and who seemed to enjoy with infinite zest the pastime of shooting-practice with little bows and arrows. No wonder that these Indians become expert bowmen. There were urchins there, scarce two feet high, with round bullets of bodies and short spindle-shanks, who could knock blackbirds off the trees at every shot, and cut the heads of the taller flowers with perfect certainty! There was much need, too, for the utmost proficiency they could attain, for the very existence of the Indian tribes of the prairies depends on their success in hunting the buffalo. There are hundreds and thousands of North American savages who would undoubtedly perish and their tribes become extinct if the buffaloes were to leave the prairies or die out. Yet, although animals are absolutely essential to their existence, they pursue and slay them with improvident recklessness, sometimes killing hundreds of them merely for the sake of the sport, the tongues, and the marrow-bones. In the bloody hunt described in the last chapter, however, the slaughter of so many was not wanton, because the village that had to be supplied with food was large, and, just previous to the hunt, they had been living on somewhat reduced allowance. Even the blackbirds, shot by the brown-bodied urchins before mentioned, had been thankfully put into the pot. Thus precarious is the supply of food among the Red-men, who on one day are starving, and the next are revelling in superabundance. But to return to our story. At one end of this village the creek sprang over a ledge of rock in a low cascade and opened out into a beautiful lake, the bosom of which was studded with small islands. Here were thousands of those smaller species of wild water-fowl which were either too brave or too foolish to be scared away by the noise of the camp. And here, too, dozens of children were sporting on the beach or paddling about in their light bark canoes. "Isn't it strange," remarked Dick to Henri, as they passed among the tents towards the centre of the village, "isn't it strange that them Injuns should be so fond o' fightin' when they've got all they can want--a fine country, lots o' buffalo, an' as far as I can see, happy homes?" "Oui, it is remarkaibel, vraiment. But dey do more love war to peace. Dey loves to be excited, I s'pose." "Humph! One would think the hunt we seed a little agone would be excitement enough. But, I say, that must be the chief's tent, by the look o't." Dick was right; the horsemen pulled up and dismounted opposite the principal chief's tent, which was a larger and more elegant structure than the others. Meanwhile an immense concourse of women, children, and dogs gathered round the strangers, and, while the latter yelped their dislike to white men, the former chattered continuously, as they discussed the appearance of the strangers and their errand, which latter soon became known. An end was put to this by San-it-sa-rish desiring the hunters to enter the tent, and spreading a buffalo robe for them to sit on. Two braves carried in their packs and then led away their horses. All this time Crusoe had kept as close as possible to his master's side, feeling extremely uncomfortable in the midst of such a strange crowd, the more especially that the ill-looking Indian curs gave him expressive looks of hatred, and exhibited some desire to rush upon him in a body, so that he had to keep a sharp look out all round him. When, therefore, Dick entered the tent Crusoe endeavoured to do so along with him, but he was met by a blow on the nose from an old squaw, who scolded him in a shrill voice and bade him begone. Either our hero's knowledge of the Indian language was insufficient to enable him to understand the order, or he had resolved not to obey it, for instead of retreating he drew a deep gurgling breath, curled his nose, and displayed a row of teeth that caused the old woman to draw back in alarm. Crusoe's was a forgiving spirit. The instant that opposition ceased he forgot the injury, and was meekly advancing when Dick held up his finger. "Go outside, pup, and wait." Crusoe's tail drooped; with a deep sigh he turned and left the tent. He took up a position near the entrance, however, and sat down resignedly. So meek, indeed, did the poor dog look, that six mangy-looking curs felt their dastardly hearts emboldened to make a rush at him with boisterous yells. Crusoe did not rise. He did not even condescend to turn his head toward them, but he looked at them out of the corner of his dark eye, wrinkled--very slightly--the skin of his nose, exhibited two beautiful fangs, and gave utterance to a soft remark, that might be described as quiet, deep-toned gargling. It wasn't much, but it was more than enough for the valiant six, who paused and snarled violently. It was a peculiar trait of Crusoe's gentle nature, that, the moment any danger ceased, he resumed his expression of nonchalant gravity. The expression on this occasion was misunderstood, however, and, as about two dozen additional yelping dogs had joined the ranks of the enemy, they advanced in close order to the attack. Crusoe still sat quiet and kept his head high, but he _looked_ at them again and exhibited four fangs for their inspection. Among the pack there was one Indian dog of large size--almost as large as Crusoe himself--which kept well in the rear, and apparently urged the lesser dogs on. The little dogs didn't object, for little dogs are generally the most pugnacious. At this big dog Crusoe directed a pointed glance, but said nothing. Meanwhile a particularly small and vicious cur, with a mere rag of a tail, crept round by the back of the tent, and, coming upon Crusoe in the rear, snapped at his tail sharply, and then fled shrieking with terror and surprise, no doubt, at its own temerity. Crusoe did not bark; he seldom barked; he usually either said nothing, or gave utterance to a prolonged roar of indignation of the most terrible character with barks, as it were, mingled through it. It somewhat resembled that peculiar and well-known species of thunder, the prolonged roll of which is marked at short intervals in its course by cannon-like cracks. It was a continuous, but, so to speak, _knotted_ roar. On receiving the snap, Crusoe gave forth _the_ roar with a majesty and power that scattered the pugnacious front rank of the enemy to the winds. Those that still remained, half stupefied, he leaped over with a huge bound and alighted, fangs first, on the back of the big dog. There was one hideous yell, a muffled scramble of an instant's duration, and the big dog lay dead upon the plain! It was an awful thing to do; but Crusoe evidently felt that the peculiar circumstances of the case required that an example should be made--and to say truth, all things considered, we cannot blame him. The news must have been carried at once through the canine portion of the camp, for Crusoe was never interfered with again after that. Dick witnessed this little incident; but he observed that the Indian chief cared not a straw about it, and as his dog returned quietly and sat down in its old place, he took no notice of it either, but continued to listen to the explanations which Joe gave to the chief, of the desire of the Pale-faces to be friends with the Red-men. Joe's eloquence would have done little for him on this occasion had his hands been empty; but he followed it up by opening one of his packs, and displaying the glittering contents before the equally glittering eyes of the chief and his squaws. "These," said Joe, "are the gifts that the great chief of the Pale-faces sends to the great chief of the Pawnees, and he bids me say that there are many more things in his stores which will be traded for skins with the Red-men, when they visit him; and he also says that if the Pawnees will not steal horses any more from the Pale-faces they shall receive gifts of knives, and guns, and powder and blankets every year." "_Wah_!" grunted the chief; "it is good. The great chief is wise. We will smoke the pipe of peace." The things that afforded so much satisfaction to San-it-sa-rish were the veriest trifles. Penny looking-glasses in yellow gilt tin frames, beads of various colours, needles, cheap scissors, and knives, vermilion paint, and coarse scarlet cloth, etcetera. They were of priceless value, however, in the estimation of the savages, who delighted to adorn themselves with leggings made from the cloth, beautifully worked with beads by their own ingenious women. They were thankful, too, for knives even of the commonest description, having none but bone ones of their own; and they gloried in daubing their faces with intermingled streaks of charcoal and vermilion. To gaze at their visages, when thus treated, in the little penny looking-glasses is their summit of delight! Joe presented the chief with a portion of these coveted goods and tied up the remainder. We may remark here, that the only thing which prevented the savages from taking possession of the whole at once, without asking permission, was the promise of the annual gifts, which they knew would not be forthcoming were any evil to befall the deputies of the Pale-faces. Nevertheless, it cost them a severe struggle to restrain their hands on this occasion, and Joe and his companions felt that they would have to play their part well in order to fulfil their mission with safety and credit. "The Pale-faces may go now and talk with the braves," said San-it-sa-rish, after carefully examining everything that was given to him; "a council will be called soon, and we will smoke the pipe of peace." Accepting this permission to retire, the hunters immediately left the tent, and being now at liberty to do what they pleased, they amused themselves by wandering about the village. "He's a cute chap that," remarked Joe, with a sarcastic smile; "I don't feel quite easy about gettin' away. He'll bother the life out o' us to get all the goods we've got, and, ye see, as we've other tribes to visit, we must give away as little as we can here." "Ha! you is right," said Henri; "dat fellow's eyes twinkle at de knives and tings like two stars." "Fire-flies, ye should say. Stars are too soft an' beautiful to compare to the eyes o' yon savage," said Dick, laughing. "I wish we were well away from them. That rascal Mahtawa is an ugly customer." "True, lad," returned Joe; "had _he_ bin the great chief our scalps had bin dryin' in the smoke o' a Pawnee wigwam afore now. What now, lad?" Joe's question was put in consequence of a gleeful smile that overspread the countenance of Dick Varley, who replied by pointing to a wigwam towards which they were approaching. "Oh! that's only a dandy," exclaimed Joe. "There's lots o' them in every Injun camp. They're fit for nothin' but dress, poor contemptible critters." Joe accompanied his remark with a sneer, for of all pitiable objects, he regarded an unmanly man as the most despicable. He consented, however, to sit down on a grassy bank and watch the proceedings of this Indian dandy, who had just seated himself in front of his wigwam for the purpose of making his toilet. He began it by greasing his whole person carefully and smoothly over with buffalo-fat, until he shone like a patent leather boot; then he rubbed himself almost dry, leaving the skin sleek and glossy. Having proceeded thus far he took up a small mirror, a few inches in diameter, which he or some other member of the tribe must have procured during one of their few excursions to the trading forts of the Pale-faces, and examined himself, as well as he could, in so limited a space. Next, he took a little vermilion from a small parcel and rubbed it over his face until it presented the somewhat demoniac appearance of a fiery red. He also drew a broad red score along the crown of his head, which was closely shaved, with the exception of the usual tuft or scalp-lock on the top. This scalp-lock stood bristling straight up a few inches, and then curved over and hung down his back about two feet. Immense care and attention was bestowed on this lock. He smoothed it, greased it, and plaited it into the form of a pigtail. Another application was here made to the glass, and the result was evidently satisfactory, to judge from the beaming smile that played on his features. But, not content with the general effect, he tried the effect of expression--frowned portentously, scowled savagely, gaped hideously, and grinned horribly a ghastly smile. Then our dandy fitted into his ears, which were bored in several places, sundry ornaments, such as rings, wampum, etcetera, and hung several strings of beads round his neck. Besides these he affixed one or two ornaments to his arms, wrists, and ankles, and touched in a few effects with vermilion on the shoulders and breast. After this, and a few more glances at the glass, he put on a pair of beautiful moccasins, which, besides being richly wrought with beads, were soft as chamois leather, and fitted his feet like gloves; a pair of leggings of scarlet cloth were drawn on, attached to a waist-belt, and bound below the knee with broad garters of variegated bead-work. It was some time before this Adonis was quite satisfied with himself. He re-touched the paint on his shoulders several times, and modified the glare of that on his wide-mouthed, high-cheek-boned visage before he could tear himself away; but at last he did so, and, throwing a large piece of scarlet cloth over his shoulders, he thrust his looking-glass under his belt, and proceeded to mount his palfrey, which was held in readiness near to the tent door by one of his wives. The horse was really a fine animal, and seemed worthy of a more warlike master. His shoulders, too, were striped with red paint, and feathers were intertwined with his mane and tail, while the bridle was decorated with various jingling ornaments. Vaulting upon his steed, with a large fan of wild goose and turkey feathers in one hand, and a whip dangling at the wrist of the other, this incomparable dandy sallied forth for a promenade--that being his chief delight when there was no buffalo hunting to be done. Other men who were not dandies sharpened their knives, smoked, feasted, and mended their spears and arrows at such seasons of leisure, or played at athletic games. "Let's follow my buck," said Joe Blunt. "Oui. Come 'long," replied Henri, striding after the rider at a pace that almost compelled his comrades to run. "Hold on!" cried Dick, laughing; "we don't want to keep him company. A distant view is quite enough o' sich a chap as that." "Mais, you forgit, I cannot see far." "So much the better," remarked Joe; "it's my opinion we've seen enough o' him. Ah! he's goin' to look on at the games. Them's worth lookin' at." The games to which Joe referred were taking place on a green level plain close to the creek, and a little above the waterfall before referred to. Some of the Indians were horse-racing, some jumping, and others wrestling; but the game which proved most attractive was throwing the javelin, in which several of the young braves were engaged. This game is played by two competitors, each armed with a dart, in an arena about fifty yards long. One of the players has a hoop of six inches in diameter. At a signal they start off on foot at full speed, and on reaching the middle of the arena the Indian with the hoop rolls it along before them, and each does his best to send a javelin through the hoop before the other. He who succeeds counts so many points--if both miss, the nearest to the hoop is allowed to count, but not so much as if he had "ringed" it. The Indians are very fond of this game, and will play at it under a broiling sun for hours together. But a good deal of the interest attaching to it is owing to the fact that they make it a means of gambling. Indians are inveterate gamblers, and will sometimes go on until they lose horses, bows, blankets, robes, and, in short, their whole personal property. The consequences are, as might be expected, that fierce and bloody quarrels sometimes arise in which life is often lost. "Try your hand at that," said Henri to Dick. "By all means," cried Dick, handing his rifle to his friend, and springing into the ring enthusiastically. A general shout of applause greeted the Pale-face, who threw off his coat and tightened his belt, while a young Indian presented him with a dart. "Now, see that ye do us credit, lad," said Joe. "I'll try," answered Dick. In a moment they were off. The young Indian rolled away the hoop, and Dick threw his dart with such vigour that it went deep into the ground, but missed the hoop by a foot at least. The young Indian's first dart went through the centre. "Ha!" exclaimed Joe Blunt to the Indians near him, "the lad's not used to that game, try him at a race. Bring out your best brave--he whose bound is like the hunted deer." We need scarcely remind the reader that Joe spoke in the Indian language, and that the above is a correct rendering of the sense of what he said. The name of Tarwicadia, or the little chief, immediately passed from lip to lip, and in a few minutes an Indian, a little below the medium size, bounded into the arena with an indiarubber-like elasticity that caused a shade of anxiety to pass over Joe's face. "Ah, boy!" he whispered, "I'm afeared you'll find him a tough customer." "That's just what I want," replied Dick. "He's supple enough, but he wants muscle in the thigh. We'll make it a long heat." "Right, lad, yer right." Joe now proceeded to arrange the conditions of the race with the chiefs around him. It was fixed that the distance to be run should be a mile, so that the race would be one of two miles, out and back. Moreover, the competitors were to run without any clothes, except a belt and a small piece of cloth round the loins. This to the Indians was nothing, for they seldom wore more in warm weather, but Dick would have preferred to keep on part of his dress. The laws of the course, however, would not permit of this, so he stripped and stood forth, the beau-ideal of a well-formed, agile man. He was greatly superior in size to his antagonist, and more muscular, the savage being slender and extremely lithe and springy. "Hah! I will run too," shouted Henri, bouncing forward with clumsy energy, and throwing off his coat just as they were going to start. The savages smiled at this unexpected burst and made no objection, considering the thing in the light of a joke. The signal was given, and away they went. Oh! it would have done you good to have seen the way in which Henri manoeuvred his limbs on this celebrated occasion! He went over the ground with huge elephantine bounds, runs, and jumps. He could not have been said to have one style of running; he had a dozen styles, all of which came into play in the course of half as many minutes. The other two ran like the wind; yet, although Henri _appeared_ to be going heavily over the ground, he kept up with them to the turning point. As for Dick, it became evident in the first few minutes that he could outstrip his antagonist with ease, and was hanging back a little all the time. He shot ahead like an arrow when they came about half-way back, and it was clear that the real interest of the race was to lie in the competition between Henri and Tarwicadia. Before they were two-thirds of the way back, Dick walked in to the winning point, and turned to watch the others. Henri's wind was about gone, for he exerted himself with such violence that he wasted half his strength. The Indian, on the contrary, was comparatively fresh, but he was not so fleet as his antagonist, whose tremendous strides carried him over the ground at an incredible pace. On they came neck and neck, till close on the score that marked the winning point. Here the value of enthusiasm came out strongly in the case of Henri. He _felt_ that he could not gain an inch on Tarwicadia to save his life; but, just as he came up, he observed the anxious faces of his comrades and the half-sneering countenances of the savages. His heart thumped against his ribs, every muscle thrilled with a gush of conflicting feelings, and he _hurled_ himself over the score like a cannon shot, full six inches ahead of the little chief! But the thing did not by any means end here. Tarwicadia pulled up the instant he had passed. Not so our Canadian. Such a clumsy and colossal frame was not to be checked in a moment. The crowd of Indians opened up to let him pass, but unfortunately a small tent that stood in the way was not so obliging. Into it he went, head-foremost, like a shell, carried away the corner-post with his shoulder, and brought the whole affair down about his own ears, and those of its inmates, among whom were several children and two or three dogs. It required some time to extricate them all from the ruins, but when this was effected, it was found that no serious damage had been done to life or limb! CHAPTER NINE. CRUSOE ACTS A CONSPICUOUS AND HUMANE PART--A FRIEND GAINED--A GREAT FEAST. When the foot-race was concluded, the three hunters hung about, looking on at the various games for some time, and then strolled towards the lake. "Ye may be thankful yer neck's whole," said Joe, grinning, as Henri rubbed his shoulder with a rueful look. "An' we'll have to send that Injun and his family a knife and some beads to make up for the fright they got." "Hah! an' fat is to be give to me for my broke shoulder?" "Credit, man, credit," said Dick Varley, laughing. "Credit! fat is dat?" "Honour and glory, lad, and the praises of them savages." "Ha! de praise? more probeebale de ill-vill of de rascale. I seed dem scowl at me not ver' pritty." "That's true, Henri, but sich as it is it's all ye'll git." "I vish," remarked Henri after a pause--"I vish I could git de vampum belt de leetle chief had on. It vas superb. Fat place do vampums come from?" "They're shells--" "Oui," interrupted Henri. "I know _fat_ de is. Dey is shells, and de Injuns tink dem goot monish; mais, I ask you _fat place_ de come from." "They are thought to be gathered on the shores o' the Pacific," said Joe; "the Injuns on the west o' the Rocky Mountains picks them up and exchanges them wi' the fellows here-away for horses and skins--so I'm told." At this moment there was a wild cry of terror heard a short distance ahead of them. Rushing forward they observed an Indian woman flying frantically down the river's bank towards the waterfall, a hundred yards above which an object was seen struggling in the water. "'Tis her child," cried Joe, as the mother's frantic cry reached his ear. "It'll be over the fall in a minute! Run, Dick, you're quickest." They had all started forward at speed, but Dick and Crusoe were far ahead, and abreast of the spot in a few seconds. "Save it, pup," cried Dick, pointing to the child, which had been caught in an eddy, and was for a few moments hovering on the edge of the stream that rushed impetuously towards the fall. The noble Newfoundland did not require to be told what to do. It seems a natural instinct in this sagacious species of dog to save man or beast that chances to be struggling in the water, and many are the authentic stories related of Newfoundland dogs saving life in cases of shipwreck. Indeed, they are regularly trained to the work in some countries, and nobly, fearlessly, disinterestedly, do they discharge their trust, often in the midst of appalling dangers. Crusoe sprang from the bank with such impetus that his broad chest ploughed up the water like the bow of a boat, and the energetic workings of his muscles were indicated by the force of each successive propulsion as he shot ahead. In a few seconds he reached the child and caught it by the hair. Then he turned to swim back, but the stream had got hold of him. Bravely he struggled, and lifted the child breast-high out of the water in his powerful efforts to stem the current. In vain. Each moment he was carried inch by inch down until he was on the brink of the fall, which, though not high, was a large body of water and fell with a heavy roar. He raised himself high out of the stream with the vigour of his last struggle, and then fell back into the abyss. By this time the poor mother was in a canoe as close to the fall as she could with safety approach, and the little bark danced like a cockle-shell on the turmoil of waters as she stood with uplifted paddle and staring eyeballs awaiting the rising of the child. Crusoe came up almost instantly, but _alone_, for the dash over the fall had wrenched the child from his teeth. He raised himself high up and looked anxiously round for a moment. Then he caught sight of a little hand raised above the boiling flood. In one moment he had the child again by the hair, and, just as the prow of the Indian woman's canoe touched the shore, he brought the child to land. Springing towards him, the mother snatched her child from the flood and gazed at its death-like face with eyeballs starting from their sockets; then she laid her cheek on its cold breast and stood like a statue of despair. There was one slight pulsation of the heart and a gentle motion of the hand! The child still lived. Opening up her blanket she laid her little one against her naked, warm bosom, drew the covering close around it, and, sitting down on the bank, wept aloud for joy. "Come,--come 'way quick," cried Henri, hurrying off to hide the emotion which he could not crush down. "Ay, she don't need our help now," said Joe, following his comrade. As for Crusoe, he walked along by his master's side with his usual quiet, serene look of good-will towards all mankind. Doubtless a feeling of gladness at having saved a human life filled his shaggy breast, for he wagged his tail gently, after each shake of his dripping sides, but his meek eyes were downcast, save when raised to receive the welcome and unusually fervent caress. Crusoe did not know that those three men loved him as though he had been a brother. On their way back to the village the hunters were met by a little boy, who said that a council was to be held immediately, and their presence was requested. The council was held in the tent of the principal chief, towards which all the other chiefs and many of the noted braves hurried. Like all Indian councils, it was preceded by smoking the "medicine pipe," and was followed by speeches from several of the best orators. The substance of the discourse differed little from what has been already related in reference to the treaty between the Pale-faces, and upon the whole it was satisfactory. But Joe Blunt could not fail to notice that Mahtawa maintained sullen silence during the whole course of the meeting. He observed, also, that there was a considerable change in the tone of the meeting when he informed them that he was bound on a similar errand of peace to several of the other tribes, especially to one or two tribes which were the Pawnees' bitter enemies at that time. These grasping savages having quite made up their minds that they were to obtain the entire contents of the two bales of goods, were much mortified on hearing that part was to go to other Indian tribes. Some of them even hinted that this would not be allowed, and Joe feared at one time that things were going to take an unfavourable turn. The hair of his scalp, as he afterwards said, "began to lift a little and feel oneasy." But San-it-sa-rish stood honestly to his word; said that it would be well that the Pale-faces and the Pawnees should be brothers, and hoped that they would not forget the promise of annual presents from the hand of the great chief who lived in the big village near the rising sun. Having settled this matter amicably, Joe distributed among the Indians the proportion of his goods designed for them, and then they all adjourned to another tent where a great feast was prepared for them. "Are ye hungry?" inquired Joe of Dick as they walked along. "Ay, that am I. I feel as if I could eat a buffalo alive. Why, it's my 'pinion we've tasted nothin' since daybreak this mornin'." "Well, I've often told ye that them Red-skins think it a disgrace to give in eatin' till all that's set before them at a feast is bolted. We'll ha' to stretch oursel's, we will." "I'se got a plenty room," remarked Henri. "Ye have, but ye'll wish ye had more in a little." "Bien, I not care!" In a quarter of an hour all the guests invited to this great _medicine_ feast were assembled. No women were admitted. They never are at Indian feasts. We may remark in passing, that the word "medicine," as used among the North American Indians, has a very much wider signification than it has with us. It is an almost inexplicable word. When asked, they cannot give a full or satisfactory explanation of it themselves. In the general, we may say that whatever is mysterious is "medicine." Jugglery and conjuring, of a noisy, mysterious, and, we must add, rather silly nature, is "medicine," and the juggler is a "medicine-man." These medicine-men undertake cures, but they are regular charlatans, and know nothing whatever of the diseases they pretend to cure, or their remedies. They carry bags containing sundry relics; these are "medicine bags." Every brave has his own private medicine bag. Everything that is incomprehensible, or supposed to be supernatural, religious, or medical, is "medicine." This feast, being an unusual one, in honour of strangers, and in connection with a peculiar and unexpected event, was "medicine." Even Crusoe, since his gallant conduct in saving the Indian child, was "medicine"; and Dick Varley's double-barrelled rifle, which had been an object of wonder ever since his arrival at the village, was tremendous "medicine!" Of course the Indians were arrayed in their best; several wore necklaces of the claws of the grizzly bear, of which they are extremely proud; and a gaudily picturesque group they were. The chief, however, had undergone a transformation that well-nigh upset the gravity of our hunters, and rendered Dick's efforts to look solemn quite abortive. San-it-sa-rish had once been to the trading forts of the Pale-faces, and while there had received the customary gift of a blue surtout with brass buttons, and an ordinary hat, such as gentlemen wear at home. As the coat was a good deal too small for him, a terrible length of dark, bony wrist appeared below the cuffs. The waist was too high, and it was with great difficulty that he managed to button the garment across his broad chest. Being ignorant of the nature of a hat, the worthy savage had allowed the paper and string with which it had been originally covered, to remain on, supposing them to be part and parcel of the hat; and this, together with the high collar of the coat, which gave him a crushed-up appearance, the long black naked legs, and the painted visage, gave to him a _tout ensemble_ which we can compare to nothing, as there was nothing in nature comparable to it. Those guests who assembled first passed their time in smoking the medicine pipe until the others should arrive; for so long as a single invited guest is absent the feast cannot begin. Dignified silence was maintained while the pipe thus circulated from hand to hand. When the last guest arrived they began. The men were seated in two rows, face to face. Feasts of this kind usually consist of but one species of food, and on the present occasion it was an enormous cauldron full of maize which had to be devoured. About fifty sat down to eat a quantity of what may be termed thick porridge, that would have been ample allowance for a hundred ordinary men. Before commencing, San-it-sa-rish desired an aged medicine-man to make an oration, which he did fluently and poetically. Its subject was the praise of the giver of the feast. At the end of each period there was a general "Hou! hou!" of assent--equivalent to the hear! hear! of civilised men. Other orators then followed, all of whom spoke with great ease and fluency, and some in the most impassioned strains, working themselves and their audience up to the highest pitch of excitement, now shouting with frenzied violence till their eyes glared from their sockets, and the veins of their foreheads swelled almost to bursting as they spoke of war and chase--anon breaking into soft modulated and pleasing tones, while they dilated upon the pleasures of peace and hospitality. After these had finished, a number of wooden bowls full of maize porridge were put down between the guests--one bowl to each couple facing each other. But before commencing, a portion was laid aside and dedicated to their gods, with various mysterious ceremonies; for here, as in other places where the gospel is not known, the poor savages fancied that they could propitiate God with sacrifices. They had never heard of the "sacrifice of a broken spirit and a contrite heart." This offering being made, the feast began in earnest. Not only was it a rule in this feast that every mouthful should be swallowed by each guest, however unwilling and unable he should be to do so, but he who could dispose of it with greatest speed was deemed the greatest man--at least on that occasion--while the last to conclude his supper was looked upon with some degree of contempt! It seems strange that such a custom should ever have arisen, and one is not a little puzzled in endeavouring to guess at the origin of it. There is one fact that occurs to us as the probable cause. The Indian is, as we have before hinted, frequently reduced to a state bordering on starvation, and in a day after he may be burdened with superabundance of food. He oftentimes, therefore, eats as much as he can stuff into his body when he is blessed with plenty, so as to be the better able to withstand the attacks of hunger that may possibly be in store for him. The amount that an Indian will thus eat at a single meal is incredible. He seems to have the power of distending himself for the reception of a quantity that would kill a civilised man. Children, in particular, become like tightly inflated little balloons after a feast, and as they wear no clothing, the extraordinary rotundity is very obvious, not to say ridiculous. We conclude, therefore, that unusual powers of gormandising, being useful, come at last to be cultivated as praiseworthy. By good fortune Dick and Joe Blunt happened to have such enormous gluttons as _vis-a-vis_, that the portions of their respective bowls which they could not devour were gobbled up for them. By good capacity and digestion, with no small amount of effort, Henri managed to dispose of his own share; but he was last of being done, and fell in the savages' esteem greatly. The way in which that sticky compost of boiled maize went down was absolutely amazing. The man opposite Dick, in particular, was a human boa-constrictor. He well-nigh suffocated Dick with suppressed laughter. He was a great raw-boned savage, with a throat of indiarubber, and went quickly and quietly on swallowing mass after mass, with the solemn gravity of an owl. It mattered not a straw to him that Dick took comparatively small mouthfuls, and nearly choked on them too for want of liquid to wash them down. Had Dick eaten none at all he would have uncomplainingly disposed of the whole. Jack the Giant-Killer's feats were nothing to his, and when at last the bowl was empty, he stopped short like a machine from which the steam had been suddenly cut off, and laid down his buffalo horn spoon _without_ a sigh. Dick sighed, though, with relief and gratitude when his bowl was empty. "I hope I may never have to do it again," said Joe that night as they wended their way back to the chief's tent after supper. "I wouldn't be fit for anything for a week arter it." Dick could only laugh, for any allusion to the feast instantly brought back that owl-like gourmand to whom he was so deeply indebted. Henri groaned. "Oh! mes boy, I am speechless! I am ready for bust! Oui,--hah! I veesh it vas to-morrow." Many a time that night did Henri "veesh it vas to-morrow," as he lay helpless on his back, looking up through the roof of the chief's tent at the stars, and listening enviously to the plethoric snoring of Joe Blunt. He was entertained, however, during those waking hours with a serenade such as few civilised ears ever listen to. This was nothing else than a vocal concert performed by all the dogs of the village, and as they amounted to nearly two thousand, the orchestra was a pretty full one. These wretches howled as if they had all gone mad. Yet there was "method in their madness," for they congregated in a crowd before beginning, and sat down on their haunches. Then one, which seemed to be the conductor, raised his snout to the sky, and uttered a long, low, melancholy wail. The others took it up by twos and threes, until the whole pack had their noses pointing to the stars, and their throats distended to the uttermost, while a prolonged yell filled the air. Then it sank gradually, one or two (bad performers probably) making a yelping attempt to get it up again at the wrong time. Again the conductor raised his nose, and out it came--full swing. There was no vociferous barking. It was simple wolfish howling increased in fervour to an electric yell, with slight barks running continuously through it like an obbligato accompaniment. When Crusoe first heard the unwonted sound he sprang to his feet, bristled up like a hyena, showed all his teeth, and bounded out of the tent blazing with indignation and astonishment. When he found out what it was he returned quite sleek, and with a look of profound contempt on his countenance as he resumed his place by his master's side and went to sleep. CHAPTER TEN. PERPLEXITIES--OUR HUNTERS PLAN THEIR ESCAPE--UNEXPECTED INTERRUPTION-- THE TABLES TURNED--CRUSOE MOUNTS GUARD--THE ESCAPE. Dick Varley sat before the fire ruminating. We do not mean to assert that Dick had been previously eating grass. By no means. For several days past he had been mentally subsisting on the remarkable things that he heard and saw in the Pawnee village, and wondering how he was to get away without being scalped; he was now chewing the cud of this intellectual fare. We therefore repeat emphatically--in case any reader should have presumed to contradict us--that Dick Varley sat before the fire _ruminating_! Joe Blunt likewise sat by the fire along with him, ruminating too, and smoking besides. Henri also sat there smoking, and looking a little the worse of his late supper. "I don't like the look o' things," said Joe, blowing a whiff of smoke slowly from his lips, and watching it as it ascended into the still air. "That blackguard Mahtawa is determined not to let us off till he gits all our goods, an' if he gits them, he may as well take our scalps too, for we would come poor speed in the prairies without guns, horses, or goods." Dick looked at his friend with an expression of concern. "What's to be done?" said he. "Ve must escape," answered Henri; but his tone was not a hopeful one, for he knew the danger of their position better than Dick. "Ay, we must escape; at least we must try," said Joe; "but I'll make one more effort to smooth over San-it-sa-rish, an' git him to snub that villain Mahtawa." Just as he spoke the villain in question entered the tent with a bold, haughty air, and sat down before the fire in sullen silence. For some minutes no one spoke, and Henri, who happened at the time to be examining the locks of Dick's rifle, continued to inspect them with an appearance of careless indifference that he was far from feeling. Now, this rifle of Dick's had become a source of unceasing wonder to the Indians,--wonder which was greatly increased by the fact that no one could discharge it but himself. Dick had, during his short stay at the Pawnee village, amused himself and the savages by exhibiting his marvellous powers with the "silver rifle." Since it had been won by him at the memorable match in the Mustang Valley, it had scarce ever been out of his hand, so that he had become decidedly the best shot in the settlement, could "bark" squirrels (that is, hit the bark of the branch on which a squirrel happened to be standing, and so kill it by the concussion alone), and could "drive the nail" every shot. The silver rifle, as we have said, became "great medicine" to the Red-men, when they saw it kill at a distance which the few wretched guns they had obtained from the fur-traders could not even send a spent ball to. The double shot, too, filled them with wonder and admiration; but that which they regarded with an almost supernatural feeling of curiosity was the percussion cap, which in Dick's hands always exploded, but in theirs was utterly useless! This result was simply owing to the fact, that Dick after firing handed the rifle to the Indians without renewing the cap. So that when they loaded and attempted to fire, of course it merely snapped. When he wished again to fire, he adroitly exchanged the old cap for a new one. He was immensely tickled by the solemn looks of the Indians at this most incomprehensible of all "medicines," and kept them for some days in ignorance of the true cause, intending to reveal it before he left. But circumstances now arose which banished all trifling thoughts from his mind. Mahtawa raised his head suddenly, and said, pointing to the silver rifle, "Mahtawa wishes to have the two-shotted medicine gun. He will give his best horse in exchange." "Mahtawa is liberal," answered Joe, "but the pale-faced youth cannot part with it. He has far to travel, and must shoot buffaloes by the way." "The pale-faced youth shall have a bow and arrows to shoot the buffalo," rejoined the Indian. "He cannot use the bow and arrow," answered Joe; "he has not been trained like the Red-man." Mahtawa was silent for a few seconds, and his dark brows frowned more heavily than ever over his eyes. "The Pale-faces are too bold," he exclaimed, working himself into a passion; "they are in the power of Mahtawa. If they will not give the gun he will take it." He sprang suddenly to his feet as he spoke, and snatched the rifle from Henri's hand. Henri, being ignorant of the language, had not been able to understand the foregoing conversation, although he saw well enough that it was not an agreeable one but no sooner did he find himself thus rudely and unexpectedly deprived of the rifle, than he jumped up, wrenched it in a twinkling from the Indian's grasp, and hurled him violently out of the tent. In a moment Mahtawa drew his knife, uttered a savage yell, and sprang on the reckless hunter, who, however, caught his wrist, and held it as if in a vice. The yell brought a dozen warriors instantly to the spot, and before Dick had time to recover from his astonishment, Henri was surrounded and pinioned despite his herculean struggles. Before Dick could move, Joe Blunt grasped his arm, and whispered quickly, "Don't rise! You can't help him! They daren't kill him till San-it-sa-rish agrees." Though much surprised, Dick obeyed, but it required all his efforts, both of voice and hand, to control Crusoe, whose mind was much too honest and straightforward to understand such subtle pieces of diplomacy, and who strove to rush to the rescue of his ill-used friend. When the tumult had partly subsided, Joe Blunt rose and said--"Have the Pawnee braves turned traitors that they draw the knife against those who have smoked with them the pipe of peace and eaten their maize? The Pale-faces are three; the Pawnees are thousands. If evil has been done, let it be laid before the chief. Mahtawa wishes to have the medicine gun. Although we said No, we could not part with it, he tried to take it by force. Are we to go back to the great chief of the Pale-faces, and say that the Pawnees are thieves? Are the Pale-faces henceforth to tell their children when they steal, `That is bad; that is like the Pawnee?' No! this must not be. The rifle shall be restored, and we will forget this disagreement. Is it not so?" There was an evident disposition on the part of many of the Indians, with whom Mahtawa was no favourite, to applaud this speech; but the wily chief sprang forward, and, with flashing eye, sought to turn the tables. "The Pale-face speaks with soft words, but his heart is false. Is he not going to make peace with the enemies of the Pawnee? Is he not going to take goods to them, and make them gifts and promises? The Pale-faces are spies. They come to see the weakness of the Pawnee camp, but they have found that it is strong. Shall we suffer the false-hearts to escape? Shall they live? No! we will hang their scalps in our wigwams, for they have _struck a chief_ and we will keep all their goods for our squaws--wah!" This allusion to keeping all the goods had more effect on the minds of the vacillating savages than the chiefs eloquence. But a new turn was given to their thoughts by Joe Blunt remarking in a quiet, almost contemptuous tone-- "Mahtawa is not the _great_ chief." "True, true," they cried, and immediately hurried to the tent of San-it-sa-rish. Once again this chief stood between the hunters and the savages, who wanted but a signal to fall on them. There was a long palaver, which ended in Henri being set at liberty, and the rifle being restored. That evening, as the three friends sat beside their fire eating their supper of boiled maize and buffalo meat, they laughed and talked as carelessly as ever; but the gaiety was assumed, for they were at the time planning their escape from a tribe which, they foresaw, would not long refrain from carrying out their wishes, and robbing, perhaps murdering them. "Ye see," said Joe with a perplexed air, while he drew a piece of live charcoal from the fire with his fingers and lighted his pipe,--"ye see, there's more difficulties in the way o' gettin' off than ye think--" "Oh! nivare mind de difficulties," interrupted Henri, whose wrath at the treatment he had received had not yet cooled down. "Ve must jump on de best horses ve can git hold, shake our fist at de red reptiles, and go away fast as ve can. De best hoss _must_ vin de race." Joe shook his head. "A hundred arrows would be in our backs before we got twenty yards from the camp. Besides, we can't tell which are the best horses. Our own are the best in my 'pinion, but how are we to git 'em?" "I know who has charge o' them," said Dick; "I saw them grazing near the tent o' that poor squaw whose baby was saved by Crusoe. Either her husband looks after them or some neighbours." "That's well," said Joe. "That's one o' my difficulties gone." "What are the others?" "Well, d'ye see, they're troublesome. We can't git the horses out o' camp without bein' seen, for the red rascals would see what we were at in a jiffy. Then, if we do git 'em out, we can't go off without our bales, an' we needn't think to take 'em from under the nose o' the chief and his squaws without bein' axed questions. To go off without them would niver do at all." "Joe," said Dick, earnestly, "I've hit on a plan." "Have ye, Dick? what is't?" "Come and I'll let ye see," answered Dick, rising hastily and quitting the tent, followed by his comrades and his faithful dog. It may be as well to remark here, that no restraint whatever had yet been put on the movements of our hunters as long as they kept to their legs, for it was well-known that any attempt by men on foot to escape from mounted Indians on the plains would be hopeless. Moreover, the savages thought that as long as there was a prospect of their being allowed to depart peaceably with their goods, they would not be so mad as to fly from the camp, and, by so doing, risk their lives and declare war with their entertainers. They had, therefore, been permitted to wander unchecked, as yet, far beyond the outskirts of the camp, and amuse themselves in paddling about the lake in the small Indian canoes and shooting wild-fowl. Dick now led the way through the labyrinths of tents in the direction of the lake, and they talked and laughed loudly, and whistled to Crusoe as they went, in order to prevent their purpose being suspected. For the purpose of further disarming suspicion they went without their rifles. Dick explained his plan by the way, and it was at once warmly approved of by his comrades. On reaching the lake they launched a small canoe, into which Crusoe was ordered to jump; then, embarking, they paddled swiftly to the opposite shore, singing a canoe song as they dipped their paddles in the moonlit waters of the lake. Arrived at the other side, they hauled the canoe up and hurried through the thin belt of wood and willows that intervened between the lake and the prairie. Here they paused. "Is that the bluff, Joe?" "No, Dick, that's too near. T'other one'll be best. Far away to the right. It's a little one, and there's others near it. The sharp eyes o' the Red-skins won't be so likely to be prowlin' there." "Come on, then; but we'll have to take down by the lake first." In a few minutes the hunters were threading their way through the outskirts of the wood at a rapid trot, in the opposite direction from the bluff, or wooded knoll, which they wished to reach. This they did lest prying eyes should have followed them. In a quarter of an hour they turned at right angles to their track, and struck straight out into the prairie, and after a long run they edged round and came in upon the bluff from behind. It was merely a collection of stunted but thick-growing willows. Forcing their way into the centre of this they began to examine it. "It'll do," said Joe. "De very ting," remarked Henri. "Come here, Crusoe." Crusoe bounded to his master's side, and looked up in his face. "Look at this place, pup; smell it well." Crusoe instantly set off all round among the willows, in and out, snuffing everywhere, and whining with excitement. "Come here, good pup; that will do. Now, lads, we'll go back." So saying, Dick and his friends left the bluff and retraced their steps to the camp. Before they had gone far, however, Joe halted, and said-- "D'ye know, Dick, I doubt if the pup's so cliver as ye think. What if he don't quite onderstand ye?" Dick replied by taking off his cap and throwing it down, at the same time exclaiming, "Take it yonder, pup," and pointing with his hand towards the bluff. The dog seized the cap, and went off with it at full speed towards the willows, where it left it, and came galloping back for the expected reward--not now, as in days of old, a bit of meat, but a gentle stroke of its head and a hearty clap on its shaggy side. "Good pup, go now an' _fetch it_." Away he went with a bound, and, in a few seconds, came back and deposited the cap at his master's feet. "Will that do?" asked Dick, triumphantly. "Ay, lad, it will. The pup's worth its weight in goold." "Oui, I have said, and I say it agen, de dog is _human_, so him is. If not--fat am he?" Without pausing to reply to this perplexing question, Dick stepped forward again, and in half an hour or so they were back in the camp. "Now for _your_ part of the work, Joe; yonder's the squaw that owns the half-drowned baby. Everything depends on her." Dick pointed to the Indian woman as he spoke. She was sitting beside her tent, and playing at her knee was the identical youngster that had been saved by Crusoe. "I'll manage it," said Joe, and walked towards her, while Dick and Henri returned to the chiefs tent. "Does the Pawnee woman thank the Great Spirit that her child is saved?" began Joe as he came up. "She does," answered the woman, looking up at the hunter. "And her heart is warm to the Pale-faces." After a short silence Joe continued-- "The Pawnee chiefs do not love the Pale-faces. Some of them hate them." "The Dark Flower knows it," answered the woman; "she is sorry. She would help the Pale-faces if she could." This was uttered in a low tone, and with a meaning glance of the eye. Joe hesitated again--could he trust her? Yes; the feelings that filled her breast and prompted her words were not those of the Indian just now--they were those of a _mother_, whose gratitude was too full for utterance. "Will the Dark Flower," said Joe, catching the name she had given herself, "help the Pale-face if he opens his heart to her? Will she risk the anger of her nation?" "She will," replied the woman; "she will do what she can." Joe and his dark friend now dropped their high-sounding style of speech, and spoke for some minutes rapidly in an undertone. It was finally arranged that on a given day, at a certain hour, the woman should take the four horses down the shores of the lake to its lower end, as if she were going for firewood, there cross the creek at the ford, and drive them to the willow-bluff, and guard them till the hunters should arrive. Having settled this, Joe returned to the tent and informed his comrades of his success. During the next three days Joe kept the Indians in good-humour by giving them one or two trinkets, and speaking in glowing terms of the riches of the white men, and the readiness with which they would part with them to the savages if they would only make peace. Meanwhile, during the dark hours of each night, Dick managed to abstract small quantities of goods from their pack, in room of which he stuffed in pieces of leather to keep up the size and appearance. The goods thus taken out he concealed about his person, and went off with a careless swagger to the outskirts of the village, with Crusoe at his heels. Arrived there, he tied the goods in a small piece of deerskin, and gave the bundle to the dog, with the injunction, "Take it yonder, pup." Crusoe took it up at once, darted off at full speed with the bundle in his mouth, down the shore of the lake towards the ford of the river, and was soon lost to view. In this way, little by little, the goods were conveyed by the faithful dog to the willow-bluff and left there, while the stuffed pack still remained in safekeeping in the chief's tent. Joe did not at first like the idea of thus sneaking off from the camp; and more than once made strong efforts to induce San-it-sa-rish to let him go, but even that chief's countenance was not so favourable as it had been. It was clear that he could not make up his mind to let slip so good a chance of obtaining guns, powder, and shot, horses and goods, without any trouble; so Joe made up his mind to give them the slip at once. A dark night was chosen for the attempt, and the Indian woman went off with the horses to the place where firewood for the camp was usually cut. Unfortunately the suspicion of that wily savage Mahtawa had been awakened, and he stuck close to the hunters all day--not knowing what was going on, but feeling convinced that something was brewing which he resolved to watch, without mentioning his suspicions to any one. "I think that villain's away at last," whispered Joe to his comrades; "it's time to go, lads, the moon won't be up for an hour. Come along." "Have ye got the big powder-horn, Joe?" "Ay, ay, all right." "Stop! stop! my knife, my couteau. Ah! here it be. Now, boy." The three set off as usual, strolling carelessly to the outskirts of the camp; then they quickened their pace, and, gaining the lake, pushed off in a small canoe. At the same moment Mahtawa stepped from the bushes, leaped into another canoe and followed them. "Hah! he must die," muttered Henri. "Not at all," said Joe, "we'll manage him without that." The chief landed and strode boldly up to them, for he knew well that whatever their purpose might be, they would not venture to use their rifles within sound of the camp at that hour of the night; as for their knives, he could trust to his own active limbs and the woods to escape and give the alarm if need be. "The Pale-faces hunt very late," he said with a malicious grin. "Do they love the dark better than the sunshine?" "Not so," replied Joe, coolly, "but we love to walk by the light of the moon. It will be up in less than an hour, and we mean to take a long ramble to-night." "The Pawnee chief loves to walk by the moon too, he will go with the Pale-faces." "Good," ejaculated Joe. "Come along, then." The party immediately set forward, although the savage was a little taken by surprise at the indifferent way in which Joe received his proposal to accompany them. He walked on to the edge of the prairie, however, and then stopped. "The Pale-faces must go alone," said he; "Mahtawa will return to his tent." Joe replied to this intimation by seizing him suddenly by the throat and choking back the yell that would otherwise have brought the Pawnee warriors rushing to the scene of action in hundreds. Mahtawa's hand was on the handle of his scalping-knife in a moment, but before he could draw it, his arms were glued to his sides by the bear-like embrace of Henri, while Dick tied a handkerchief quickly yet firmly round his mouth. The whole thing was accomplished in two minutes. After taking his knife and tomahawk away, they loosened their gripe and escorted him swiftly over the prairie. Mahtawa was perfectly submissive after the first convulsive struggle was over. He knew that the men who walked on each side of him grasping his arms were more than his match singly, so he wisely made no resistance. Hurrying him to a clump of small trees on the plain which was so far distant from the village that a yell could not be heard, they removed the bandage from Mahtawa's mouth. "_Must_ he be kill?" inquired Henri, in a tone of commiseration. "Not at all" answered Joe, "we'll tie him to a tree and leave him there." "Then he vill be starve to deat'. Oh! dat is more horrobell!" "He must take his chance o' that. I've no doubt his friends'll find him in a day or two, an' he's game to last for a week or more. But you'll have to run to the willow-bluff, Dick, and bring a bit of line to tie him. We can't spare it well; but there's no help." "But there _is_ help," retorted Dick. "Just order the villain to climb into that tree." "Why so, lad?" "Don't ask questions, but do what I bid ye." The hunter smiled for a moment as he turned to the Indian, and ordered him to climb up a small tree near to which he stood. Mahtawa looked surprised, but there was no alternative. Joe's authoritative tone brooked no delay, so he sprang into the tree like a monkey. "Crusoe," said Dick, "_watch him_!" The dog sat quietly down at the foot of the tree, and fixed his eyes on the savage with a glare that spoke unutterable things. At the same time he displayed his full compliment of teeth, and uttered a sound like distant thunder. Joe almost laughed, and Henri did laugh outright. "Come along, he's safe now," cried Dick, hurrying away in the direction of the willow-bluff, which they soon reached, and found that the faithful squaw had tied their steeds to the bushes, and, moreover, had bundled up their goods into a pack, and strapped it on the back of the pack-horse; but she had not remained with them. "Bless yer dark face," ejaculated Joe as he sprang into the saddle and rode out of the clump of bushes. He was followed immediately by the others, and in three minutes they were flying over the plain at full speed. On gaining the last far-off ridge, that afforded a distant view of the woods skirting the Pawnee camp, they drew up, and Dick, putting his fingers to his mouth, drew a long, shrill whistle. It reached the willow-bluff like a faint echo. At the same moment the moon arose and more clearly revealed Crusoe's catalyptic glare at the Indian chief, who, being utterly unarmed, was at the dog's mercy. The instant the whistle fell on his ear, however, he dropped his eyes, covered his teeth, and, leaping through the bushes, flew over the plains like an arrow. At the same instant Mahtawa, descending from his tree, ran as fast as he could towards the village, uttering the terrible war-whoop when near enough to be heard. No sound sends such a thrill through an Indian camp. Every warrior flew to arms, and vaulted on his steed. So quickly was the alarm given that in less than ten minutes a thousand hoofs were thundering on the plain, and faintly reached the ears of the fugitives. Joe smiled. "It'll puzzle them to come up wi' nags like ours. They're in prime condition too, lots o' wind in 'em. If we only keep out o' badger holes we may laugh at the red varmints." Joe's opinion of Indian horses was correct. In a very few minutes the sound of hoofs died away, but the fugitives did not draw bridle during the remainder of that night, for they knew not how long the pursuit might be continued. By pond, and brook, and bluff they passed, down in the grassy bottoms and over the prairie waves,--nor checked their headlong course till the sun blazed over the level sweep of the eastern plain as if it arose out of the mighty ocean. Then they sprang from the saddle and hastily set about the preparation of their morning meal. CHAPTER ELEVEN. EVENING MEDITATIONS AND MORNING REFLECTIONS--BUFFALOES, BADGERS, ANTELOPES, AND ACCIDENTS--AN OLD BULL AND THE WOLVES--"MAD-TAILS"--HENRI FLOORED, ETCETERA. There is nothing that prepares one so well for the enjoyment of rest, both mental and physical, as a long-protracted period of excitement and anxiety, followed up by bodily fatigue. Excitement alone banishes rest; but, united with severe physical exertion, it prepares for it. At least, courteous reader, this is our experience, and certainly this was the experience of our three hunters as they lay on their backs beneath the branches of a willow bush, and gazed serenely up at the twinkling stars, two days after their escape from the Indian village. They spoke little; they were too tired for that; also, they were too comfortable. Their respective suppers of fresh antelope steak, shot that day, had just been disposed of; their feet were directed towards the small fire on which the said steaks had been cooked, and which still threw a warm, ruddy glow over the encampment. Their blankets were wrapped comfortably round them, and tucked in as only hunters and mothers know _how_ to tuck them in. Their respective pipes delivered forth, at stated intervals, three richly yellow puffs of smoke, as if a three-gun battery were playing upon the sky from that particular spot of earth. The horses were picketted and hobbled in a rich grassy bottom close by, from which the quiet munch of their equine jaws sounded pleasantly, for it told of healthy appetites, and promised speed on the morrow. The fear of being overtaken during the night was now past, and the faithful Crusoe, by virtue of sight, hearing, and smell, guaranteed them against sudden attack during the hours of slumber. A perfume of wild flowers mingled with the loved odours of the "weed," and the tinkle of a tiny rivulet fell sweetly on their ears. In short, the "Pale-faces" were supremely happy, and disposed to be thankful for their recent deliverance and their present comforts. "I wonder what the stars are," said Dick, languidly taking the pipe out of his mouth. "Bits o' fire," suggested Joe. "I tink dey are vorlds," muttered Henri, "an' have peepels in dem. I have hear men say dat." A long silence followed, during which, no doubt, the star-gazers were working out various theories in their own minds. "Wonder," said Dick again, "how far off they be." "A mile or two, maybe," said Joe. Henri was about to laugh sarcastically at this; but, on further consideration, he thought it would be more comfortable not to, so he lay still. In another minute he said--"Joe Blunt, you is ver' igrant. Don't you know dat de books say de stars be hondreds, tousands,--oh! milleryons of mile away to here, and dat de is more bigger dan dis vorld?" Joe snored lightly, and his pipe fell out of his mouth at this point, so the conversation dropped. Presently Dick asked, in a low tone, "I say, Henri, are ye asleep?" "Oui," replied Henri, faintly. "Don't speak, or you vill vaken me." "Ah! Crusoe, you're not asleep, are you, pup?" No need to ask that question. The instantaneous wag of that speaking fail, and the glance of that wakeful eye, as the dog lifted his head and laid his chin on Dick's arm, showed that he had been listening to every word that was spoken. We cannot say whether he understood it, but beyond all doubt he heard it. Crusoe never presumed to think of going to sleep until his master was as sound as a top; then he ventured to indulge in that light species of slumber which is familiarly known as "sleeping with one eye open." But, comparatively, as well as figuratively speaking, Crusoe slept usually with one eye and a-half open, and the other half was never very tightly shut. Gradually Dick's pipe fell out of his mouth, an event which the dog, with an exercise of instinct almost, if not quite, amounting to reason, regarded as a signal for him to go off. The campfire went slowly out, the stars twinkled down at their reflections in the brook, and a deep breathing of wearied men was the only sound that rose in harmony with the purling stream. Before the sun rose next morning, and while many of the brighter stars were still struggling for existence with the approaching day, Joe was up and buckling on the saddle-bags, while he shouted to his unwilling companions to rise. "If it depended on you," he said, "the Pawnees wouldn't be long afore they got our scalps. Jump, ye dogs, an' lend a hand, will ye!" A snore from Dick and a deep sigh from Henri was the answer to this pathetic appeal. It so happened, however, that Henri's pipe, in falling from his lips, had emptied the ashes just under his nose, so that the sigh referred to drew a quantity thereof into his throat, and almost choked him. Nothing could have been a more effective awakener. He was up in a moment coughing vociferously. Most men have a tendency to vent ill-humour on some one, and they generally do it on one whom they deem to be worse than themselves. Henri, therefore, instead of growling at Joe for rousing him, scolded Dick for not rising. "Ha, mauvais dog! bad chien, vill you dare to look to me?" Crusoe did look with amiable placidity, as though to say, "Howl away, old boy, I won't budge till Dick does." With a mighty effort Giant Sleep was thrown off at last, and the hunters were once more on their journey, cantering lightly over the soft turf. "Ho! let's have a run," cried Dick, unable to repress the feelings aroused by the exhilarating morning air. "Have a care, boy," cried Joe, as they stretched out at full gallop. "Keep off the ridge; it's riddled wi' badger--Hah! I thought so." At that moment Dick's horse put its foot into a badger hole, and turned completely over, sending its rider through the air in a curve that an East Indian acrobat would have envied. For a few seconds Dick lay flat on his back; then he jumped up and laughed, while his comrades hurried up anxiously to his assistance. "No bones broke?" inquired Joe. Dick gave a hysterical gasp. "I--I think not." "Let's have a look. No, nothin' to speak o', be good luck. Ye should niver go slap through a badger country like that, boy; always keep i' the bottoms, where the grass is short. Now then, up ye go. That's it!" Dick remounted, though not with quite so elastic a spring as usual, and they pushed forward at a more reasonable pace. Accidents of this kind are of common occurrence in the prairies. Some horses, however, are so well trained that they look sharp out for these holes, which are generally found to be most numerous on the high and dry grounds. But in spite of all the caution both of man and horse, many ugly falls take place, and sometimes bones are broken. They had not gone far after this accident, when an antelope leaped from a clump of willows and made for a belt of woodland that lay along the margin of a stream not half a mile off. "Hurrah!" cried Dick, forgetting his recent fall. "Come along, Crusoe." And away they went again full tilt, for the horse had not been injured by its somersault. The antelope which Dick was thus wildly pursuing was of the same species as the one he had shot some time before, namely, the prong-horned antelope. These graceful creatures have long, slender limbs, delicately formed heads, and large, beautiful eyes. The horns are black, and rather short; they have no branches like the antlers of the red-deer, but have a single projection on each horn, near the head, and the extreme points of the horns curve suddenly inwards, forming the hook or prong from which the name of the animal is derived. Their colour is dark yellowish brown. They are so fleet that not one horse in a hundred can overtake them, and their sight and sense of smell are so acute, that it would be next to impossible to kill them, were it not for the inordinate curiosity which we have before referred to. The Indians manage to attract these simple little creatures by merely lying down on their backs and kicking their heels in the air, or by waving any white object on the point of an arrow, while the hunter keeps concealed by lying flat in the grass. By these means a herd of antelopes may be induced to wheel round and round an object in timid, but intense, surprise, gradually approaching until they come near enough to enable the hunter to make sure of his mark. Thus the animals, which of all others _ought_ to be the most difficult to slay, are, in consequence of their insatiable curiosity, more easily shot than any other deer of the plains. May we not gently suggest to the reader for his or her consideration that there are human antelopes, so to speak, whose case bears a striking resemblance to the prong-horn of the North American prairie? Dick's horse was no match for the antelope; neither was Crusoe, so they pulled up shortly and returned to their companions to be laughed at. "It's no manner o' use to wind yer horse, lad, after sich game. They're not much worth, an', if I mistake not, we'll be among the buffalo soon. There's fresh tracks everywhere, and the herds are scattered now. Ye see, when they keep together in bands o' thousands ye don't so often fall in wi' them. But when they scatters about in twos, an' threes, an sixes, ye may shoot them every day as much as ye please." Several groups of buffalo had already been seen on the horizon; but as a red-deer had been shot in a belt of woodland the day before, they did not pursue them. The red-deer is very much larger than the prong-horned antelope, and is highly esteemed both for its flesh and its skin, which latter becomes almost like chamois leather when dressed. Notwithstanding this supply of food, the hunters could not resist the temptation to give chase to a herd of about nine buffaloes that suddenly came into view as they overtopped an undulation in the plain. "It's no use," cried Dick, "I _must_ go at them!" Joe himself caught fire from the spirit of his young friend, so calling to Henri to come on and let the pack-horse remain to feed, he dashed away in pursuit. The buffaloes gave one stare of surprise, and then fled as fast as possible. At first it seemed as if such huge, unwieldy carcases could not run very fast; but in a few minutes they managed to get up a pace that put the horses to their mettle. Indeed, at first it seemed as if the hunters did not gain an inch, but by degrees they closed with them, for buffaloes are not long-winded. On nearing the herd, the three men diverged from each other and selected their animals. Henri, being short-sighted, naturally singled out the largest; and the largest--also naturally,--was a tough old bull. Joe brought down a fat young cow at the first shot, and Dick was equally fortunate. But he well-nigh shot Crusoe, who, just as he was about to fire, rushed in unexpectedly and sprang at the animal's throat, for which piece of recklessness he was ordered back to watch the pack-horse. Meanwhile, Henri, by dint of yelling, throwing his arms wildly about, and digging his heels into the sides of his long-legged horse, succeeded in coming close up with the bull, which once or twice turned his clumsy body half round and glared furiously at its pursuer with its small black eyes. Suddenly it stuck out its tail, stopped short, and turned full round. Henri stopped short also. Now, the sticking out of a buffalo's tail has a peculiar significance which it is well to point out. It serves, in a sense, the same purpose to the hunter that the compass does to the mariner; it points out where to go and what to do. When galloping away in ordinary flight the buffalo carries his tail like ordinary cattle, which indicates that you may push on. When wounded, he lashes it from side to side, or carries it over his back, up in the air; this indicates "Look out! haul off a bit!" But when he carries it stiff and horizontal, with a _slight curve_ in the middle of it, it says plainly, "Keep back, or kill me as quick as you can," for that is what Indians call the _mad-lazy_, and is a sign that mischief is brewing. Henri's bull displayed the mad-tail just before turning, but he didn't observe it, and, accordingly, waited for the bull to move and show his shoulder for a favourable shot. But instead of doing this he put his head down, and, foaming with rage, went at him full tilt. The big horse never stirred; it seemed to be petrified. Henri had just time to fire at the monster's neck, and the next moment was sprawling on his back, with the horse rolling over four or five yards beyond him. It was a most effective tableau. Henri rubbing his shins and grinning with pain, the horse gazing in affright as he rose trembling from the plain, and the buffalo bull looking on half stunned, and, evidently, very much surprised at the result of his charge. Fortunately, before he could repeat the experiment, Dick galloped up and put a ball through his heart. Joe and his comrades felt a little ashamed of their exploit on this occasion, for there was no need to have killed three animals; they could not have carried with them more than a small portion of one, and they upbraided themselves several times during the operation of cutting out the tongues and other choice portions of the two victims. As for the bull, he was almost totally useless, so they left him as a gift to the wolves. Now that they had come among the buffalo, wolves were often seen sneaking about and licking their hungry jaws; but although they approached pretty near to the camp at nights, they did not give the hunters any concern. Even Crusoe became accustomed to them at last, and ceased to notice them. These creatures are very dangerous sometimes, however, and when hard pressed by hunger will even attack man. The day after this hunt the travellers came upon a wounded old buffalo which had evidently escaped from the Indians (for a couple of arrows were sticking in its side), only to fall a prey to his deadly enemies, the white wolves. These savage brutes hang on the skirts of the herds of buffaloes to attack and devour any one that may chance, from old age, or from being wounded, to linger behind the rest. The buffalo is tough and fierce, however, and fights so desperately that although surrounded by fifty or a hundred wolves, he keeps up the unequal combat for several days before he finally succumbs. The old bull that our travellers discovered had evidently been long engaged with his ferocious adversaries, for his limbs and flesh were torn in shreds in many places, and blood was streaming from his sides. Yet he had fought so gallantly that he had tossed and stamped to death dozens of the enemy. There could not have been fewer than fifty wolves round him; and they had just concluded another of many futile attacks, when the hunters came up, for they were ranged in a circle round their huge adversary--some lying down, some sitting on their haunches to rest, and others sneaking about, lolling out their red tongues, and licking their chops as if impatient to renew the combat. The poor buffalo was nearly spent, and it was clear that a few hours more would see him torn to shreds and his bones picked clean. "Ugh! de brutes," ejaculated Henri. "They don't seem to mind us a bit," remarked Dick, as they rode up to within pistol shot. "It'll be merciful to give the old fellow a shot," said Joe. "Them varmits are sure to finish him at last." Joe raised his rifle as he spoke, and fired. The old bull gave his last groan and fell, while the wolves, alarmed by the shot, fled in all directions; but they did not run far. They knew well that some portion, at least, of the carcase would fall to their share, so they sat down at various distances all round, to wait as patiently as they might for the hunters to retire. Dick left the scene with a feeling of regret that the villanous wolves should have their feast so much sooner than they expected. Yet after all, why should we call these wolves villanous? They did nothing wrong--nothing contrary to the laws of their peculiar nature. Nay, if we come to reason upon it, they rank higher in this matter than man, for while the wolf does no violence to the laws of its instincts, man often deliberately silences the voice of conscience, and violates the laws of his own nature. But we will not insist on the term, good reader, if you object strongly to it. We are willing to admit that the wolves are _not_ villanous, but, _assuredly_, they are unlovable. In the course of the afternoon the three horsemen reached a small creek, the banks of which were lined with a few stunted shrubs and trees. Having eaten nothing since the night before, they dismounted here to "feed," as Joe expressed it. "Cur'ous thing," remarked Joe, as he struck a light by means of flint, steel, and tinder-box,--"curious thing that we're made to need sich a lot o' grub. If we could only get on like the sarpints, now, wot can breakfast on a rabbit, and then wait a month or two for dinner! Ain't it cur'ous?" Dick admitted that it was, and stooped to blow the fire into a blaze. Here Henri uttered a cry of consternation, and stood speechless, with his mouth open. "What's the matter? what is't?" cried Dick and Joe, seizing their rifles instinctively. "De--grub--him--be--forgat!" There was a look of blank horror, and then a burst of laughter from Dick Varley. "Well, well," cried he, "we've got lots o' tea an' sugar, an' some flour; we can git on wi' that till we shoot another buffalo, or a-ha!" Dick observed a wild turkey stalking among the willows as he spoke. It was fully a hundred yards off, and only its head was seen above the leaves. This was a matter of little moment, however, for by aiming a little lower he knew that he must hit the body; but Dick had driven the nail too often to aim at its body; he aimed at the bird's eye and cut its head off. "Fetch it, Crusoe." In three minutes it was at Dick's feet, and it is not too much to say that in five minutes more it was in the pot. As this unexpected supply made up for the loss of the meat which Henri had forgotten at their last halting-place, their equanimity was restored, and while the meal was in preparation Dick shouldered his rifle and went into the bush to try for another turkey. He did not get one, however, but he shot a couple of prairie-hens, which are excellent eating. Moreover, he found a large quantity of wild grapes and plums. These were unfortunately not nearly ripe, but Dick resolved to try his hand at a new dish, so he stuffed the breast of his coat full of them. After the pot was emptied Dick washed it out, and put a little clean water in it. Then he poured some flour in, and stirred it well. While this was heating, he squeezed the sour grapes and plums into what Joe called a "mush," mixed it with a spoonful of sugar, and emptied it into the pot. He also skimmed a quantity of the fat from the remains of the turkey soup, and added that to the mess, which he stirred with earnest diligence till it boiled down into a sort of thick porridge. "D'ye think it'll be good?" asked Joe gravely; "I've me doubts of it." "We'll see. Hold the tin dish, Henri." "Take care of de fingers. Ha! it looks magnifique--superb!" The first spoonful produced an expression on Henri's face that needed not to be interpreted. It was as sour as vinegar. "Ye'll ha' to eat it yerself, Dick, lad," cried Joe, throwing down his spoon, and spitting out the unsavoury mess. "Nonsense," cried Dick, bolting two or three mouthfuls, and trying to look as if he liked it. "Try again; it's not so bad as you think." "Ho--o--o--o--o!" cried Henri, after the second mouthful. "'Tis vinaigre. All de sugare in de pack would not make more sweeter one bite of it." Dick was obliged to confess the dish a failure, so it was thrown out after having been offered to Crusoe, who gave it one sniff and turned away in silence. Then they mounted and resumed their journey. At this place mosquitoes and horse-flies troubled our hunters and their steeds a good deal. The latter--especially were very annoying to the poor horses. They bit them so much that the blood at last came trickling down their sides. They were troubled also, once or twice, by cockchafers and locusts, which annoyed them, not indeed by biting, but by flying blindly against their faces, and often narrowly missed hitting them in the eyes. Once particularly they were so bad, that Henri in his wrath opened his lips to pronounce a malediction on the whole race, when a cockchafer flew straight into his mouth, and, to use his own forcible expression, "nearly knocked him off de hoss." But these were minor evils, and scarcely cost the hunters a thought. CHAPTER TWELVE. WANDERINGS ON THE PRAIRIE--A WAR-PARTY--CHASED BY INDIANS--A BOLD LEAP FOR LIFE. For many days the three hunters wandered over the trackless prairie in search of a village of the Sioux Indians, but failed to find one, for the Indians were in the habit of shifting their ground, and following the buffalo. Several times they saw small isolated bands of Indians, but these they carefully avoided, fearing they might turn out to be war-parties, and if they fell into their hands the white men could not expect civil treatment, whatever nation the Indians might belong to. During the greater portion of this time they met with numerous herds of buffalo and deer, and were well supplied with food, but they had to cook it during the day, being afraid to light a fire at night while Indians were prowling about. One night they halted near the bed of a stream which was almost dry. They had travelled a day and a night without water, and both men and horses were almost choking, so that when they saw the trees on the horizon which indicated the presence of a stream, they pushed forward with almost frantic haste. "Hope it's not dry," said Joe anxiously as they galloped up to it. "No, there's water, lads," and they dashed forward to a pool that had not yet been dried up. They drank long and eagerly before they noticed that the pool was strongly impregnated with salt. Many streams in those parts of the prairies are quite salt, but fortunately this one was not utterly undrinkable, though it was very unpalatable. "We'll make it better, lads," said Joe, digging a deep hole in the sand with his hands, a little below the pool. In a short time the water filtered through, and though not rendered fresh, it was, nevertheless, much improved. "We may light a fire to-night, d'ye think?" inquired Dick; "we've not seed Injuns for some days." "Pr'aps 'twould be better not," said Joe, "but I daresay we're safe enough." A fire was therefore lighted in as sheltered a spot as could be found, and the three friends bivouacked as usual. Towards dawn they were aroused by an angry growl from Crusoe. "It's a wolf likely," said Dick, but all three seized and cocked their rifles nevertheless. Again Crusoe growled more angrily than before, and springing out of the camp snuffed the breeze anxiously. "Up, lads; catch the nags! There's something in the wind, for the dog niver did that afore." In a few seconds the horses were saddled and the packs secured. "Call in the dog," whispered Joe Blunt; "if he barks they'll find out our whereabouts." "Here, Crusoe, come--" It was too late; the dog barked loudly and savagely at the moment, and a troop of Indians came coursing over the plain. On hearing the unwonted sound they wheeled directly and made for the camp. "It's a war-party; fly, lads; nothin' 'll save our scalps now but our horses' heels," cried Joe. In a moment they vaulted into the saddle, and urged their steeds forward at the utmost speed. The savages observed them, and with an exulting yell dashed after them. Feeling that there was now no need of concealment, the three horsemen struck off into the open prairie, intending to depend entirely on the speed and stamina of their horses. As we have before remarked, they were good ones, but the Indians soon proved that they were equally well if not better mounted. "It'll be a hard run," said Joe in a low, muttering tone, and looking furtively over his shoulder. "The varmints are mounted on wild horses, leastways they were wild not long agone. Them chaps can throw the lasso and trip a mustang as well as a Mexican. Mind the badger holes, Dick. Hold in a bit, Henri, yer nag don't need drivin'--a foot in a hole just now would cost us our scalps. Keep down by the creek, lads." "Hah! how dey yell," said Henri in a savage tone, looking back, and shaking his rifle at them--an act that caused them to yell more fiercely than ever. "Dis old pack-hoss give me moche trobel." The pace was now tremendous. Pursuers and pursued rose and sank on the prairie billows as they swept along, till they came to what is termed a "dividing ridge," which is a cross wave, as it were, which cuts the others in two, thus forming a continuous level. Here they advanced more easily, but the advantage was equally shared with their pursuers, who continued the headlong pursuit with occasional yells, which served to show the fugitives that they at least did not gain ground. A little to the right of the direction in which they were flying a blue line was seen on the horizon. This indicated the existence of trees to Joe's practised eyes; and feeling that if the horses broke down they could better make a last manful stand in the wood than on the plain he urged his steed towards it. The savages noticed the movement at once, and uttered a yell of exultation, for they regarded it as an evidence that the fugitives doubted the strength of their horses. "Ye haven't got us yet," muttered Joe, with a sardonic grin. "If they get near us, Dick, keep yer eyes open, an' look out for yer neck, else they'll drop a noose over it; they will, afore ye know they're near, an' haul ye off like a sack." Dick nodded in reply, but did not speak, for at that moment his eye was fixed on a small creek ahead which they must necessarily leap or dash across. It was lined with clumps of scattered shrubbery, and he glanced rapidly for the most suitable place to pass. Joe and Henri did the same, and having diverged a little to the different points chosen, they dashed through the shrubbery, and were hid from each other's view. On approaching the edge of the stream, Dick found to his consternation that the bank was twenty feet high opposite him, and too wide for any horse to clear. Wheeling aside without checking speed, at the risk of throwing his steed, he rode along the margin of the stream for a few hundred yards until he found a ford--at least such a spot as might be cleared by a bold leap. The temporary check, however, had enabled an Indian to gain so close upon his heels, that his exulting yell sounded close in his ear. With a vigorous bound his gallant little horse went over. Crusoe could not take it, but he rushed down the one bank and up the other, so that he only lost a few yards. These few yards, however, were sufficient to bring the Indian close upon him as he cleared the stream at full gallop. The savage whirled his lasso swiftly round for a second, and in another moment Crusoe uttered a tremendous roar as he was tripped up violently on the plain. Dick heard the cry of his faithful dog, and turned quickly round, just in time to see him spring at the horse's throat, and bring both steed and rider down upon him. Dick's heart leaped to his throat. Had a thousand savages been rushing on him, he would have flown to the rescue of his favourite; but an unexpected obstacle came in the way. His fiery little steed, excited by the headlong race and the howls of the Indians, had taken the bit in his teeth and was now unmanageable. He tore at the reins like a maniac, and in the height of his frenzy even raised the butt of his rifle with the intent to strike the poor horse to the earth, but his better nature prevailed. He checked the uplifted hand, and with a groan dropped the reins, and sank almost helplessly forward on the saddle, for several of the Indians had left the main body and were pursuing him alone, so that there would have been now no chance of his reaching the place where Crusoe fell, even if he could have turned his horse. Spiritless, and utterly indifferent to what his fate might be, Dick Varley rode along with his head drooping, and keeping his seat almost mechanically, while the mettlesome little steed flew on over wave and hollow. Gradually he awakened from this state of despair to a sense of danger. Glancing round he observed that the Indians were now far behind him, though still pursuing. He also observed that his companions were galloping miles away on the horizon to the left, and that he had foolishly allowed the savages to get between him and them. The only chance that remained for him was to outride his pursuers, and circle round towards his comrades, and this he hoped to accomplish, for his little horse had now proved itself to be superior to those of the Indians, and there was good running in him still. Urging him forward, therefore, he soon left the savages still further behind, and feeling confident that they could not now overtake him, he reined up and dismounted. The pursuers quickly drew near, but short though it was, the rest did his horse good. Vaulting into the saddle, he again stretched out, and now skirted along the margin of a wood which seemed to mark the position of a river of considerable size. At this moment his horse put his foot into a badger hole, and both of them came heavily to the ground. In an instant Dick rose, picked up his gun, and leaped unhurt into the saddle. But on urging his poor horse forward, he found that its shoulder was badly sprained. There was no room for mercy, however,--life and death were in the balance,--so he plied the lash vigorously, and the noble steed warmed into something like a run, when again it stumbled, and fell with a crash on the ground, while the blood burst from its mouth and nostrils. Dick could hear the shout of triumph uttered by his pursuers. "My poor, poor horse!" he exclaimed, in a tone of the deepest commiseration, while he stooped and stroked its foam-studded neck. The dying steed raised his head for a moment, it almost seemed as if to acknowledge the tones of affection, then it sank down with a gurgling groan. Dick sprang up, for the Indians were now upon him, and bounded like an antelope into the thickest of the shrubbery, which was nowhere thick enough, however, to prevent the Indians following. Still, it sufficiently retarded them to render the chase a more equal one than could have been expected. In a few minutes Dick gained a strip of open ground beyond, and found himself on the bank of a broad river, whose evidently deep waters rushed impetuously along their unobstructed channel. The bank at the spot where he reached it was a sheer precipice of between thirty and forty feet high. Glancing up and down the river he retreated a few paces, turned round and shook his clenched fist at the savages, accompanying the action with a shout of defiance, and then running to the edge of the bank, sprang far out into the boiling flood and sank. The Indians pulled up on reaching the spot. There was no possibility of galloping down the wood-encumbered banks after the fugitive, but quick as thought each Red-man leaped to the ground, and fitting an arrow to his bow, awaited Dick's re-appearance with eager gaze. Young though he was, and unskilled in such wild warfare, Dick knew well enough what sort of reception he would meet with on coming to the surface, so he kept under water as long as he could, and struck out as vigorously as the care of his rifle would permit. At last he rose for a few seconds, and immediately half a dozen arrows whizzed through the air; but most of them fell short; only one passed close to his cheek, and went with a "whip" into the river. He immediately sank again, and the next time he rose to breathe he was far beyond the reach of his Indian enemies. CHAPTER THIRTEEN. ESCAPE FROM INDIANS--A DISCOVERY--ALONE IN THE DESERT. Dick Varley had spent so much of his boyhood in sporting about among the waters of the rivers and lakes near which he had been reared, and especially during the last two years had spent so much of his leisure time in rolling and diving with his dog Crusoe in the lake of the Mustang Valley, that he had become almost as expert in the water as a south-sea islander; so that when he found himself whirling down the rapid river, as already described, he was more impressed with a feeling of gratitude to God for his escape from the Indians, than anxiety about getting ashore. He was not altogether blind, or indifferent, to the danger into which he might be hurled if the channel of the river should be found lower down to be broken with rocks, or should a waterfall unexpectedly appear. After floating down a sufficient distance to render pursuit out of the question, he struck in to the bank opposite to that from which he had plunged, and, clambering up to the green sward above, stripped off the greater part of his clothing and hung it on the branches of a bush to dry. Then he sat down on the trunk of a fallen tree to consider what course he had best pursue in his present circumstances. These circumstances were by no means calculated to inspire him with hope or comfort. He was in the midst of an unknown wilderness, hundreds of miles from any white man's settlement; surrounded by savages; without food or blanket; his companions gone, he knew not whither; perhaps taken and killed by the Indians; his horse dead, and his dog, the most trusty and loving of all his friends, lost to him, probably, for ever! A more veteran heart might have quailed in the midst of such accumulated evils, but Dick Varley possessed a strong, young, and buoyant constitution, which, united with a hopefulness of disposition that almost nothing could overcome, enabled him very quickly to cast aside the gloomy view of his case and turn to its brighter aspects. He still grasped his good rifle, that was some comfort, and as his eye fell upon it, he turned with anxiety to examine into the condition of his powder-horn and the few things that he had been fortunate enough to carry away with him about his person. The horn in which western hunters carry their powder is usually that of an ox. It is closed up at the large end with a piece of hard wood fitted tightly into it, and the small end is closed with a wooden peg or stopper. It is, therefore, completely water-tight, and may be for hours immersed without the powder getting wet unless the stopper should chance to be knocked out. Dick found, to his great satisfaction, that the stopper was fast, and the powder perfectly dry. Moreover, he had by good fortune filled it full two days before from the package that contained the general stock of ammunition, so that there were only two or three charges out of it. His percussion caps, however, were completely destroyed, and even though they had not been, it would have mattered little, for he did not possess more than half a dozen. But this was not so great a misfortune as at first it might seem, for he had the spare flint locks and the little screw-driver necessary for fixing and unfixing them stowed away in his shot pouch. To examine his supply of bullets was his next care, and slowly he counted them out, one by one, to the number of thirty. This was a pretty fair supply, and with careful economy would last him many days. Having relieved his mind on these all-important points, he carefully examined every pouch and corner of his dress to ascertain the exact amount and value of his wealth. Besides the leather-leggings, moccasins, deerskin hunting shirt, cap, and belt which composed his costume, he had a short heavy hunting-knife, a piece of tinder, a little tin pannikin, which he had been in the habit of carrying at his belt, and a large cake of maple sugar. This last is a species of sugar which is procured by the Indians from the maple-tree. Several cakes of it had been carried off from the Pawnee village, and Dick usually carried one in the breast of his coat. Besides these things, he found that the little Bible, for which his mother had made a small inside breast pocket, was safe. Dick's heart smote him when he took it out and undid the clasp, for he had not looked at it until that day. It was firmly bound with a brass clasp, so that although the binding and edges of the leaves were soaked, the inside was quite dry. On opening the book to see if it had been damaged, a small paper fell out. Picking it up quickly, he unfolded it, and read, in his mother's handwriting, "_Call upon me in the time of trouble, and I will deliver thee, and thou shalt glorify me. My son, give me thine heart_." Dick's eyes filled with tears while the sound, as it were, of his mother's voice thus reached him unexpectedly in that lonely wilderness. Like too many whose hearts are young and gay, Dick had regarded religion, if not as a gloomy, at least as not a cheerful thing. But he felt the comfort of these words at that moment, and he resolved seriously to peruse his mother's parting gift in time to come. The sun was hot, and a warm breeze gently shook the leaves, so that Dick's garments were soon dry. A few minutes served to change the locks of his rifle, draw the wet charges, dry out the barrels, and re-load. Then, throwing it across his shoulder, he entered the wood, and walked lightly away. And well he might, poor fellow, for at that moment he felt light enough in person if not in heart. His worldly goods were not such as to oppress him, but the little note had turned his thoughts towards home, and he felt comforted. Traversing the belt of woodland that marked the course of the river, Dick soon emerged on the wide prairie beyond, and here he paused in some uncertainty as to how he should proceed. He was too good a backwoodsman, albeit so young, to feel perplexed as to the points of the compass. He knew pretty well what hour it was, so that the sun showed him the general bearings of the country, and he knew that when night came he could correct his course by the pole star. Dick's knowledge of astronomy was limited; he knew only one star by name, but that one was an inestimable treasure of knowledge. His perplexity was owing to his uncertainty as to the direction in which his companions and their pursuers had gone, for he had made up his mind to follow their trail if possible, and render all the succour his single arm might afford. To desert them, and make for the settlement, he held, would be a faithless and cowardly act. While they were together Joe Blunt had often talked to him about the route he meant to pursue to the Rocky Mountains, so that, if they had escaped the Indians, he thought there might be some chance of finding them at last. But, to set against this, there was the probability that they had been taken and carried away in a totally different direction, or they might have taken to the river, as he had done, and gone further down without his observing them. Then, again, if they had escaped, they would be sure to return and search the country round for him, so that if he left the spot he might miss them. "Oh, for my dear pup Crusoe!" he exclaimed aloud in this dilemma; but the faithful ear was shut now, and the deep silence that followed his cry was so oppressive that the young hunter sprang forward at a run over the plain, as if to fly from solitude. He soon became so absorbed, however, in his efforts to find the trail of his companions, that he forgot all other considerations, and ran straight forward for hours together, with his eyes eagerly fixed on the ground. At last he felt so hungry, having tasted no food since supper-time the previous evening, that he halted for the purpose of eating a morsel of maple sugar. A line of bushes in the distance indicated water, so he sped on again, and was soon seated beneath a willow, drinking water from the cool stream. No game was to be found here; but there were several kinds of berries, among which wild grapes and plums grew in abundance. With these and some sugar he made a meal, though not a good one, for the berries were quite green, and intensely sour. All that day Dick Varley followed up the trail of his companions, which he discovered at a ford in the river. They had crossed, therefore, in safety, though still pursued, so he ran on at a regular trot, and with a little more hope than he had felt during the day. Towards night, however, Dick's heart sank again, for he came upon innumerable buffalo tracks, among which those of the horses soon became mingled up, so that he lost them altogether. Hoping to find them again more easily by broad daylight, he went to the nearest clump of willows he could find, and encamped for the night. Remembering the use formerly made of the tall willows, he set to work to construct a covering to protect him from the dew. As he had no blanket or buffalo-skin, he used leaves and grass instead, and found it a better shelter than he had expected, especially when the fire was lighted, and a pannikin of hot sugar and water smoked at his feet; but as no game was to be found, he was again compelled to sup off unripe berries. Before lying down to rest he remembered his resolution, and, pulling out the little Bible, read a portion of it by the fitful blaze of the fire, and felt great comfort in its blessed words. It seemed to him like a friend with whom he could converse in the midst of his loneliness. The plunge into the river having broken Dick's pipe and destroyed his tobacco, he now felt the want of that luxury very severely, and, never having wanted it before, he was greatly surprised to find how much he had become enslaved to the habit. It cost him more than an hour's rest that night, the craving for his wonted pipe. The sagacious reader will doubtless not fail here to ask himself the question, whether it is wise in man to create in himself an unnatural and totally unnecessary appetite, which may, and often does, entail hours--ay, sometimes months--of exceeding discomfort; but we would not for a moment presume to suggest such a question to him. We have a distinct objection to the ordinary method of what is called "drawing a moral." It is much better to leave wise men to do this for themselves. Next morning Dick rose with the sun, and started without breakfast, preferring to take his chance of finding a bird or animal of some kind before long, to feeding again on sour berries. He was disappointed, however, in finding the tracks of his companions. The ground here was hard and sandy, so that little or no impression of a distinct kind was made on it; and, as buffaloes had traversed it in all directions, he was soon utterly bewildered. He thought it possible that, by running out for several miles in a straight line, and then taking a wide circuit round, he might find the tracks emerging from the confusion made by the buffaloes. But he was again disappointed, for the buffalo tracks still continued, and the ground became less capable of showing a footprint. Soon Dick began to feel so ill and weak from eating such poor fare, that he gave up all hope of discovering the tracks, and was compelled to push forward at his utmost speed in order to reach a less barren district, where he might procure fresh meat; but the further he advanced the worse and more sandy did the district become. For several days he pushed on over this arid waste without seeing bird or beast, and, to add to his misery, he failed at last to find water. For a day and a night he wandered about in a burning fever, and his throat so parched that he was almost suffocated. Towards the close of the second day he saw a slight line of bushes away down in a hollow on his right. With eager steps he staggered towards them, and, on drawing near, beheld--blessed sight!--a stream of water glancing in the beams of the setting sun. Dick tried to shout for joy, but his parched throat refused to give utterance to the voice. It mattered not; exerting all his remaining strength he rushed down the bank, dropped his rifle, and plunged head-foremost into the stream. The first mouthful sent a thrill of horror to his heart; it was salt as brine. The poor youth's cup of bitterness was now full to overflowing. Crawling out of the stream, he sank down on the bank in a species of lethargic torpor, from which he awakened next morning in a raging fever. Delirium soon rendered him insensible to his sufferings. The sun rose like a ball of fire, and shone down with scorching power on the arid plain. What mattered it to Dick? He was far away in the shady groves of the Mustang Valley, chasing the deer at times, but more frequently cooling his limbs and sporting with Crusoe in the bright blue lake. Now he was in his mother's cottage, telling her how he had thought of her when far away on the prairie, and what a bright, sweet word it was she had whispered in his ear,--so unexpectedly, too. Anon he was scouring over the plains on horseback, with the savages at his heels; and at such times Dick would spring with almost supernatural strength from the ground, and run madly over the burning plain; but, as if by a species of fascination, he always returned to the salt river, and sank exhausted by its side, or plunged helplessly into its waters. These sudden immersions usually restored him for a short time to reason, and he would crawl up the bank and gnaw a morsel of the maple sugar; but he could not eat much, for it was in a tough, compact cake, which his jaws had not power to break. All that day and the next night he lay on the banks of the salt stream, or rushed wildly over the plain. It was about noon of the second day after his attack that he crept slowly out of the water, into which he had plunged a few seconds before. His mind was restored, but he felt an indescribable sensation of weakness, that seemed to him to be the approach of death. Creeping towards the place where his rifle lay, he fell exhausted beside it, and laid his cheek on the Bible, which had fallen out of his pocket there. While his eyes were closed in a dreamy sort of half-waking slumber, he felt the rough, hairy coat of an animal brush against his forehead. The idea of being torn to pieces by wolves flashed instantly across his mind, and with a shriek of terror he sprang up,--to be almost overwhelmed by the caresses of his faithful dog. Yes, there he was, bounding round his master, barking and whining, and giving vent to every possible expression of canine joy. CHAPTER FOURTEEN. CRUSOE'S RETURN AND HIS PRIVATE ADVENTURES AMONG THE INDIANS--DICK AT A VERY LOW EBB--CRUSOE SAVES HIM. The means by which Crusoe managed to escape from his two-legged captors, and rejoin his master, requires separate and special notice. In the struggle with the fallen horse and Indian, which Dick had seen begun but not concluded, he was almost crushed to death; and the instant the Indian gained his feet, he sent an arrow at his head with savage violence. Crusoe, however, had been so well used to dodging the blunt-headed arrows that were wont to be shot at him by the boys of the Mustang Valley, that he was quite prepared, and eluded the shaft by an active bound. Moreover, he uttered one of his own peculiar roars, flew at the Indian's throat, and dragged him down. At the same moment the other Indians came up, and one of them turned aside to the rescue. This man happened to have an old gun, of the cheap sort at that time exchanged for peltries by the fur-traders. With the butt of this he struck Crusoe a blow on the head that sent him sprawling on the grass. The rest of the savages, as we have seen, continued in pursuit of Dick until he leaped into the river; then they returned, took the saddle and bridle off his dead horse, and rejoined their comrades. Here they held a court-martial on Crusoe, who was now bound, foot and muzzle, with cords. Some were for killing him; others, who admired his noble appearance, immense size, and courage, thought it would be well to carry him to their village and keep him. There was a pretty violent dispute on the subject; but at length it was agreed that they should spare his life in the mean time, and perhaps have a dog-dance round him when they got to their wigwams. This dance, of which Crusoe was to be the chief, though passive performer, is peculiar to some of the tribes east of the Rocky Mountains, and consists in killing a dog and cutting out its liver, which is afterwards sliced into shreds or strings and hung on a pole about the height of a man's head. A band of warriors then come and dance wildly round this pole, and each one in succession goes up to the raw liver and bites a piece off it, without, however, putting his hands near it. Such is the dog-dance, and to such was poor Crusoe destined by his fierce captors, especially by the one whose throat still bore very evident marks of his teeth. But Crusoe was much too clever a dog to be disposed of in so disgusting a manner. He had privately resolved in his own mind that he would escape, but the hopelessness of his ever carrying that resolution into effect would have been apparent to any one who could have seen the way in which his muzzle was secured, and his four paws were tied together in a bunch, as he hung suspended across the saddle of one of the savages! This particular party of Indians who had followed Dick Varley determined not to wait for the return of their comrades who were in pursuit of the other two hunters, but to go straight home, so for several days they galloped away over the prairie. At nights, when they encamped, Crusoe was thrown on the ground like a piece of old lumber, and left to lie there with a mere scrap of food till morning, when he was again thrown across the horse of his captor and carried on. When the village was reached, he was thrown again on the ground, and would certainly have been torn to pieces in five minutes by the Indian curs which came howling round him, had not an old woman come to the rescue and driven them away. With the help of her grandson--a little naked creature, just able to walk, or rather to stagger--she dragged him to her tent, and, undoing the line that fastened his mouth, offered him a bone. Although lying in a position that was unfavourable for eating purposes, Crusoe opened his jaws and took it. An awful crash was followed by two crunches--and it was gone; and Crusoe looked up in the old squaw's face with a look that said plainly, "Another of the same, please, and as quick as possible." The old woman gave him another and then a lump of meat, which latter went down with a gulp--but he coughed after it! and it was well he didn't choke. After this the squaw left him, and Crusoe spent the remainder of that night gnawing the cords that bound him. So diligent was he that he was free before morning and walked deliberately out of the tent. Then he shook himself, and with a yell that one might have fancied was intended for defiance, he bounded joyfully away, and was soon out of sight. To a dog with a good appetite which had been on short allowance for several days, the mouthful given to him by the old squaw was a mere nothing. All that day he kept bounding over the plain from bluff to bluff in search of something to eat, but found nothing until dusk, when he pounced suddenly and most unexpectedly on a prairie-hen fast asleep. In one moment its life was gone. In less than a minute its body was gone too--feathers and bones and all--down Crusoe's ravenous throat. On the identical spot Crusoe lay down and slept like a top for four hours. At the end of that time he jumped up, bolted a scrap of skin that somehow had been overlooked at supper, and flew straight over the prairie to the spot where he had had the scuffle with the Indian. He came to the edge of the river, took precisely the same leap that his master had done before him, and came out on the other side a good deal higher up than Dick had done, for the dog had no savages to dodge, and was, as we have said before, a powerful swimmer. It cost him a good deal of running about to find the trail, and it was nearly dark before he resumed his journey; then, putting his keen nose to the ground, he ran step by step over Dick's track, and at last found him, as we have shown, on the banks of the Salt Creek. It is quite impossible to describe the intense joy which filled Dick's heart on again beholding his favourite. Only those who have lost and found such an one can know it. Dick seized him round the neck and hugged him as well as he could, poor fellow, in his feeble arms; then he wept, then he laughed, and then he fainted. This was a consummation that took Crusoe quite aback! Never having seen his master in such a state before he seemed to think at first that he was playing some trick, for he bounded round him, and barked, and wagged his tail. But as Dick lay quite still and motionless, he went forward with a look of alarm; snuffed him once or twice and whined piteously; then he raised his nose in the air and uttered a long melancholy wail. The cry seemed to revive Dick, for he moved, and with some difficulty sat up, to the dog's evident relief. There is no doubt whatever that Crusoe learned an erroneous lesson that day, and was firmly convinced thenceforth that the best cure for a fainting-fit is a melancholy yell. So easy is it for the wisest of dogs as well as men to fall into gross error! "Crusoe," said Dick, in a feeble voice, "dear good pup, come here." He crawled, as he spoke, down to the water's edge where there was a level patch of dry sand. "Dig," said Dick, pointing to the sand. Crusoe looked at him in surprise, as well he might, for he had never heard the word "dig" in all his life before. Dick pondered a minute; then a thought struck him. He turned up a little of the sand with his fingers, and, pointing to the hole cried, "_Seek him out, pup_!" Ha! Crusoe understood _that_. Many and many a time had he unhoused rabbits, and squirrels, and other creatures at that word of command, so, without a moment's delay, he commenced to dig down into the sand, every now, and then stopping for a moment and shoving in his nose, and snuffing interrogatively, as if he fully expected to find a buffalo at the bottom of it. Then he would resume again, one paw after another so fast that you could scarce see them going "hand over hand" as sailors would have called it--while the sand flew out between his hind-legs in a continuous shower. When the sand accumulated so much behind him as to impede his motions he scraped it out of his way, and set to work again with tenfold earnestness. After a good while he paused and looked up at Dick with an "it--won't--do,--I--fear,--there's--nothing--here" expression on his face. "Seek him out, pup!" repeated Dick. "Oh! very good," mutely answered the dog, and went at it again, tooth and nail, harder than ever. In the course of a quarter of an hour there was a deep yawning hole in the sand, into which Dick peered with intense anxiety. The bottom appeared slightly _damp_. Hope now reanimated Dick Varley, and by various devices he succeeded in getting the dog to scrape away a sort of tunnel from the hole, into which he might roll himself and put down his lips to drink when the water should rise high enough. Impatiently and anxiously he lay watching the moisture slowly accumulate in the bottom of the hole, drop by drop, and while he gazed he fell into a troubled, restless slumber, and dreamed that Crusoe's return was a dream, and that he was alone again perishing for want of water. When he awakened the hole was half full of clear water, and Crusoe was lapping it greedily. "Back, pup!" he shouted, as he crept down to the hole and put his trembling lips to the water. It was brackish, but drinkable, and as Dick drank deeply of it he esteemed it at that moment better than nectar. Here he lay for half an hour alternately drinking and gazing in surprise at his own emaciated visage as reflected in the pool. The same afternoon Crusoe, in a private hunting excursion of his own, discovered and caught a prairie-hen, which he quietly proceeded to devour on the spot, when Dick, who saw what had occurred, whistled to him. Obedience was engrained in every fibre of Crusoe's mental and corporeal being. He did not merely answer at once to the call--he _sprang_ to it, leaving the prairie-hen untasted. "Fetch it, pup," cried Dick eagerly as the dog came up. In a few moments the hen was at his feet. Dick's circumstances could not brook the delay of cookery; he gashed the bird with his knife and drank the blood, and then gave the flesh to the dog, while he crept to the pool again for another draught. Ah! think not, reader, that although we have treated this subject in a slight vein of pleasantry, because it ended well, that therefore our tale is pure fiction. Not only are Indians glad to satisfy the urgent cravings of hunger with raw flesh, but many civilised men and delicately nurtured, have done the same--ay, and doubtless, will do the same again, as long as enterprising and fearless men shall go forth to dare the dangers of flood and field in the wild places of our wonderful world! Crusoe had finished his share of the feast before Dick returned from the pool. Then master and dog lay down together side by side and fell into a long, deep, peaceful slumber. CHAPTER FIFTEEN. HEALTH AND HAPPINESS RETURN--INCIDENTS OF THE JOURNEY--A BUFFALO SHOT--A WILD HORSE "CREASED"--DICK'S BATTLE WITH A MUSTANG. Dick Varley's fears and troubles, in the meantime, were ended. On the day following he awoke refreshed and happy--so happy and light at heart, as he felt the glow of returning health coursing through his veins, that he fancied he must have dreamed it all. In fact, he was so certain that his muscles were strong that he endeavoured to leap up, but was powerfully convinced of his true condition by the miserable stagger that resulted from the effort. However, he knew he was recovering, so he rose, and thanking God for his recovery and for the new hope that was raised in his heart, he went down to the pool and drank deeply of its water. Then he returned, and, sitting down beside his dog, opened the Bible and read long--and, for the first time, _earnestly_--the story of Christ's love for sinful man. He at last fell asleep over the book, and when he awakened felt so much refreshed in body and mind that he determined to attempt to pursue his journey. He had not proceeded far when he came upon a colony of prairie-dogs. Upon this occasion he was little inclined to take a humorous view of the vagaries of these curious little creatures, but he shot one, and, as before, ate part of it raw. These creatures are so active that they are difficult to shoot, and even when killed generally fall into their holes and disappear. Crusoe, however, soon unearthed the dead animal on this occasion. That night the travellers came to a stream of fresh water, and Dick killed a turkey, so that he determined to spend a couple of days there to recruit. At the end of that time he again set out, but was able only to advance five miles when he broke down. In fact, it became evident to him that he must have a longer period of absolute repose ere he could hope to continue his journey, but to do so without food was impossible. Fortunately there was plenty of water, as his course lay along the margin of a small stream, and, as the arid piece of prairie was now behind him, he hoped to fall in with birds, or perhaps deer, soon. While he was plodding heavily and wearily along, pondering these things, he came to the brow of a wave from which he beheld a most magnificent view of green grassy plains, decked with flowers, and rolling out to the horizon, with a stream meandering through it, and clumps of trees scattered everywhere far and wide. It was a glorious sight; but the most glorious object in it to Dick, at that time, was a fat buffalo which stood grazing not a hundred yards off. The wind was blowing towards him, so that the animal did not scent him, and, as he came up very slowly, and it was turned away, it did not see him. Crusoe would have sprung forward in an instant, but his master's finger imposed silence and caution. Trembling with eagerness Dick sank flat down in the grass, cocked both barrels of his piece, and, resting it on his left hand with his left elbow on the ground, he waited until the animal should present its side. In a few seconds it moved; Dick's eye glanced along the barrel, but it trembled--his wonted steadiness of aim was gone. He fired, and the buffalo sprang off in terror. With a groan of despair he fired again,--almost recklessly,--and the buffalo fell! It rose once or twice and stumbled forward a few paces, then it fell again. Meanwhile Dick re-loaded with trembling hand, and advanced to give it another shot, but it was not needful, the buffalo was already dead. "Now, Crusoe," said Dick, sitting down on the buffalo's shoulder and patting his favourite on the head, "we're all right at last. You and I shall have a jolly time o't, pup, from this time for'ard." Dick paused for breath, and Crusoe wagged his tail and looked as if to say--pshaw! "_as if_!" We tell ye what it is, reader, it's of no use at all to go on writing "as if," when we tell you what Crusoe said. If there is any language in eyes whatever,--if there is language in a tail; in a cocked ear; in a mobile eyebrow; in the point of a canine nose;--if there is language in any terrestrial thing at all, apart from that which flows from the tongue--then Crusoe _spoke_! Do we not speak at this moment to _you_? and if so, then tell me, wherein lies the difference between a written _letter_ and a given _sign_? Yes, Crusoe spoke. He said to Dick as plain as dog could say it, slowly and emphatically, "That's my opinion precisely, Dick. You're the dearest, most beloved, jolliest fellow that ever walked on two legs, you are; and whatever's your opinion is mine, no matter _how_ absurd it may be." Dick evidently understood him perfectly, for he laughed as he looked at him and patted him on the head, and called him a "funny dog." Then he continued his discourse--"Yes, pup, we'll make our camp here for a long bit, old dog, in this beautiful plain. We'll make a willow wigwam to sleep in, you and me, jist in yon clump o' trees, not a stone's throw to our right, where we'll have a run o' pure water beside us, and be near our buffalo at the same time. For, ye see, we'll need to watch him lest the wolves take a notion to eat him--that'll be _your_ duty, pup. Then I'll skin him when I get strong enough, which'll be in a day or two I hope, and we'll put one half of the skin below us and t'other half above us i' the camp, an' sleep, an' eat, an' take it easy for a week or two-- won't we, pup?" "Hoora-a-a-y!" shouted Crusoe, with a jovial wag of his tail, that no human arm with hat, or cap, or kerchief ever equalled. Poor Dick Varley! He smiled to think how earnestly he had been talking to the dog, but he did not cease to do it, for, although he entered into discourses, the drift of which Crusoe's limited education did not permit him to follow, he found comfort in hearing the sound of his own voice, and in knowing that it fell pleasantly on another ear in that lonely wilderness. Our hero now set about his preparations as vigorously as he could. He cut out the buffalo's tongue--a matter of great difficulty to one in his weak state--and carried it to a pleasant spot near to the stream where the turf was level and green, and decked with wild flowers. Here he resolved to make his camp. His first care was to select a bush whose branches were long enough to form a canopy over his head when bent, and the ends thrust into the ground. The completing of this exhausted him greatly, but after a rest he resumed his labours. The next thing was to light a fire--a comfort which he had not enjoyed for many weary days. Not that he required it for warmth, for the weather was extremely warm, but he required it to cook with, and the mere _sight_ of a blaze in a dark place is a most heart-cheering thing as every one knows. When the fire was lighted he filled his pannikin at the brook and put it on to boil, and, cutting several slices of buffalo tongue, he thrust short stakes through them and set them up before the fire to roast. By this time the water was boiling, so he took it off with difficulty, nearly burning his fingers and singeing the tail of his coat in so doing. Into the pannikin he put a lump of maple sugar and stirred it about with a stick, and tasted it. It seemed to him even better than tea or coffee. It was absolutely delicious! Really one has no notion what he can do if he makes believe _very hard_. The human mind is a nicely balanced and extremely complex machine, and when thrown a little off the balance can be made to believe almost anything, as we see in the case of some poor monomaniacs, who have fancied that they were made of all sorts of things--glass and porcelain, and suchlike. No wonder then that poor Dick Varley, after so much suffering and hardship, came to regard that pannikin of hot syrup as the most delicious beverage he ever drank. During all these operations Crusoe sat on his haunches beside him and looked. And you haven't--no, you haven't--got the most distant notion of the way in which that dog manoeuvred with his head and face! He opened his eyes wide, and cocked his ears, and turned his head first a little to one side, then a little to the other. After that he turned it a _good deal_ to one side and then a good deal more to the other. Then he brought it straight and raised one eyebrow a little, and then the other a little, and then both together very much. Then, when Dick paused to rest and did nothing, Crusoe looked mild for a moment, and yawned vociferously. Presently Dick moved--up went the ears again and Crusoe came--in military parlance--"to the position of attention!" At last supper was ready and they began. Dick had purposely kept the dog's supper back from him, in order that they might eat it in company. And between every bite and sup that Dick took, he gave a bite--but not a sup--to Crusoe. Thus lovingly they ate together; and, when Dick lay that night under the willow branches looking up through them at the stars, with his feet to the fire, and Crusoe close along his side, he thought it the best and sweetest supper he ever ate, and the happiest evening he ever spent--so wonderfully do circumstances modify our notions of felicity! Two weeks after this "Richard was himself again." The muscles were springy, and the blood coursed fast and free, as was its wont. Only a slight, and, perhaps, salutary feeling of weakness remained, to remind him that young muscles might again become more helpless than those of an aged man or a child. Dick had left his encampment a week ago, and was now advancing by rapid stages towards the Rocky Mountains, closely following the trail of his lost comrades, which he had no difficulty in finding and keeping, now that Crusoe was with him. The skin of the buffalo that he had killed was now strapped to his shoulders, and the skin of another animal that he had shot a few days after was cut up into a long line and slung in a coil round his neck. Crusoe was also laden. He had a little bundle of meat slung on each side of him. For some time past numerous herds of mustangs or wild horses, had crossed their path, and Dick was now on the look out for a chance to _crease_ one of those magnificent creatures. On one occasion a band of mustangs galloped close up to him before they were aware of his presence, and stopped short with a wild snort of surprise on beholding him; then, wheeling round, they dashed away at full gallop, their long tails and manes flying wildly in the air, and their hoofs thundering on the plain. Dick did not attempt to crease one upon this occasion, fearing that his recent illness might have rendered his hand too unsteady for so extremely delicate an operation. In order to crease a wild horse the hunter requires to be a perfect shot, and it is not every man of the west who carries a rifle that can do it successfully. Creasing consists in sending a bullet through the gristle of the mustang's neck, just above the bone, so as to stun the animal. If the ball enters a hair's-breadth too low, the horse falls dead instantly. If it hits the exact spot the horse falls as instantaneously, and dead to all appearance; but, in reality, he is only stunned, and if left for a few minutes will rise and gallop away nearly as well as ever. When hunters crease a horse successfully they put a rope, or halter, round his under jaw, and hobbles round his feet, so that when he rises he is secured, and, after considerable trouble, reduced to obedience. The mustangs which roam in wild freedom on the prairies of the far west, are descended from the noble Spanish steeds that were brought over by the wealthy cavaliers who accompanied Fernando Cortez, the conqueror of Mexico, in his expedition to the new world in 1518. These bold, and, we may add, lawless cavaliers, were mounted on the finest horses that could be procured from Barbary and the deserts of the Old World. The poor Indians of the New World were struck with amazement and terror at these awful beings, for, never having seen horses before, they believed that horse and rider were one animal. During the wars that followed many of the Spaniards were killed and their steeds bounded into the wilds of the new country to enjoy a life of unrestrained freedom. These were the forefathers of the present race of magnificent creatures which are found in immense droves all over the western wilderness, from the Gulf of Mexico to the confines of the snowy regions of the far north. At first the Indians beheld these horses with awe and terror, but gradually they became accustomed to them, and finally succeeded in capturing great numbers and reducing them to a state of servitude. Not, however, to the service of the cultivated field, but to the service of the chase and war. The savages soon acquired the method of capturing wild horses by means of the lasso--as the noose at that end of a long line of raw hide is termed--which they adroitly threw over the heads of the animals and secured them, having previously run them down. At the present day many of the savage tribes of the west almost live upon horseback, and without these useful creatures they could scarcely subsist, as they are almost indispensable in the chase of the buffalo. Mustangs are regularly taken by the Indians to the settlements of the white men for trade, but very poor specimens are these of the breed of wild horses. This arises from two causes. First, the Indian cannot overtake the finest of a drove of wild mustangs, because his own steed is inferior to the best among the wild ones, besides being weighted with a rider, so that only the weak and inferior animals are captured. And, secondly, when the Indian does succeed in lassoing a first-rate horse he keeps it for his own use. Thus, those who have not visited the far-off prairies and seen the mustang in all the glory of untrammelled freedom, can form no adequate idea of its beauty, fleetness, and strength. The horse, however, was not the only creature imported by Cortez. There were priests in his army who rode upon asses, and, although we cannot imagine that the "fathers" charged with the cavaliers and were unhorsed, or, rather, un-assed in battle, yet, somehow, the asses got rid of their riders and joined the Spanish chargers in their joyous bound into a new life of freedom. Hence wild asses also are found in the western prairies. But think not, reader, of those poor miserable wretches we see at home, which seem little better than rough door-mats sewed up and stuffed; with head, tail, and legs attached, and just enough of life infused to make them move! No, the wild ass of the prairie is a large, powerful, swift creature. He has the same long ears, it is true, and the same hideous, exasperating bray, and the same tendency to flourish his heels; but, for all that he is a very fine animal, and often wages _successful_ warfare with the wild horse! But to return. The next drove of mustangs that Dick and Crusoe saw were feeding quietly and unsuspectingly in a rich green hollow in the plain. Dick's heart leaped up as his eyes suddenly fell on them, for he had almost discovered himself before he was aware of their presence. "Down, pup!" he whispered, as he sank and disappeared among the grass which was just long enough to cover him when lying quite flat. Crusoe crouched immediately, and his master made his observations of the drove, and the dispositions of the ground that might favour his approach, for they were not within rifle range. Having done so he crept slowly back until the undulation of the prairie hid him from view; then he sprang to his feet, and ran a considerable distance along the bottom until he gained the extreme end of a belt of low bushes, which would effectually conceal him while he approached to within a hundred yards or less of the troop. Here he made his arrangements. Throwing down his buffalo robe, he took the coil of line and cut off a piece of about three yards in length. On this he made a running noose. The longer line he also prepared with a running noose. These he threw in a coil over his arm. He also made a pair of hobbles and placed them in the breast of his coat, and then, taking up his rifle, advanced cautiously through the bushes--Crusoe following close behind him. In a few minutes he was gazing in admiration at the mustangs which were now within easy shot, and utterly ignorant of the presence of man, for Dick had taken care to approach in such a way that the wind did not carry the scent of him in their direction. And well might he admire them. The wild horse of these regions is not very large, but it is exceedingly powerful, with prominent eye, sharp nose, distended nostril, small feet, and a delicate leg. Their beautiful manes hung at great length down their arched necks, and their thick tails swept the ground. One magnificent fellow in particular attracted Dick's attention. It was of a rich dark brown colour, with black mane and tail, and seemed to be the leader of the drove. Although not the nearest to him, he resolved to crease this horse. It is said that creasing generally destroys or damages the spirit of the horse, so Dick determined to try whether his powers of close shooting would not serve him on this occasion. Going down on one knee he aimed at the creature's neck, just a hair-breadth above the spot where he had been told that hunters usually hit them, and fired. The effect upon the group was absolutely tremendous. With wild cries and snorting terror they tossed their proud heads in the air, uncertain for one moment in which direction to fly; then there was a rush as if a hurricane swept over the place, and they were gone. But the brown horse was down. Dick did not wait until the others had fled. He dropped his rifle, and with the speed of a deer, sprang towards the fallen horse, and affixed the hobbles to his legs. His aim had been true. Although scarcely half a minute elapsed between the shot and the fixing of the hobbles the animal recovered, and with a frantic exertion rose on his haunches, just as Dick had fastened the noose of the short line in his under jaw. But this was not enough. If the horse had gained his feet before the longer line was placed round his neck, he would have escaped. As the mustang made the second violent plunge that placed it on its legs, Dick flung the noose hastily; it caught on one ear, and would have fallen off, had not the horse suddenly shaken its head, and unwittingly sealed its own fate by bringing the noose round its neck. And now the struggle began. Dick knew well enough, from hearsay, the method of "breaking down" a wild horse. He knew that the Indians choke them with the noose round the neck until they fall down exhausted and covered with foam, when they creep up, fix the hobbles and the line in the lower jaw, and then loosen the lasso to let the horse breathe, and resume its plungings till it is almost subdued, when they gradually draw near and breathe into its nostrils. But the violence and strength of this animal rendered this an apparently hopeless task. We have already seen that the hobbles and noose in the lower jaw had been fixed, so that Dick had nothing now to do but to choke his captive, and tire him out, while Crusoe remained a quiet, though excited spectator of the scene. But there seemed to be no possibility of choking this horse. Either the muscles of his neck were too strong, or there was something wrong with the noose which prevented it from acting, for the furious creature dashed and bounded backwards and sidewise in its terror for nearly an hour, dragging Dick after it, till he was almost exhausted, and yet, at the end of that time, although flecked with foam and panting with terror, it seemed as strong as ever. Dick held both lines, for the short one attached to its lower jaw gave him great power over it. At last he thought of seeking assistance from his dog. "Crusoe," he cried, "lay hold, pup." The dog seized the long line in his teeth, and pulled with all his might. At the some moment Dick let go the short line and threw all his weight upon the long one. The noose tightened suddenly under this strain, and the mustang, with a gasp, fell choking to the ground. Dick had often heard of the manner in which the Mexicans "break" their horses, so he determined to abandon the method which had already almost worn him out, and adopt the other, as far as the means in his power rendered it possible. Instead, therefore, of loosening the lasso and re-commencing the struggle, he tore a branch from a neighbouring bush, cut the hobbles, strode with his legs across the fallen steed, seized the end of the short line or bridle, and then, ordering Crusoe to quit his hold, he loosened the noose which compressed the horse's neck, and had already well-nigh terminated its existence. One or two deep sobs restored it, and in a moment it leaped to its feet with Dick firmly on its back! To say that the animal leaped and kicked in its frantic efforts to throw this intolerable burden would be a tame manner of expressing what took place. Words cannot adequately describe the scene. It reared, plunged, shrieked, vaulted into the air, stood straight up on its hind-legs, and then almost as straight upon its fore ones, but its rider held on like a burr. Then the mustang raced wildly forwards a few paces, then as wildly back, and then stood still and trembled violently. But this was only a brief lull in the storm, so Dick saw that the time was now come to assert the superiority of his race. "Stay back, Crusoe, and watch my rifle, pup," he cried, and, raising his heavy switch he brought it down with a sharp cut across the horse's flank, at the same time loosening the rein which hitherto he had held tight. The wild horse uttered a passionate cry, and sprang forward like the bolt from a cross-bow. And now commenced a race, which, if not as prolonged, was at least as furious as that of the far-famed Mazeppa. Dick was a splendid rider, however,--at least as far as "sticking on" goes. He might not have come up to the precise pitch desiderated by a riding-master in regard to carriage, etcetera, but he rode that wild horse of the prairie with as much ease as he had formerly ridden his own good steed, whose bones had been picked by the wolves not long ago. The pace was tremendous, for the youth's weight was nothing to that muscular frame which bounded with cat-like agility from wave to wave of the undulating plain in ungovernable terror. In a few minutes the clump of willows where Crusoe and his rifle lay were out of sight behind, but it mattered not, for Dick had looked up at the sky and noted the position of the sun at the moment of starting. Away they went on the wings of the wind, mile after mile over the ocean-like waste--curving slightly aside now and then to avoid the bluffs that occasionally appeared on the scene for a few minutes and then swept out of sight behind them. Then they came to a little rivulet; it was a mere brook of a few feet wide, and two or three yards, perhaps, from bank to bank. Over this they flew, so easily that the spring was scarcely felt, and continued the headlong course. And now a more barren country was around them. Sandy ridges and scrubby grass appeared everywhere, reminding Dick of the place where he had been so ill. Rocks, too were scattered about, and at one place the horse dashed with clattering hoofs between a couple of rocky sand-hills which, for a few seconds, hid the prairie from view. Here the mustang suddenly shied with such violence that his rider was nearly thrown, while a rattlesnake darted from the path. Soon they emerged from this pass, and again the plains became green and verdant. Presently a distant line of trees showed that they were approaching water, and in a few minutes they were close on it. For the first time Dick felt alarm; he sought to check his steed, but no force he could exert had the smallest influence on it. Trees and bushes flew past in bewildering confusion; the river was before him; what width, he could not tell, but he was reckless now, like his charger, which he struck with the willow rod with all his force as they came up. One tremendous bound, and they were across, but Dick had to lie flat on the mustang's back as it crashed through the bushes to avoid being scraped off by the trees. Again they were on the open plain, and the wild horse began to show signs of exhaustion. Now was its rider's opportunity to assert his dominion. He plied the willow rod and urged the panting horse on, until it was white with foam and laboured a little in its gait. Then Dick gently drew the halter, and it broke into a trot; still tighter--and it walked--and in another minute stood still, trembling in every limb. Dick now quietly rubbed its neck, and spoke to it in soothing tones, then he wheeled it gently round and urged it forward. It was quite subdued and docile. In a little time they came to the river and forded it, after which they went through the belt of woodland at a walk. By the time they reached the open prairie, the mustang was recovered sufficiently to feel its spirit returning, so Dick gave it a gentle touch with the switch, and away they went on their return journey. But it amazed Dick not a little to find how long that journey was. Very different was the pace, too, from the previous mad gallop, and often would the poor horse have stopped had Dick allowed him. But this might not be. The shades of night were approaching, and the camp lay a long way ahead. At last it was reached, and Crusoe came out with great demonstrations of joy, but was sent back lest he should alarm the horse. Then Dick jumped off his back, stroked his head, put his cheek close to his mouth, and whispered softly to him, after which he fastened him to a tree and rubbed him down slightly with a bunch of grass. Having done this, he left him to graze as far as his tether would permit, and, after supping with Crusoe, lay down to rest, not a little elated with his success in this first attempt at "creasing" and "breaking" a mustang. CHAPTER SIXTEEN. DICK BECOMES A HORSE TAMER--RESUMES HIS JOURNEY--CHARLIE'S DOINGS-- MISFORTUNES WHICH LEAD TO, BUT DO NOT TERMINATE IN, THE ROCKY MOUNTAINS--A GRIZZLY BEAR. There is a proverb--or a saying--or at least somebody or book has told us, that some Irishman once said--"Be aisy, or, if ye can't be aisy, be as aisy as ye can." Now, we count that good advice, and strongly recommend it to all and sundry. Had we been at the side of Dick Varley on the night after his taming of the wild horse, we would have strongly urged that advice upon him. Whether he would have listened to it or not is quite another question--we rather think not. Reader, if you wish to know why, go and do what he did, and if you feel no curious sensations about the region of the loins after it, we will tell you why Dick Varley wouldn't have listened to that advice. Can a man feel as if his joints were wrenched out of their sockets, and listen to advice--be that advice good or bad? Can he feel as though these joints were trying to re-set and re-dislocate themselves perpetually--and listen to advice? Can he feel as if he were sitting down on red-hot iron, when he's not sitting down at all--and listen to advice? Can he--but no! why pursue the subject? Poor Dick spent that night in misery, and the greater part of the following day in sleep, to make up for it. When he got up to breakfast in the afternoon, he felt much better, but shaky. "Now, pup," he said, stretching himself, "we'll go and see our horse. _Ours_, pup; yours and mine: didn't you help to catch him, eh! pup?" Crusoe acknowledged the fact with a wag, and a playful "bow-wow-wow-oo-ow!" and followed his master to the place where the horse had been picketted. It was standing there quite quiet, but looking a little timid. Dick went boldly up to it, and patted its head and stroked its nose, for nothing is so likely to alarm either a tame or a wild horse as any appearance of timidity or hesitation on the part of those who approach them. After treating it thus for a short time, he stroked down its neck, and then its shoulders--the horse eyeing him all the time nervously. Gradually he stroked its back and limbs gently, and walked quietly round and round it once or twice, sometimes approaching and sometimes going away, but never either hesitating or doing anything abruptly. This done, he went down to the stream and filled his cap with water and carried it to the horse, which snuffed suspiciously and backed a little, so he laid the cap down, and went up and patted him again. Presently he took up the cap and carried it to his nose; the poor creature was almost choking with thirst, so that, the moment he understood what was in the cap, he buried his lips in it and sucked it up. This was a great point gained, he had accepted a benefit at the hands of his new master; he had become a debtor to man, and no doubt he felt the obligation. Dick filled the cap, and the horse emptied it again, and again, and again, until its burning thirst was slaked. Then Dick went up to his shoulder, patted him, undid the line that fastened him, and vaulted lightly on his back! We say _lightly_, for it was so, but it wasn't _easily_, as Dick could have told you! However, he was determined not to forego the training of his steed on account of what _he_ would have called a "little bit pain." At this unexpected act the horse plunged and reared a good deal, and seemed inclined to go through the performance of the day before over again, but Dick patted and stroked him into quiescence, and having done so, urged him into a gallop over the plains, causing the dog to gambol round in order that he might get accustomed to him. This tried his nerves a good deal, and no wonder, for if he took Crusoe for a wolf, which no doubt he did, he must have thought him a very giant of the pack. By degrees they broke into a furious gallop, and after breathing him well, Dick returned and tied him to the tree. Then he rubbed him down again, and gave him another drink. This time the horse smelt his new master all over, and Dick felt that he had conquered him by kindness. No doubt the tremendous run of the day before could scarcely be called kindness, but without this subduing run he never could have brought the offices of kindness to bear on so wild a steed. During all these operations Crusoe sat looking on with demure sagacity-- drinking in wisdom and taking notes. We know not whether any notes made by the canine race have ever been given to the world, but certain are we that, if the notes and observations made by Crusoe on that journey were published, they would--to say the least--surprise us! Next day Dick gave the wild horse his second lesson, and his name. He called him "Charlie," after a much loved companion in the Mustang Valley. And long and heartily did Dick Varley laugh as he told the horse his future designation in the presence of Crusoe, for it struck him as somewhat ludicrous that a mustang, which, two days ago, pawed the earth in all the pride of independent freedom, should suddenly come down so low as to carry a hunter on his back and be named Charlie! The next piece of instruction began by Crusoe being led up under Charlie's nose, and while Dick patted the dog with his right hand he patted the horse with his left. It backed a good deal at first and snorted, but Crusoe walked slowly and quietly in front of him several times, each time coming nearer, until he again stood under his nose, then the horse smelt him nervously, and gave a sigh of relief when he found that Crusoe paid no attention to him whatever. Dick then ordered the dog to lie down at Charlie's feet, and went to the camp to fetch his rifle, and buffalo robe, and pack of meat. These and all the other things belonging to him were presented for inspection, one by one, to the horse, who arched his neck, and put forward his ears, and eyed them at first, but smelt them all over, and seemed to feel more easy in his mind. Next, the buffalo robe was rubbed over his nose, then over his eyes and head, then down his neck and shoulder, and lastly was placed on his back. Then it was taken off and _flung_ on; after that it was strapped on, and the various little items of the camp were attached to it. This done, Dick took up his rifle and let him smell it; then he put his hand on Charlie's shoulder, vaulted on to his back, and rode away. Charlie's education was completed; and now our hero's journey began again in earnest, and with some prospect of its speedy termination. In this course of training through which Dick put his wild horse, he had been at much greater pains and had taken far longer time than is usually the case among the Indians, who will catch, and "break," and ride a wild horse into camp in less than _three hours_. But Dick wanted to do the thing well, which the Indians are not careful to do; besides, it must be borne in remembrance that this was his first attempt, and that his horse was one of the best and most high spirited, while those caught by the Indians, as we have said, are generally the poorest of a drove. Dick now followed the trail of his lost companions at a rapid pace, yet not so rapidly as he might have done; being averse to exhausting his good dog and his new companion. Each night he encamped under the shade of a tree or a bush when he could find one, or in the open prairie when there were none, and, picketting his horse to a short stake or pin which he carried with him for the purpose, lit his fire, had supper, and lay down to rest. In a few days Charlie became so tame and so accustomed to his master's voice that he seemed quite reconciled to his new life. There can be no doubt whatever that he had a great dislike to solitude, for on one occasion, when Dick and Crusoe went off a mile or so from the camp where Charlie was tied, and disappeared from his view, he was heard to neigh so loudly that Dick ran back thinking the wolves must have attacked him. He was all right, however, and exhibited evident tokens of satisfaction when they returned. On another occasion his fear of being left alone was more clearly demonstrated. Dick had been unable to find wood or water that day, so he was obliged to encamp upon the open plain. The want of water was not seriously felt, however, for he had prepared a bladder in which he always carried enough to give him one pannikin of hot syrup, and leave a mouthful for Crusoe and Charlie. Dried buffalo dung formed a substitute for fuel. Spreading his buffalo robe, he lit his fire, put on his pannikin to boil, and stuck up a piece of meat to roast, to the great delight of Crusoe, who sat looking on with much interest. Suddenly Charlie, who was picketted a few hundred yards off in a grassy spot, broke his halter close by the head-piece, and with a snort of delight bounded away, prancing and kicking up his heels! Dick heaved a deep sigh, for he felt sure that his horse was gone. However, in a little Charlie stopped, and raised his nose high in the air, as if to look for his old equine companions. But they were gone; no answering neigh replied to his; and he felt, probably for the first time, that he was really alone in the world. Having no power of smell, whereby he might have traced them out as the dog would have done, he looked in a bewildered and excited state all round the horizon. Then his eye fell on Dick and Crusoe sitting by their little fire. Charlie looked hard at them, and then again at the horizon; and then, coming to the conclusion, no doubt, that the matter was quite beyond his comprehension, he quietly took to feeding. Dick availed himself of the chance, and tried to catch him; but he spent an hour with Crusoe in the vain attempt, and at last they gave it up in disgust and returned to the fire, where they finished their supper and went to bed. Next morning they saw Charlie feeding close at hand; so they took breakfast, and tried to catch him again. But it was of no use; he was evidently coquetting with them, and dodged about and defied their utmost efforts, for there was only a few inches of line hanging to his head. At last it occurred to Dick that he would try the experiment of forsaking him. So he packed up his things, rolled up the buffalo robe, threw it and the rifle on his shoulder, and walked deliberately away. "Come along, Crusoe!" he cried, after walking a few paces. But Crusoe stood by the fire with his head up, and an expression on his face that said, "Hello, man! what's wrong? You've forgot Charlie! Hold on! Are you mad?" "Come here, Crusoe!" cried his master in a decided tone. Crusoe obeyed at once. Whatever mistake there might be, there was evidently none in that command; so he lowered his head and tail humbly, and trotted on with his master; but he perpetually turned his head as he went, first on this side and then on that, to look and wonder at Charlie. When they were far away on the plain, Charlie suddenly became aware that something was wrong. He trotted to the brow of a slope with his head and tail very high up indeed, and looked after them; then he looked at the fire and neighed; then he trotted quickly up to it, and, seeing that everything was gone, he began to neigh violently, and at last started off at full speed, and overtook his friends, passing within a few feet of them, and wheeling round a few yards off, stood trembling like an aspen leaf. Dick called him by his name and advanced, while Charlie met him half-way, and allowed himself to be saddled, bridled, and mounted forthwith. After this Dick had no further trouble with his wild horse. At his next camping-place, which was in the midst of a cluster of bushes close beside a creek, Dick came unexpectedly upon a little wooden cross, which marked the head of a grave. There was no inscription on it, but the Christian symbol told that it was the grave of a white man. It is impossible to describe the rush of mingled feelings that filled the soul of the young hunter as he leaned on the muzzle of his rifle and looked at this solitary resting-place of one who, doubtless like himself, had been a roving hunter. Had he been young or old when he fell?--had he a mother in the distant settlement, who watched, and longed, and waited for the son that was never more to gladden her eyes?--had he been murdered, or had he died there and been buried by his sorrowing comrades? These and a thousand questions passed rapidly through his mind as he gazed at the little cross. Suddenly he started. "Could it be the grave of Joe or Henri?" For an instant the idea sent a chill to his heart; but it passed quickly, for a second glance showed that the grave was old, and that the wooden cross had stood over it for years. Dick turned away with a saddened heart; and that night, as he pored over the pages of his Bible, his mind was filled with many thoughts about eternity and the world to come. He, too, must come to the grave one day, and quit the beautiful prairies and his loved rifle. It was a sad thought; but while he meditated he thought upon his mother. "After all," he murmured, "there must be happiness _without_ the rifle, and youth, and health, and the prairie! My mother's happy, yet she don't shoot, or ride like wildfire over the plains." Then that word which had been sent so sweetly to him through her hand came again to his mind, "My son, give me thine heart;" and as he read God's book, he met with the word, "Delight thyself in the Lord, and he shall give thee the desire of thine heart." "The _desire of thine heart_." Dick repeated this, and pondered it till he fell asleep. A misfortune soon after this befell Dick Varley, which well-nigh caused him to give way to despair. For some time past he had been approaching the eastern slopes of the Rocky Mountains--those ragged, jagged, mighty hills, which run through the whole continent from north to south in a continuous chain, and form, as it were, the backbone of America. One morning, as he threw the buffalo robe off his shoulders and sat up, he was horrified to find the whole earth covered with a mantle of snow. We say he was horrified, for this rendered it absolutely impossible any further to trace his companions either by scent or sight. For some time he sat musing bitterly on his sad fate, while his dog came and laid his head sympathisingly on his arm. "Ah! pup," he said, "I know ye'd help me if ye could! But it's all up now; there's no chance of findin' them--none." To this Crusoe replied by a low whine. He knew full well that something distressed his master, but he hadn't yet ascertained what it was. As something had to be done, Dick put the buffalo robe on his steed, and, mounting, said, as he was in the habit of doing each morning, "Lead on, pup." Crusoe put his nose to the ground and ran forward a few paces, then he returned and ran about snuffing and scraping up the snow. At last he looked up, and uttered a long melancholy howl. "Ah! I knowed it," said Dick, pushing forward. "Come on, pup, you'll have to _follow_ now. Any way we must go on." The snow that had fallen was not deep enough to offer the slightest obstruction to their advance. It was, indeed, only one of those occasional showers common to that part of the country in the late autumn, which season had now crept upon Dick almost before he was aware of it, and he fully expected that it would melt away in a few days. In this hope he kept steadily advancing, until he found himself in the midst of those rocky fastnesses which divide the waters that flow into the Atlantic from those that flow into the Pacific Ocean. Still the slight crust of snow lay on the ground, and he had no means of knowing whether he was going in the right direction or not. Game was abundant, and there was no lack of wood now, so that his night bivouac was not so cold or dreary as might have been expected. Travelling, however, had become difficult, and even dangerous, owing to the rugged nature of the ground over which he proceeded. The scenery had completely changed in its character. Dick no longer coursed over the free, open plains, but he passed through beautiful valleys filled with luxuriant trees, and hemmed in by stupendous mountains, whose rugged sides rose upward until the snow-clad peaks pierced the clouds. There was something awful in these dark solitudes, quite overwhelming to a youth of Dick's temperament; his heart began to sink lower and lower every day, and the utter impossibility of making up his mind what to do became at length agonising. To have turned and gone back the hundreds of miles over which he had travelled would have caused him some anxiety under any circumstances, but to do so while Joe and Henri were either wandering about there or in the power of the savages, was, he felt, out of the question. Yet, in which way should he go? Whatever course he took might lead him further and further away from them. In this dilemma he came to the determination of remaining where he was, at least until the snow should leave the ground. He felt great relief even when this hopeless course was decided upon, and set about making himself an encampment with some degree of cheerfulness. When he had completed this task, he took his rifle, and leaving Charlie picketted in the centre of a dell, where the long, rich grass rose high above the snow, went off to hunt. On turning a rocky point his heart suddenly bounded into his throat, for there, not thirty yards distant, stood a huge grizzly bear! Yes, there he was at last, the monster to meet which the young hunter had so often longed,--the terrible size and fierceness of which he had heard so often spoken about by the old hunters. There it stood at last; but little did Dick Varley think that the first time he should meet with his foe should be when alone in the dark recesses of the Rocky Mountains, and with none to succour him in the event of the battle going against him. Yes! there was one. The faithful Crusoe stood by his side, with his hair bristling, all his formidable teeth exposed, and his eyes glaring in their sockets. Alas! for poor Crusoe, had he gone into that combat alone. One stroke of that monster's paw would have hurled him dead upon the ground. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN. DICK'S FIRST FIGHT WITH A GRIZZLY--ADVENTURE WITH A DEER--A SURPRISE. There is no animal in all the land so terrible and dangerous as the grizzly bear. Not only is he the largest of the species in America, but he is the fiercest, the strongest, and the most tenacious of life, facts which are so well understood that few of the western hunters like to meet him single-handed, unless they happen to be first-rate shots; and the Indians deem the encounter so dangerous, that to wear a collar composed of the claws of a grizzly bear of his own killing, is counted one of the highest honours to which a young warrior can attain. The grizzly bear resembles the brown bear of Europe, but it is larger, and the hair is long, the points being of a paler shade. About the head there is a considerable mixture of grey hair, giving it the "grizzly" appearance, from which it derives its name. The claws are dirty white, arched, and very long, and so strong that when the animal strikes with its paw they cut like a chisel. These claws are not embedded in the paw, as is the case with the cat, but always project far beyond the hair, thus giving to the foot a very ungainly appearance; they are not sufficiently curved to enable the grizzly bear to climb trees, like the black and brown bears, and this inability on their part is often the only hope of the pursued hunter, who, if he succeeds in ascending a tree, is safe, for the time at least, from the bear's assaults; but "Caleb" is a patient creature, and will often wait at the foot of the tree for many hours for his victim. The average length of his body is about nine feet, but he sometimes attains to a still larger growth. Caleb is more carnivorous in his habits than other bears; but, like them, he does not object to indulge occasionally in vegetable diet, being partial to the bird-cherry, the choke-berry, and various shrubs. He has a sweet tooth, too, and revels in honey--when he can get it. The instant the grizzly bear beheld Dick Varley standing in his path, he rose on his hind-legs, and made a loud hissing noise, like a man breathing quick, but much harsher. To this Crusoe replied by a deep growl, and showing the utmost extent of his teeth, gums and all; and Dick cocked both barrels of his rifle. To say that Dick Varley felt no fear would be simply to make him out that sort of hero which does not exist in nature, namely a _perfect_ hero. He _did_ feel a sensation as if his bowels had suddenly melted into water! Let not our reader think the worse of Dick for this. There is not a man living who, having met with a huge grizzly bear for the first time in his life, in a wild, solitary place, all alone, has not experienced some such sensation. There was no cowardice in this feeling. Fear is not cowardice. Acting in a wrong and contemptible manner because of our fear, is cowardice. It is said that Wellington or Napoleon, we forget which, once stood watching the muster of the men who were to form the forlorn hope in storming a citadel. There were many brave, strong, stalwart men there, in the prime of life, and flushed with the blood of high health and courage. There were also there a few stern-browed men of riper years, who stood perfectly silent, with lips compressed, and as pale as death. "Yonder veterans," said the general, pointing to these soldiers, "are men whose courage I can depend on; they _know_ what they are going to, the others _don't_!" Yes, these young soldiers _very probably_ were brave; the others _certainly_ were. Dick Varley stood for a few seconds as if thunderstruck, while the bear stood hissing at him. Then the liquefaction of his interior ceased, and he felt a glow of fire gush through his veins. Now, Dick knew well enough that to fly from a grizzly bear was the sure and certain way of being torn to pieces, as when taken thus by surprise they almost invariably follow a retreating enemy. He also knew that if he stood where he was, perfectly still, the bear would, get uncomfortable under his stare, and would retreat from him. But he neither intended to run away himself nor to allow the bear to do so; he intended to kill it, so he raised his rifle quickly, "drew a bead," as the hunters express it, on the bear's heart, and fired. It immediately dropped on its fore-legs and rushed at him. "Back, Crusoe, out of the way, pup," shouted Dick, as his favourite was about to spring forward. The dog retired, and Dick leaped behind a tree. As the bear passed he gave it the contents of the second barrel behind the shoulder, which brought it down, but in another moment it rose and again rushed at him. Dick had no time to load, neither had he time to spring up the thick tree beside which he stood, and the rocky nature of the ground out of which it grew rendered it impossible to dodge round it. His only resource was flight; but where was he to fly to? If he ran along the open track, the bear would overtake him in a few seconds; on the right was a sheer precipice, a hundred feet high; on the left was an impenetrable thicket. In despair he thought for an instant of clubbing his rifle and meeting the monster in close conflict; but the utter hopelessness of such an effort was too apparent to be entertained for a moment. He glanced up at the overhanging cliffs. There were one or two rents and projections close above him. In the twinkling of an eye he sprang up and grasped a ledge of about an inch broad, ten or twelve feet up, to which he clung while he glanced upward. Another projection was within reach,--he gained it, and in a few seconds he stood upon a ledge about twenty feet up the cliff, where he had just room to plant his feet firmly. Without waiting to look behind he seized his powder-horn and loaded one barrel of his rifle; and well was it for him that his early training had fitted him to do this with rapidity, for the bear dashed up the precipice after him at once. The first time it missed its hold, and fell back with a savage growl, but, on the second attempt, it sunk its long claws into the fissures between the rocks, and ascended steadily till within a foot of the place where Dick stood. At this moment Crusoe's obedience gave way before a sense of Dick's danger. Uttering one of his lion-like roars, he rushed up the precipice with such violence that, although naturally unable to climb, he reached and seized the bear's flank, despite his master's stern order to "keep back," and in a moment the two rolled down the face of the rock together, just as Dick completed loading. Knowing that one stroke of the bear's paw would be certain death to his poor dog, Dick leaped from his perch, and, with one bound reached the ground at the same moment with the struggling animals, and close beside them, and, before they had ceased rolling, he placed the muzzle of his rifle into the bear's ear, and blew out its brains. Crusoe, strange to say, escaped with only one scratch on the side. It was a deep one, but not dangerous, and gave him but little pain at the time, although it caused him many a smart for some weeks after. Thus happily ended Dick's first encounter with a grizzly bear; and although, in the course of his wild life he shot many specimens of "Caleb," he used to say that "he an' pup were never so near goin' under as on the day he dropped _that_ bar!" Having refreshed himself with a long draught from a neighbouring rivulet, and washed Crusoe's wound, Dick skinned the bear on the spot. "We chawed him up that time, didn't we, pup?" said Dick, with a smile of satisfaction, as he surveyed his prize. Crusoe looked up and assented to this. "Gave us a hard tussle, though; very nigh sent us both under, didn't he, pup!" Crusoe agreed entirely, and, as if the remark reminded him of honourable scars, he licked his wound. "Ah, pup!" cried Dick, sympathetically, "does it hurt ye, eh, poor dog?" Hurt him! such a question! No, he should think not; better ask if that leap from the precipice hurt yourself. So Crusoe might have said, but he didn't; he took no notice of the remark whatever. "We'll cut him up now, pup," continued Dick. "The skin 'll make a splendid bed for you an me o' nights, and a saddle for Charlie." Dick cut out all the claws of the bear by the roots, and spent the remainder of that night in cleaning them and stringing them on a strip of leather to form a necklace. Independently of the value of these enormous claws (the largest as long as a man's middle finger) as an evidence of prowess, they formed a remarkably graceful collar, which Dick wore round his neck ever after with as much pride as if he had been a Pawnee warrior. When it was finished he held it out at arm's length, and said, "Crusoe, my pup, ain't ye proud of it? I'll tell ye what it is, pup, the next time you an' I floor Caleb, I'll put the claws round _your_ neck, an' make ye wear 'em ever arter, so I will." The dog did not seem quite to appreciate this piece of prospective good fortune. Vanity had no place in his honest breast, and, sooth to say, it had not a large place in that of his master either, as we may well grant when we consider that this first display of it was on the occasion of his hunter's soul having at last realised its brightest day-dream. Dick's dangers and triumphs seemed to accumulate on him rather thickly at this place, for on the very next day he had a narrow escape of being killed by a deer. The way of it was this. Having run short of meat, and not being particularly fond of grizzly bear steak, he shouldered his rifle and sallied forth in quest of game, accompanied by Crusoe, whose frequent glances towards his wounded side showed that, whatever may have been the case the day before, it "hurt" him now. They had not gone far when they came on the track of a deer in the snow, and followed it up till they spied a magnificent buck about three hundred yards off, standing in a level patch of ground which was everywhere surrounded either by rocks or thicket. It was a long shot; but as the nature of the ground rendered it impossible for Dick to get nearer without being seen, he fired, and wounded the buck so badly that he came up with it in a few minutes. The snow had drifted in the place where it stood bolt upright, ready for a spring, so Dick went round a little way, Crusoe following, till he was in a proper position to fire again. Just as he pulled the trigger, Crusoe gave a howl behind him, and disturbed his aim, so that he feared he had missed; but the deer fell, and he hurried towards it. On coming up, however, the buck sprang to its legs, rushed at him with its hair bristling, knocked him down in the snow, and deliberately commenced stamping him to death. Dick was stunned for a moment, and lay quite still, so the deer left off pommelling him, and stood looking at him. But the instant he moved it plunged at him again and gave him another pounding, until he was content to lie still. This was done several times, and Dick felt his strength going fast. He was surprised that Crusoe did not come to his rescue, and once he cleared his mouth and whistled to him; but as the deer gave him another pounding for this, he didn't attempt it again. He now for the first time bethought him of his knife, and quietly drew it from his belt; but the deer observed the motion, and was on him again in a moment. Dick, however, sprang up on his left elbow, and, making several desperate thrusts upward, succeeded in stabbing the animal to the heart. Rising and shaking the snow from his garments, he whistled loudly to Crusoe, and, on listening, heard him whining piteously. He hurried to the place whence the sound came, and found that the poor dog had fallen into a deep pit or crevice in the rocks, which had been concealed from view by a crust of snow, and he was now making frantic but unavailing efforts to leap out. Dick soon freed him from his prison by means of his belt, which he let down for the dog to grasp, and then returned to camp with as much deer-meat as he could carry. Dear meat it certainly was to him, for it had nearly cost him his life, and left him all black and blue for weeks after. Happily no bones were broken, so the incident only confined him a day to his encampment. Soon after this the snow fell thicker than ever, and it became evident that an unusually early winter was about to set in among the mountains. This was a terrible calamity, for, if the regular snow of winter set in, it would be impossible for him either to advance or retreat. While he was sitting on his bear-skin by the campfire one day, thinking anxiously what he should do, and feeling that he must either make the attempt to escape, or perish miserably in that secluded spot, a strange, unwonted sound struck upon his ear, and caused both him and Crusoe to spring violently to their feet and listen. Could he be dreaming? it seemed like the sound of human voices. For a moment he stood with his eyes rivetted on the ground, his lips apart and his nostrils distended, as he listened with the utmost intensity. Then he darted out and bounded round the edge of a rock which concealed an extensive but narrow valley from his view, and there, to his amazement, he beheld a band of about a hundred human beings advancing on horseback slowly through the snow! CHAPTER EIGHTEEN. A SURPRISE AND A PIECE OF GOOD NEWS--THE FUR-TRADERS--CRUSOE PROVED, AND THE PEIGANS PURSUED. Dick's first and most natural impulse, on beholding this band, was to mount his horse and fly, for his mind naturally enough recurred to the former rough treatment he had experienced at the hands of Indians. On second thoughts, however, he considered it wiser to throw himself upon the hospitality of the strangers; "for," thought he, "they can but kill me, an' if I remain here I'm like to die at any rate." So Dick mounted his wild horse, grasped his rifle in his right hand, and, followed by Crusoe, galloped full tilt down the valley to meet them. He had heard enough of the customs of savage tribes, and had also of late experienced enough, to convince him that when a man found himself in the midst of an overwhelming force, his best policy was to assume an air of confident courage. He therefore approached them at his utmost speed. The effect upon the advancing band was electrical; and little wonder, for the young hunter's appearance was very striking. His horse, from having rested a good deal of late, was full of spirit; its neck was arched, its nostrils expanded, and its mane and tail, never having been checked in their growth, flew wildly around him in voluminous curls. Dick's own hair, not having been clipped for many months, appeared scarcely less wild as they thundered down the rocky pass at what appeared a break-neck gallop. Add to this the grandeur of the scene out of which they sprang, and the gigantic dog that bounded by his side, and you will not be surprised to hear that the Indian warriors clustered together, and prepared to receive this bold horseman as if he, in his own proper person, were a complete squadron of cavalry. It is probable, also, that they fully expected the tribe of which Dick was the chief to be at his heels. As he drew near the excitement among the strangers seemed very great, and, from the peculiarity of the various cries that reached him, he knew that there were women and children in the band--a fact which, in such a place and at such a season, was so unnatural, that it surprised him very much. He noted also that, though the men in front were Indians, their dresses were those of trappers and hunters, and he almost leaped out of his saddle when he observed that "_Pale-faces_" were among them. But he had barely time to note these facts when he was up with the band. According to Indian custom, he did not check his speed till he was within four or five yards of the advance-guard, who stood in a line before him, quite still, and with their rifles lying loosely in their left palms; then he reined his steed almost on _its_ haunches. One of the Indians advanced and spoke a few words in a language which was quite unintelligible to Dick, who replied, in the little Pawnee he could muster, that he didn't understand him. "Why, you must be a trapper!" exclaimed a thick-set, middle-aged man, riding out from the group. "Can you speak English?" "Ay, that can I," cried Dick, joyfully, riding up and shaking the stranger heartily by the hand; "an' right glad am I to fall in wi' a white-skin an' a civil tongue in his head." "Good sooth, sir," replied the stranger, with a quiet smile on his kind, weather-beaten face, "I can return you the compliment, for when I saw you come thundering down the corrie with that wonderful horse and no less wonderful dog of yours, I thought you were the wild man o' the mountain himself, and had an ambush ready to back you. But, young man, do you mean to say that you live here in the mountain all alone after this fashion?" "No, that I don't. I've comed here in my travels; but, truly, this bean't my home. But, sir (for I see you are what the fur-traders call a bourgeois), how comes it that such a band as this rides i' the mountains! D'ye mean to say that _they_ live here?" Dick looked round in surprise, as he spoke, upon the crowd of mounted men and women, with children and pack-horses, that now surrounded him. "'Tis a fair question, lad. I am a principal among the fur-traders whose chief trading-post lies near the Pacific Ocean, on the west side of these mountains, and I have come with these trappers and their families, as you see, to hunt the beaver and other animals for a season in the mountains. We've never been here before; but that's a matter of little moment, for it's not the first time I've been on what may be called a discovery-trading expedition. We are somewhat entangled, however, just now, among these wild passes, and, if you can guide us out of our difficulties to the east side of the mountains, I'll thank you heartily and pay you well. But first tell me who and what you are, if it's a fair question." "My name is Dick Varley, and my home's in the Mustang Valley, near the Missouri river. As to _what_ I am--I'm nothin' yet, but I hope to desarve the name o' a hunter some day. I can guide you to the east side o' the mountains, for I've comed from there; but more than that I can't do, for I'm a stranger to the country here, like yourself. But you're on the east side o' the mountains already, if I mistake not; only these mountains are so rugged and jumbled up, that it's not easy tellin' where ye are. And what," continued Dick, "may be the name o' the bourgeois who speaks to me?" "My name is Cameron--Walter Cameron--a well-known name among the Scottish hills, although it sounds a little strange here. And now, young man, will you join my party as guide, and afterwards remain as trapper? It will pay you better, I think, than roving about alone." Dick shook his head and looked grave. "I'll guide you," said he, "as far as my knowledge 'll help me; but after that I must return to look for two comrades whom I have lost. They have been driven into the mountains by a band of Injuns. God grant they may not have bin scalped." The trader's face looked troubled, and he spoke with one of his Indians for a few minutes in earnest, hurried tones. "What were they like, young man?" Dick described them. "The same," continued the trader; "they've been seen, lad, not more than two days ago, by this Indian here, when he was out hunting alone some miles away from our camp. He came suddenly on a band of Indians, who had two prisoners with them, such as you describe. They were stout, said you?" "Yes, both of them," cried Dick, listening with intense eagerness. "Ay. They were tied to their horses, an' from what I know of these fellows I'm sure they're doomed. But I'll help you, my friend, as well as I can. They can't be far from this. I treated my Indian's story about them as a mere fabrication, for he's the most notorious liar in my company; but he seems to have spoken truth for once." "Thanks, thanks, good sir," cried Dick. "Had we not best turn back and follow them at once?" "Nay, friend, not quite so fast," replied Cameron, pointing to his people. "These must be provided for first, but I shall be ready before the sun goes down. And now, as I presume you don't bivouac in the snow, will you kindly conduct us to your encampment, if it be not far hence?" Although burning with impatience to fly to the rescue of his friends, Dick felt constrained to comply with so reasonable a request, so he led the way to his camping-place, where the band of fur-traders immediately began to pitch their tents, cut down wood, kindle fires, fill their kettles with water, cook their food, and, in fact, make themselves comfortable. The wild spot which, an hour before, had been so still, and grand, and gloomy, was now, as if by magic, transformed into a bustling village, with bright fires blazing among the rocks and bushes, and merry voices of men, women, and children ringing in the air. It seemed almost incredible, and no wonder Dick, in his bewilderment, had difficulty in believing it was not all a dream. In days long gone by the fur-trade in that country was carried on in a very different way from the manner in which it is now conducted. These wild regions, indeed, are still as lonesome and untenanted (save by wild beasts and wandering tribes of Indians), as they were then; but the Indians of the present day have become accustomed to the "pale-faced" trader, whose little wooden forts or trading-posts are dotted here and there, at wide intervals, all over the land. But in the days of which we write it was not so. The fur-traders at that time went forth in armed bands into the heart of the Indians' country, and he who went forth did so "with his life in his hand." As in the case of the soldier who went out to battle, there was great probability that he might never return. The band of which Walter Cameron was the chief had, many months before, started from one of the distant posts of Oregon on a hunting expedition into the then totally unknown lands of the Snake Indians. It consisted of about sixty men, thirty women, and as many children of various ages,--about a hundred and twenty souls in all. Many of the boys were capable of using the gun and setting a beaver-trap. The men were a most motley set. There were Canadians, half-breeds, Iroquois, and Scotchmen. Most of the women had Indian blood in their veins, and a few were pure Indians. The equipment of this strange band consisted of upwards of two hundred beaver-traps--which are similar to our rat-traps, with this difference, that they have two springs and no teeth--seventy guns, a few articles for trade with the Indians, and a large supply of powder and ball; the whole--men, women, children, goods, and chattels--being carried on the backs of nearly four hundred horses. Many of these horses, at starting, were not laden, being designed for the transport of furs that were to be taken in the course of the season. For food this adventurous party depended entirely on their guns, and during the march hunters were kept constantly out ahead. As a matter of course their living was precarious. Sometimes their kettles were overflowing; at others they scarce refrained from eating their horses. But, during the months they had already spent in the wilderness, good living had been the rule, starvation the exception. They had already collected a large quantity of beaver-skins, which at that time were among the most valuable in the market, although they are now scarcely saleable! Having shot two wild horses, seven elks, six small deer, and four big-horned sheep, the day before they met Dick Varley, the camp-kettles were full, and the people consequently happy. "Now, Master Dick Varley," said Cameron, touching the young hunter on the shoulder as he stood ready equipped by one of the campfires; "I'm at your service. The people won't need any more looking after to-night. I'll divide my men--thirty shall go after this rascally band of Peigans, for such I believe they are, and thirty shall remain to guard the camp. Are you ready?" "Ready! ay, this hour past." "Mount then, lad; the men have already been told off and are mustering down yonder where the deer gave you such a licking." Dick needed no second bidding. He vaulted on Charlie's back and along with their commander joined the men, who were thirty as fine, hardy, reckless-looking fellows as one could desire for a forlorn hope. They were chatting and laughing while they examined their guns and saddle girths. Their horses were sorry-looking animals compared with the magnificent creature that Dick bestrode, but they were hardy, nevertheless, and well fitted for their peculiar work. "My! wot a blazer," exclaimed a trapper as Dick rode up. "Where you git him?" inquired a half-breed. "I caught him," answered Dick. "Baw!" cried the first speaker. Dick took no notice of this last remark. "No, did ye though?" he asked again. "I did," answered Dick, quietly; "I creased him in the prairie--you can see the mark on his neck if you look." The men began to feel that the young hunter was perhaps a little beyond them at their own trade, and regarded him with increased respect. "Look sharp now, lads," said Cameron, impatiently, to several dilatory members of the band. "Night will be on us ere long." "Who sold ye the bear-claw collar?" inquired another man of Dick. "I didn't buy it. I killed the bear and made it." "Did ye, though, all be yer lone?" "Ay, that wasn't much, was it?" "You've begun well, yonker," said a tall middle-aged hunter, whose general appearance was not unlike that of Joe Blunt. "Jest keep clear o' the Injuns an' the grog bottle an' ye've a glor'ous life before ye." At this point the conversation was interrupted by the order being given to move on, which was obeyed in silence, and the cavalcade, descending the valley, entered one of the gorges in the mountains. For the first half mile Cameron rode a little ahead of his men, then he turned to speak to one of them and for the first time observed Crusoe trotting close beside his master's horse. "Ah! Master Dick," he exclaimed with a troubled expression, "that won't do. It would never do to take a dog on an expedition like this." "Why not?" asked Dick, "the pup's quiet and peaceable." "I doubt it not, but he will betray our presence to the Indians, which might be inconvenient." "I've travelled more than a thousand miles through prairie and forest, among game an' among Injuns, an' the pup never betrayed me yet," said Dick, with suppressed vehemence; "he has saved my life more than once though." "You seem to have perfect confidence in your dog, but as this is a serious matter you must not expect me to share in it without proof of his trustworthiness." "The pup may be useful to us; how would you have it proved?" inquired Dick. "Any way you like." "You forgot your belt at starting, I think I heered ye say." "Yes, I did," replied the trader, smiling. Dick immediately took hold of Cameron's coat, and bade Crusoe smell it, which the dog did very carefully. Then he showed him his own belt and said: "Go back to the camp and fetch it, pup." Crusoe was off in a moment, and in less than twenty minutes returned with Cameron's belt in his mouth. "Well, I'll trust him," said Cameron, patting Crusoe's head. "Forward, lads!" and away they went at a brisk trot along the bottom of a beautiful valley on each side of which the mountains towered in dark masses. Soon the moon rose and afforded light sufficient to enable them to travel all night in the track of the Indian hunter who said he had seen the Peigans, and who was constituted guide to the party. Hour after hour the horsemen pressed on without check, now galloping over a level plain, now bounding by the banks of a rivulet, or bending their heads to escape the boughs of overhanging trees, and anon toiling slowly up among the rocks of some narrow defile. At last the moon set, and the order was given to halt in a little plain where there was wood and water. The horses were picketted, a fire kindled, a mouthful of dried meat hastily eaten, the watch was set, and then each man scraped away the snow, spread some branches on the ground, and, wrapping himself in his blanket, went to sleep with his feet presented towards the fire. Two hours were allowed for rest; then they were awakened, and in a few minutes were off again by the grey light of dawn. In this way they travelled two nights and a day. At the end of that time they came suddenly on a small party of nine Indians who were seated on the ground with their snow-shoes and blankets by their sides. They had evidently been taken by surprise, but they made no attempt to escape, knowing that it was useless. Each sat still with his bow and arrows between his legs on the ground ready for instant use. As soon as Cameron spoke, however, in their own language they felt relieved and began to talk. "Where do you come from, and what are you doing here?" asked the trader. "We have come to trade with the white men," one of them replied, "and to hunt. We have come from the Missouri. Our country is far away." "Do Peigans hunt with _war-arrows_?" asked Cameron, pointing to their weapons. This question seemed to perplex them, for they saw that their interrogator knew the difference between a war and a hunting arrow--the former being barbed in order to render its extraction from the wound difficult, while the head of the latter is round and can be drawn out of game that has been killed, and used again. "And do Peigans," continued Cameron, "come from a far country to trade with the white men _with nothing_?" Again the Indians were silent, for they had not an article of trade about them. Cameron now felt convinced that this party of Peigans, into whose hands Joe Blunt and Henri had fallen, were nothing else than a war-party, and that the men now before him were a scouting-party sent out from them, probably to spy out his own camp, on the trail of which they had fallen, so he said to them-- "The Peigans are not wise men, they tell lies to the traders. I will tell you that you are a war-party, and that you are only a few warriors sent out to spy the traders' camp. You have also two _Pale-face_ prisoners in your camp. You cannot deceive me. It is useless to try. Now, conduct me to your camp. My object is not war; it is peace. I will speak with your chiefs about trading with the white men, and we will smoke the pipe of peace. Are my words good?" Despite their proverbial control of muscle, these Indians could not conceal their astonishment at hearing so much of their affairs thus laid bare, so they said that the Pale-face chief was wise, that he must be a great medicine-man, and that what he said was all true except about the white men. They had never seen any Pale-faces, and knew nothing whatever about those he spoke of. This was a terrible piece of news to poor Dick, and at first his heart fairly sank within him, but by degrees he came to be more hopeful. He concluded that if these men told lies in regard to one thing they would do it in regard to another, and perhaps they might have some strong reason for denying any knowledge of Joe and Henri. The Indians now packed up the buffalo robes on which they had slept, and the mouthful of provisions they had taken with them. "I don't believe a word of what they say about your friends," said Cameron to Dick in a low tone while the Indians were thus engaged. "Depend upon it they hope to hide them till they can send to the settlements and get a ransom, or till they get an opportunity of torturing them to death before their women and children when they get back to their own village. But we'll baulk them, my friend, do not fear." The Indians were soon ready to start, for they were lumbered with marvellously little camp equipage. In less than half an hour after their discovery they were running like deer ahead of the cavalcade in the direction of the Peigan camp. CHAPTER NINETEEN. ADVENTURES WITH THE PEIGANS--CRUSOE DOES GOOD SERVICE AS A DISCOVERER-- THE SAVAGES OUTWITTED--THE RESCUE. A run of twenty miles brought the travellers to a rugged defile in the mountains, from which they had a view of a beautiful valley of considerable extent. During the last two days a steady thaw had been rapidly melting away the snow, so that it appeared only here and there in the landscape in dazzling patches. At the distance of about half a mile from where they halted to breathe the horses before commencing the descent into this vale, several thin wreaths of smoke were seen rising above the trees. "Is that your camp?" inquired Cameron, riding up to the Indian runners who stood in a group in front, looking as fresh after their twenty miles' run as though they had only had a short walk. To this they answered in the affirmative, adding that there were about two hundred Peigans there. It might have been thought that thirty men would have hesitated to venture to attack so large a number as two hundred; but it had always been found in the experience of Indian life, that a few resolute white men well armed were more than a match for ten times their number of Indians. And this arose not so much from the superior strength or agility of the whites over their red foes, as from that bull-dog courage and utter recklessness of their lives in combat,--qualities which the crafty savage can neither imitate nor understand. The information was received with perfect indifference by most of the trappers, and with contemptuous laughter by some, for a large number of Cameron's men were wild, evil-disposed fellows, who would have as gladly taken the life of an Indian as a buffalo. Just as the word was given to resume the march, Dick Varley rode up to Cameron, and said in a somewhat anxious tone--"D'ye obsarve, sir, that one o' the Red-skins has gone off ahead o' his comrades?" "I see that, Master Dick, and it was a mistake of mine not to have stopped him, but he was gone too far before I observed it, and I thought it better to appear unconcerned. We must push on, though, and give him as short time as possible to talk with his comrades in the camp." The trappers pressed forward accordingly at a gallop, and were soon in front of the clump of trees amongst which the Peigans were encamped. Their approach had evidently spread great alarm among them, for there was a good deal of bustle and running to and fro, but by the time the trappers had dismounted and advanced in a body on foot, the savages had resumed their usual quiet dignity of appearance, and were seated calmly round their fires with their bows and arrows beside them. There were no tents, no women or children, and the general aspect of the men showed Cameron conclusively that his surmise about their being a war-party was correct. A council was immediately called; the trappers ranged themselves on one side of the council-fire and the Indians on the other. Meanwhile, our friend Crusoe had been displaying considerable irritability against the Indians, and he would certainly have attacked the whole two hundred single-handed if he had not been ordered by his master to lie still, but never in his life before had Crusoe obeyed with such a bad grace. He bristled and whined in a low tremulous tone, and looked imploringly at Dick as if for permission to fly at them. "The Pale-faced traders are glad to meet with the Peigans," began Cameron, who determined to make no allusion to his knowledge that they were a war-party, "for they wish to be friends with all the children of the woods and prairies. They wish to trade with them; to exchange blankets, and guns, and beads, and other goods which the Peigans require, for furs of animals which the Pale-faces require." "Ho! ho!" exclaimed the Indians; which expression might be translated, "Hear, hear." "But," continued Cameron, "we wish to have no war. We wish to see the hatchet buried, and to see all the Red-men and the white men smoking the pipe of peace, and hunting like brothers." The "Ho-ho-ing" at this was very emphatic. "Now," resumed the trader, "the Peigans have got two prisoners--two Pale-faces--in their camp, and, as we cannot be on good terms while our brothers are detained, we have come to ask for them, and to _present some gifts_ to the Peigans." To this there was no "Ho" at all, but a prolonged silence, which was at length interrupted by a tall chief stepping forward to address the trappers. "What the Pale-face chief has said is good," began the Indian. "His words are wise, and his heart is not double. The Red-men are willing to smoke the pipe of peace, and to hunt with all men as brothers, but they cannot do it while many of their scalps are hanging in the lodges of their enemies and fringing the robes of the warriors. The Peigans must have vengeance; then they will make peace." After a short pause he continued--"The chief is wrong when he says there are Pale-faces in the Peigan camp. The Peigans are not at war with the Pale-faces; neither have they seen any on their march. The camp is open. Let the Pale-faces look round and see that what we say is true." The chief waved his hand towards his warriors as he concluded, as if to say, "Search amongst them. There are no Pale-faces there." Cameron now spoke to Dick in a low tone. "They speak confidently," he said, "and I fear greatly that your poor comrades have either been killed or conveyed away from the camp and hidden among the mountains, in which case, even though they should not be far off, it would be next to impossible to find them, especially when such a band o' rascals is near, compelling us to keep together. But I'll try what a little tempting them with goods will do. At any rate we shan't give in without a scuffle." It now, for the first time, flashed across Dick Varley that there was something more than he imagined in Crusoe's restless anxiety, which had not in the least abated, and the idea of making use of him now occurred to his mind. "I've a notion that I'll settle this matter in a shorter time than you think," he said hurriedly, "if you'll agree to try what _threatening_ will do." The trader looked grave and undecided. "I never resort to that except as a last hope," he answered, "but I've a good deal of confidence in your prudence, what would you advise?" Dick and the trader whispered a few minutes together, while some of the men, in order to show the Indians how perfectly unconcerned they were, and how ready for _anything_, took out their pipes and began to smoke. Both parties were seated on the ground, and during this interval the Indians also held eager discussion. At length Cameron stood up, and said to his men in a quiet tone, "Be ready, lads, for instant action; when I give the word `Up,' spring to your feet and cock your guns, but _don't fire a shot till you get the word_." He then stepped forward and said-- "The Peigan warriors are double-tongued; they know that they have hid the Pale-face prisoners. We do not wish to quarrel, but if they are not delivered up at once, the Pale-faces and the Peigans will not be friends." Upon this the Indian chief again stood forward and said, "The Peigans are _not_ double-tongued. They have not seen Pale-faces till to-day. They can say no more." Without moving hand or foot, Cameron then said in a firm tone, "The first Peigan that moves shall die! Up, lads, and ready!" In the twinkling of an eye the trappers sprang to their feet, and cocking their rifles stood perfectly motionless, scowling at the savages, who were completely taken by surprise at the unusual suddenness and informality of such a declaration of war. Not a man moved, for, unlike white men, they seldom risk their lives in open fight; and as they looked at the formidable row of muzzles that waited but a word to send instant death into their midst, they felt that discretion was at that time the better part of valour. "Now," said Cameron, while Dick Varley and Crusoe stepped up beside him, "my young warrior will search for the Pale-face prisoners. If they are found, we will take them and go away. If they are not found, we will ask the Peigans to forgive us, and will give them gifts. But in the meantime, if a Peigan moves from the spot where he sits, or lifts a bow, my young men shall fire, and the Peigans know that the rifle of the Pale-face always kills." Without waiting for an answer, Dick immediately said, "Seek 'em out, pup," and Crusoe bounded away. For a few minutes he sprang hither and thither through the camp, quite regardless of the Indians, and snuffed the air several times, whining in an excited tone, as if to relieve his feelings. Then he put his nose to the ground and ran straight forward into the woods. Dick immediately bounded after him like a deer, while the trappers kept silent guard over the savages. For some time Crusoe ran straight forward. Then he came to a spot where there was a good deal of drifted snow on the ground. Here he seemed to lose the trail for a little, and ran about in all directions, whining in a most piteous tone. "Seek 'em out, pup," repeated Dick encouragingly, while his own breast heaved with excitement and expectation. In a few seconds the dog resumed its onward course, and led the way into a wild, dark spot, which was so overshadowed by trees and precipitous cliffs that the light of the sun scarce found entrance. There were many huge masses of rock scattered over the ground, which had fallen from the cliffs. Behind one of these lay a mound of dried leaves, towards which Crusoe darted and commenced scraping violently. Trembling with dread that he should find this to be the grave of his murdered companions, Dick rushed forward and hastily cleared away the leaves. The first handful thrown off revealed part of the figure of a man. Dick's heart beat audibly as he cleared the leaves from the face, and he uttered a suppressed cry on beholding the well-known features of Joe Blunt! But they were not those of a dead man. Joe's eyes met his with a scowl of anger, which instantly gave place to one of intense surprise. "Joe Blunt!" exclaimed Dick in a voice of intense amazement, while Crusoe sniffed round the heap of leaves, and whined with excitement. But Joe did not move, neither did he speak a word in reply--for the very good reasons that his mouth was tightly bound with a band of leather, his hands and feet were tied, and his whole body was secured in a rigid, immovable position by being bound to a pole of about his own length. In a moment Dick's knife was out, bands and cords were severed, and Joe Blunt was free. "Thank God," exclaimed Joe with a deep, earnest sigh, the instant his lips were loosened, "and thanks to _you_, lad," he added, endeavouring to rise, but his limbs had become so benumbed in consequence of the cords by which they had been compressed that for some time he could not move. "I'll rub ye, Joe--I'll soon rub ye into a right state," said Dick, going down on his knees. "No, no, lad, look sharp and dig up Henri. He's just beside me here." Dick immediately rose, and, pushing aside the heap of leaves, found Henri securely bound in the same fashion. But he could scarce refrain from laughing at the expression of that worthy's face. Hearing the voices of Joe and Dick Varley in conversation, though unable to see their persons, he was filled with such unbounded amazement that his eyes, when uncovered, were found to be at their largest possible stretch, and as for the eyebrows, they were gone, utterly lost among the roots of his voluminous hair. "Henri, friend, I knew I should find ye," said Dick, cutting the thongs that bound him. "Get up if ye can, we haven't much time to lose, an' mayhap we'll have to fight afore we're done wi' the Red-skins. Can ye rise?" Henri could do nothing but lie on his back and gasp, "Eh! possible! mon frere! Oh, non, non, _not_ possible. Oui! my broder Deek!" Here he attempted to rise, but, being unable, fell back again, and the whole thing came so suddenly, and made so deep an impression on his impulsive mind, that he incontinently burst into tears; then he burst into a long laugh. Suddenly he paused, and, scrambling up to a sitting posture, looked earnestly into Dick's face through his tearful eyes. "Oh, non, non!" he exclaimed, stretching himself out at full length again, and closing his eyes; "it are too goot to be true. I am dream. I vill wait till I am wake." Dick roused him out of this resolute sleep, however, somewhat roughly. Meanwhile Joe had rubbed and kicked himself into a state of animation, exclaiming that he felt as if he wos walkin' on a thousand needles and pins, and in a few minutes they were ready to accompany their overjoyed deliverer back to the Peigan camp. Crusoe testified his delight in various elephantine gambols round the persons of his old friends, who were not slow to acknowledge his services. "They haven't treated us overly well," remarked Joe Blunt, as they strode through the underwood. "Non, de rascale, vraiment, de am villains. Oui! How de have talk, too, 'bout--oh-o-oo-ooo-wah!--roastin' us alive, an' puttin' our scalp in de vigvam for de poopoose to play wid!" "Well, niver mind, Henri, we'll be quits wi' them now," said Joe, as they came in sight of the two bands, who remained in precisely the same position in which they had been left, except that one or two of the more reckless of the trappers had lit their pipes and taken to smoking, without, however, laying down their rifles or taking their eyes off the savages. A loud cheer greeted the arrival of the prisoners, and looks of considerable discomfort began to be evinced by the Indians. "Glad to see you, friends," said Cameron, as they came up. "Ve is 'appy ov de same," replied Henri, swaggering up in the joviality of his heart, and seizing the trader's hand in his own enormous fist. "Shall ve go to york an' slay dem all at vonce, or von at a time?" "We'll consider that afterwards, my lad. Meantime go you to the rear, and get a weapon of some sort." "Oui. Ah! c'est charmant," he cried, going with an immense flounder into the midst of the amused trappers, and slapping those next to him on the back. "Give me veapon, do, mes ami--gun, pistol, anyting--cannon, if you have von." Meanwhile Cameron and Joe spoke together for a few moments. "You had goods with you, and horses, I believe, when you were captured," said the former. "Ay, that we had. Yonder stand the horses under the pine-tree, along wi' the rest o' the Red-skin troop, an a hard time they've had o't, as their bones may tell without speakin'. As for the goods," he continued, glancing round the camp, "I don't know where--ah! yes, there they be in the old pack. I see all safe." Cameron now addressed the Indians. "The Peigans," he said, "have not done well. Their hearts have not been true to the Pale-faces. Even now I could take your scalps where you sit; but white men do not like war, they do not like revenge. The Peigans may go free." Considering the fewness of their numbers, this was bold language to use towards the Indians; but the boldest is generally the best policy on such occasions. Moreover, Cameron felt that, being armed with rifles, while the Indians had only bows and arrows, the trappers had a great advantage over them. The Indian who had spoken before now rose and said he was sorry there should be any cause of difference between them, and added he was sorry for a great many more things besides, but he did not say he was sorry for having told a lie. "But, before you go, you must deliver up the horses and goods belonging to these men," said Cameron pointing to Joe and Henri. This was agreed to. The horses were led out, the two little packs containing Joe's goods were strapped upon them, and then the trappers turned to depart. The Indians did not move until they had mounted; then they rose and advanced in a body to the edge of the wood, to see the Pale-faces go away. Meanwhile Joe spoke a few words to Cameron, and the men were ordered to halt, while the former dismounted and led his horse towards the band of savages. "Peigans," he said, "you know the object for which I came into this country was to make peace between you and the Pale-faces. I have often told you so when you would not listen, and when you told me that I had a double heart, and told lies. You were wrong when you said this; but I do not wonder, for you live among nations who do not fear God, and who think it right to lie. I now repeat to you what I said before. It would be good for the Red-men if they would make peace with the Pale-faces, and if they would make peace with each other. I will now convince you that I am in earnest, and have all along been speaking the truth." Hereupon Joe Blunt opened his bundle of goods, and presented fully one-half of the gaudy and brilliant contents to the astonished Indians, who seemed quite taken aback by such generous treatment. The result of this was that the two parties separated with mutual expressions of esteem and good will. The Indians then returned to the forest, and the white men galloped back to their camp among the hills. CHAPTER TWENTY. NEW PLANS--OUR TRAVELLERS JOIN THE FUR-TRADERS, AND SEE MANY STRANGE THINGS--A CURIOUS FIGHT--A NARROW ESCAPE, AND A PRISONER TAKEN. Not long after the events related in the last chapter, our four friends, Dick, and Joe, and Henri, and Crusoe, agreed to become for a time members of Walter Cameron's band of trappers. Joe joined because one of the objects which the traders had in view was similar to his own mission, namely, the promoting of peace among the various Indian tribes of the mountains and plains to the west. Joe, therefore, thought it a good opportunity of travelling with a band of men who could secure him a favourable hearing from the Indian tribes they might chance to meet with in the course of their wanderings. Besides, as the traders carried about a large supply of goods with them, he could easily replenish his own nearly exhausted pack by hunting wild animals and exchanging their skins for such articles as he might require. Dick joined because it afforded him an opportunity of seeing the wild, majestic scenery of the Rocky Mountains, and shooting the big-horned sheep which abounded there, and the grizzly "bars," as Joe named them, or "Caleb," as they were more frequently styled by Henri and the other men. Henri joined because it was agreeable to the inclination of his own rollicking, blundering, floundering, crashing disposition, and because he would have joined anything that had been joined by the other two. Crusoe's reason for joining was single, simple, easy to be expressed, easy to be understood, and commendable. _He_ joined--because Dick did. The very day after the party left the encampment where Dick had shot the grizzly bear and the deer, he had the satisfaction of bringing down a splendid specimen of the big-horned sheep. It came suddenly out from a gorge of the mountain, and stood upon the giddy edge of a tremendous precipice, at a distance of about two hundred and fifty yards. "_You_ could not hit that," said a trapper to Henri, who was rather fond of jeering him about his short-sightedness. "Non!" cried Henri, who didn't see the animal in the least; "say you dat? ve shall see;" and he let fly with a promptitude that amazed his comrades, and with a result that drew from them peals of laughter. "Why, you have missed the mountain!" "Oh, non! dat am eempossoble." It was true, nevertheless, for his ball had been arrested in its flight by the stem of a tree not twenty yards before him. While the shot was yet ringing, and before the laugh above referred to had pealed forth, Dick Varley fired, and the animal, springing wildly into the air, fell down the precipice, and was almost dashed to pieces at their feet. This Rocky Mountain or big-horned sheep was a particularly large and fine one, but, being a patriarch of the flock, was not well suited for food. It was considerably larger in size than the domestic sheep, and might be described as somewhat resembling a deer in the body and a ram in the head. Its horns were the chief point of interest to Dick; and, truly, they were astounding! Their enormous size was out of all proportion to the animal's body, and they curved backwards and downwards, and then curled up again in a sharp point. These creatures frequent the inaccessible heights of the Rocky Mountains, and are difficult to approach. They have a great fondness for salt, and pay regular visits to the numerous caverns of these mountains, which are encrusted with a saline substance. Walter Cameron now changed his intention of proceeding to the eastward, as he found the country not so full of beaver at that particular spot as he had anticipated. He therefore turned towards the west, penetrated into the interior of the mountains, and took a considerable sweep through the lovely valleys on their western slopes. The expedition which this enterprising fur-trader was conducting was one of the first that ever penetrated these wild regions in search of furs. The ground over which they travelled was quite new to them, and having no guide they just moved about at haphazard, encamping on the margin of every stream or river on which signs of the presence of beaver were discovered, and setting their traps. Beaver-skins at this time were worth 25 shillings a piece in the markets of civilised lands, and in the Snake country, through which our friends were travelling, thousands of them were to be had from the Indians for trinkets and baubles that were scarce worth a farthing. A beaver-skin could be procured from the Indians for a brass finger ring or a penny looking-glass. Horses were also so numerous that one could be procured for an axe or a knife. Let not the reader, however, hastily conclude that the traders cheated the Indians in this traffic, though the profits were so enormous. The ring or the axe was indeed a trifle to the trader, but the beaver-skin and the horse were equally trifles to the savage, who could procure as many of them as he chose with very little trouble, while the ring and the axe were in his estimation of priceless value. Besides, be it remembered, to carry that ring and that axe to the far distant haunts of the Red-man cost the trader weeks and months of constant toil, trouble, anxiety, and, alas! too frequently cost him his life! The state of trade is considerably modified in these regions at the present day. It is not more _justly_ conducted, for, in respect of the value of goods given for furs, it was justly conducted _then_, but time and circumstances have tended more to equalise the relative values of articles of trade. The snow which had prematurely fallen had passed away, and the trappers now found themselves wandering about in a country so beautiful and a season so delightful, that it would have seemed to them a perfect paradise, but for the savage tribes who hovered about them, and kept them ever on the _qui vive_. They soon passed from the immediate embrace of stupendous heights and dark gorges to a land of sloping ridges, which divided the country into a hundred luxuriant vales, composed part of woodland and part of prairie. Through these numerous rivers and streams flowed deviously, beautifying the landscape and enriching the land. There were also many lakes of all sizes, and these swarmed with fish, while in some of them were found the much-sought-after and highly esteemed beaver. Salt springs and hot springs of various temperatures abounded here, and many of the latter were so hot that meat could be boiled in them. Salt existed in all directions in abundance, and of good quality. A sulphurous spring was also discovered, bubbling out from the base of a perpendicular rock three hundred feet high, the waters of which were dark-blue, and tasted like gunpowder. In short, the land presented every variety of feature calculated to charm the imagination and delight the eye. It was a mysterious land, too, for broad rivers burst in many places from the earth, flowed on a short space, and then disappeared as if by magic into the earth from which they rose. Natural bridges spanned the torrents in many places, and some of these were so correctly formed that it was difficult to believe they had not been built by the hand of man. They often appeared opportunely to our trappers, and saved them the trouble and danger of fording rivers. Frequently the whole band would stop in silent wonder and awe as they listened to the rushing of waters under their feet, as if another world of streams, and rapids, and cataracts were flowing below the crust of earth on which they stood. Some considerable streams were likewise observed to gush from the faces of precipices, some twenty or thirty feet from their summits, while on the top no water was to be seen. Wild berries of all kinds were found in abundance, and wild vegetables, besides many nutritious roots. Among other fish splendid salmon were found in the lakes and rivers; and animal life swarmed on hill and dale. Woods and valleys, plains, and ravines, teemed with it. On every plain the red-deer grazed in herds by the banks of lake and stream; wherever there were clusters of poplar and elder-trees and saplings, the beaver was seen nibbling industriously with his sharp teeth, and committing as much havoc in the forests as if they had been armed with the woodman's axe; otters sported in the eddies; racoons sat in the tree-tops; the marten, the black fox, and the wolf, prowled in the woods in quest of prey; mountain sheep and goats browsed on the rocky ridges, and badgers peeped from their holes. Here, too, the wild horse sprang snorting and dishevelled from his mountain retreats--with flourishing mane and tail, spanking step, and questioning gaze,--and thundered away over the plains and valleys, while the rocks echoed back his shrill neigh. The huge, heavy, ungainly elk, or moose-deer, _trotted_ away from the travellers with speed equal to that of the mustang. Elks seldom gallop; their best speed is attained at the trot. Bears, too, black, and brown, and grizzly, roamed about everywhere. So numerous were all these creatures, that on one occasion the hunters of the party brought in six wild horses, three bears, four elks, and thirty red-deer; having shot them all a short distance ahead of the main body, and almost without diverging from the line of march. And this was a matter of every-day occurrence--as it had need to be, considering the number of mouths that had to be filled. The feathered tribes were not less numerous. Chief among these were eagles and vultures of uncommon size, the wild goose, wild duck, and the majestic swan. In the midst of such profusion the trappers spent a happy time of it, when not molested by the savages, but they frequently lost a horse or two in consequence of the expertness of these thievish fellows. They often wandered, however, for days at a time without seeing an Indian, and at such times they enjoyed to the full the luxuries with which a bountiful God had blessed these romantic regions. Dick Varley was almost wild with delight. It was his first excursion into the remote wilderness; he was young, healthy, strong, and romantic; and it is a question whether his or his dog's heart, or that of the noble wild horse he bestrode, bounded most with joy at the glorious sights, and sounds, and influences by which they were surrounded. It would have been perfection had it not been for the frequent annoyance and alarms caused by the Indians. Alas! alas! that we who write and read about those wondrous scenes should have to condemn our own species as the most degraded of all the works of the Creator there! Yet so it is. Man, exercising his reason and conscience in the path of love and duty which his Creator points out, is God's noblest work; but man, left to the freedom of his own fallen will, sinks morally lower than the beasts that perish. Well may every Christian wish and pray that the name and the gospel of the blessed Jesus may be sent speedily to the dark places of the earth; for you may read of, and talk about, but you _cannot conceive_ the fiendish wickedness and cruelty which causes tearless eyes to glare, and maddened hearts to burst, in the lands of the heathen. While we are on this subject let us add (and our young readers will come to know it if they are spared to see many years) that _civilisation_ alone will never improve the heart. Let history speak and it will tell you that deeds of darkest hue have been perpetrated in so-called civilised, though pagan lands. Civilisation is like the polish that beautifies inferior furniture, which water will wash off if it be but _hot enough_. Christianity resembles dye, which permeates every fibre of the fabric, and which nothing can eradicate. The success of the trappers in procuring beaver here was great. In all sorts of creeks and rivers they were found. One day they came to one of the curious rivers before mentioned, which burst suddenly out of a plain, flowed on for several miles, and then disappeared into the earth as suddenly as it had risen. Even in this strange place beaver were seen, so the traps were set, and a hundred and fifty were caught at the first lift. The manner in which the party proceeded was as follows: They marched in a mass in groups or in a long line, according to the nature of the ground over which they travelled. The hunters of the party went forward a mile or two in advance, and scattered through the woods. After them came the advance-guard, being the bravest and most stalwart of the men mounted on their best steeds, and with rifle in hand; immediately behind followed the women and children, also mounted, and the pack-horses with the goods and camp equipage. Another band of trappers formed the rear-guard to this imposing cavalcade. There was no strict regimental order kept, but the people soon came to adopt the arrangements that were most convenient for all parties, and at length fell naturally into their places in the line of march. Joe Blunt usually was the foremost and always the most successful of the hunters. He was therefore seldom seen on the march except at the hour of starting, and at night when he came back leading his horse, which always groaned under its heavy load of meat, Henri, being a hearty, jovial soul and fond of society, usually kept with the main body. As for Dick, he was everywhere at once, at least as much so as it is possible for human nature to be! His horse never wearied; it seemed to delight in going at full speed; no other horse in the troop could come near Charlie, and Dick indulged him by appearing now at the front, now at the rear, anon in the centre, and frequently _nowhere_!--having gone off with Crusoe, like a flash of lightning, after a buffalo or a deer. Dick soon proved himself to be the best hunter of the party, and it was not long before he fulfilled his promise to Crusoe, and decorated his neck with a collar of grizzly bear claws. Well, when the trappers came to a river where there were signs of beaver, they called a halt, and proceeded to select a safe and convenient spot, near wood and water, for the camp. Here the property of the band was securely piled in such a manner as to form a breastwork or slight fortification, and here Walter Cameron established head-quarters. This was always the post of danger, being exposed to sudden attack by prowling savages, who often dogged the footsteps of the party in their journeyings to see what they could steal. But Cameron was an old hand, and they found it difficult to escape his vigilant eye. From this point all the trappers were sent forth in small parties every morning in various directions, some on foot and some on horseback, according to the distances they had to go; but they never went further than twenty miles, as they had to return to camp every evening. Each trapper had ten steel traps allowed him. These he set every night, and visited every morning, sometimes oftener, when practicable, selecting a spot in the stream where many trees had been cut down by beavers for the purpose of damming up the water. In some places as many as fifty tree stumps were seen in one spot, within the compass of half an acre, all cut through at about eighteen inches from the root. We may remark, in passing, that the beaver is very much like a gigantic water-rat, with this marked difference, that its tail is very broad and flat like a paddle. The said tail is a greatly esteemed article of food, as, indeed, is the whole body at certain seasons of the year. The beaver's fore-legs are very small and short, and it uses its paws as hands to convey food to its mouth, sitting the while in an erect position on its hind-legs and tail. Its fur is a dense coat of a greyish-coloured down, concealed by long coarse hair, which lies smooth, and is of a bright chestnut colour. Its teeth and jaws are of enormous power; with them it can cut through the branch of a tree as thick as a walking-stick at one snap; and, as we have said, it gnaws through thick trees themselves. As soon as a tree falls, the beavers set to work industriously to lop off the branches, which, as well as the smaller trunks, they cut into lengths, according to their weight and thickness. These are then dragged by main force to the water side, launched, and floated to their destination. Beavers build their houses, or "lodges," under the banks of rivers and lakes, and always select those of such depth of water that there is no danger of their being frozen to the bottom; when such cannot be found, and they are compelled to build in small rivulets of insufficient depth, these clever little creatures dam up the waters until they are deep enough. The banks thrown up by them across rivulets for this purpose are of great strength, and would do credit to human engineers. Their "lodges" are built of sticks, mud, and stones, which form a compact mass; this freezes solid in winter, and defies the assaults of that house-breaker, the wolverine, an animal which is the beaver's implacable foe. From this "lodge," which is capable often of holding four old and six or eight young ones, a communication is maintained with the water below the ice, so that, should the wolverine succeed in breaking up the lodge, he finds the family "not at home," they having made good their retreat by the back-door. When man acts the part of house-breaker, however, he cunningly shuts the back-door _first_, by driving stakes through the ice, and thus stopping the passage. Then he enters, and, we almost regret to say, finds the family at home. We regret it, because the beaver is a gentle, peaceable, affectionate, hairy little creature, towards which one feels an irresistible tenderness! But, to return from this long digression. Our trappers having selected their several localities, set their traps in the water, so that when the beavers roamed about at night, they put their feet into them, and were caught and drowned; for, although they can swim and dive admirably, they cannot live altogether under water. Thus the different parties proceeded, and in the mornings the camp was a busy scene indeed, for then the whole were engaged in skinning the animals. The beavers thus taken were always skinned, stretched, dried, folded up with the hair in the inside, laid by, and the flesh used for food. But oftentimes the trappers had to go forth with the gun in one hand and their traps in the other, while they kept a sharp look out on the bushes to guard against surprise. Despite their utmost efforts a horse was occasionally stolen before their very eyes, and sometimes even an unfortunate trapper was murdered, and all his traps carried off. An event of this kind occurred soon after the party had gained the western slopes of the mountains. Three Iroquois Indians, who belonged to the band of trappers, were sent to a stream about ten miles off. Having reached their destination, they all entered the water to set their traps, foolishly neglecting the usual precaution of one remaining on the bank to protect the others. They had scarcely commenced operations, when three arrows were discharged into their backs, and a party of Snake Indians rushed upon and slew them, carrying away their traps, and horses, and scalps. This was not known for several days, when, becoming anxious about their prolonged absence, Cameron sent out a party which found their mangled bodies affording a loathsome banquet to the wolves and vultures. After this sad event the trappers were more careful to go in larger parties, and keep watch. As long as beaver were taken in abundance the camp remained stationary, but whenever the beaver began to grow scarce, the camp was raised, and the party moved on to another valley. One day Dick Varley came galloping into camp with the news that there were several bears in a valley not far distant, which he was anxious not to disturb until a number of the trappers were collected together to go out and surround them. On receiving the information Walter Cameron shook his head. "We have other things to do, young man," said he, "than go a-hunting after bears. I'm just about making up my mind to send off a party to search out the valley on the other side of the Blue Mountains yonder, and bring back word if there are beaver there, for if not, I mean to strike away direct south. Now, if you've a mind to go with them, you're welcome. I'll warrant you'll find enough in the way of bear-hunting to satisfy you; perhaps a little Indian hunting to boot, for if the Banattees get hold of your horses, you'll have a long hunt before you find them again. Will you go?" "Ay, right gladly," replied Dick. "When do we start?" "This afternoon." Dick went off at once to his own part of the camp to replenish his powder-horn and bullet pouch, and wipe out his rifle. That evening the party, under command of a Canadian named Pierre, set out for the Blue Hills. They numbered twenty men, and expected to be absent three days, for they merely went to reconnoitre, not to trap. Neither Joe nor Henri were of this party, both having been out hunting when it was organised. But Crusoe and Charlie were, of course! Pierre, although a brave and trusty man, was of a sour, angry disposition, and not a favourite with Dick, but the latter resolved to enjoy himself and disregard his sulky comrade. Being so well mounted, he not unfrequently shot far ahead of his companions, despite their warnings that he ran great risk by so doing. On one of these occasions he and Crusoe witnessed a very singular fight, which is worthy of record. Dick had felt a little wilder in spirit that morning than usual, and on coming to a pretty open plain he gave the rein to Charlie, and with an "_Adieu mes comerades_," he was out of sight in a few minutes. He rode on several miles in advance without checking speed, and then came to a wood where rapid motion was inconvenient, so he pulled up, and, dismounting, tied Charlie to a tree, while he sauntered on a short way on foot. On coming to the edge of a small plain he observed two large birds engaged in mortal conflict. Crusoe observed them too, and would soon have put an end to the fight had Dick not checked him. Creeping as close to the belligerents as possible, he found that one was a wild turkey-cock, the other a white-headed eagle! These two stood with their heads down and all their feathers bristling for a moment, then they dashed at each other, and struck fiercely with their spurs as our domestic cocks do, but neither fell, and the fight was continued for about five minutes without apparent advantage on either side. Dick now observed that, from the uncertainty of its motions, the turkey-cock was blind, a discovery which caused a throb of compunction to enter his breast for standing and looking on, so he ran forward. The eagle saw him instantly, and tried to fly away, but was unable from exhaustion. "At him, Crusoe," cried Dick, whose sympathies all lay with the other bird. Crusoe went forward at a bound, and was met by a peck between the eyes that would have turned most dogs, but Crusoe only winked, and the next moment the eagle's career was ended. Dick found that the turkey-cock was quite blind, the eagle having thrust out both its eyes, so, in mercy, he put an end to its sufferings. The fight had evidently been a long and severe one for the grass all round the spot, for about twenty yards, was beaten to the ground, and covered with the blood and feathers of the fierce combatants. Meditating on the fight which he had just witnessed, Dick returned towards the spot where he had left Charlie, when he suddenly missed Crusoe from his side. "Hallo, Crusoe! here, pup, where are you?" he cried. The only answer to this was a sharp whizzing sound, and an arrow, passing close to his ear, quivered in a tree beyond. Almost at the same moment Crusoe's angry roar was followed by a shriek from some one in fear or agony. Cocking his rifle, the young hunter sprang through the bushes towards his horse, and was just in time to save a Banattee Indian from being strangled by the dog. It had evidently scented out this fellow, and pinned him just as he was in the act of springing on the back of Charlie, for the halter was cut, and the savage lay on the ground close beside him. Dick called off the dog, and motioned to the Indian to rise, which he did so nimbly that it was quite evident he had sustained no injury beyond the laceration of his neck by Crusoe's teeth, and the surprise. He was a tall strong Indian, for the tribe to which he belonged, so Dick proceeded to secure him at once. Pointing to his rifle and to the Indian's breast, to show what he might expect if he attempted to escape, Dick ordered Crusoe to keep him steady in that position. The dog planted himself in front of the savage, who began to tremble for his scalp, and gazed up in his face with a look which, to say the least of it, was the reverse of amiable, while Dick went towards his horse for the purpose of procuring a piece of cord to tie him with. The Indian naturally turned his head to see what was going to be done, but a peculiar _gurgle_ in Crusoe's throat made him turn it round again very smartly, and he did not venture, thereafter, to move a muscle. In a few seconds Dick returned with a piece of leather and tied his hands behind his back. While this was being done the Indian glanced several times at his bow, which lay a few feet away, where it had fallen when the dog caught him, but Crusoe seemed to understand him, for he favoured him with such an additional display of teeth, and such a low-- apparently distant, almost, we might say, subterranean--_rumble_, that he resigned himself to his fate. His hands secured, a long line was attached to his neck with a running noose, so that if he ventured to run away the attempt would effect its own cure by producing strangulation. The other end of this line was given to Crusoe, who at the word of command marched him off, while Dick mounted Charlie and brought up the rear. Great was the laughter and merriment when this apparition met the eyes of the trappers; but when they heard that he had attempted to shoot Dick their ire was raised, and a court-martial was held on the spot. "Hang the reptile!" cried one. "Burn him!" shouted another. "No, no," said a third; "don't imitate them villains; don't be cruel. Let's shoot him." "Shoot 'im," cried Pierre; "Oui, dat is de ting; it too goot pour lui, mais, it shall be dooed." "Don't ye think, lads, it would be better to let the poor wretch off?" said Dick Varley; "he'd p'raps give a good account o' us to his people." There was a universal shout of contempt at this mild proposal. Unfortunately, few of the men sent on this exploring expedition were imbued with the peacemaking spirit of their chief; and most of them seemed glad to have a chance of venting their hatred of the poor Indians on this unhappy wretch, who although calm, looked sharply from one speaker to another, to gather hope, if possible, from the tones of their voices. Dick was resolved at the risk of a quarrel with Pierre to save the poor man's life, and had made up his mind to insist on having him conducted to the camp to be tried by Cameron, when one of the men suggested that they should take the savage to the top of a hill about three miles further on, and there hang him up on a tree as a warning to all his tribe. "Agreed, agreed," cried the men; "come on." Dick, too, seemed to agree to this proposal, and hastily ordered Crusoe to run on ahead with the savage, an order which the dog obeyed so vigorously that before the men had done laughing at him, he was a couple of hundred yards ahead of them. "Take care that he don't get off!" cried Dick, springing on Charlie and stretching out at a gallop. In a moment he was beside the Indian. Scraping together the little of the Indian language he knew, he stooped down, and, cutting the thongs that bound him, said--"Go, white men love the Indians." The man cast on his deliverer one glance of surprise, and the next moment bounded aside into the bushes and was gone. A loud shout from the party behind showed that this act had been observed, and Crusoe stood with the end of the line in his mouth, and an expression on his face that said, "You're absolutely incomprehensible, Dick! It's all right, I _know_; but to my feeble capacity it _seems_ wrong." "Fat for, you do dat?" shouted Pierre in a rage, as he came up with a menacing look. Dick confronted him. "The prisoner was mine. I had a right to do with him as it liked me." "True, true," cried several of the men who had begun to repent of their resolution, and were glad the savage was off. "The lad's right. Get along, Pierre." "You had no right, you vas wrong. Oui, et I have goot vill to give you one knock on de nose." Dick looked Pierre in the face, as he said this, in a manner that cowed him. "It is time," he said quietly, pointing to the sun, "to go on. Your bourgeois expects that time won't be wasted." Pierre muttered something in an angry tone, and, wheeling round his horse, dashed forward at full gallop followed by the rest of the men. The trappers encamped that night on the edge of a wide grassy plain, which offered such tempting food for the horses that Pierre resolved to forego his usual cautious plan of picketting them close to the camp, and set them loose on the plain, merely hobbling them to prevent their straying far. Dick remonstrated, but in vain. An insolent answer was all he got for his pains. He determined, however, to keep Charlie close beside him all night, and also made up his mind to keep a sharp look out on the other horses. At supper he again remonstrated. "No fraid," said Pierre, whose pipe was beginning to improve his temper. "The red reptiles no dare to come in open plain when de moon so clear." "Dun know that," said a taciturn trapper, who seldom ventured a remark of any kind; "them varmints 'ud steal the two eyes out o' you' head when they set their hearts on't." "Dat ar' umposs'ble, for de have no hearts," said a half-breed; "dey have von hole vere de heart vas be." This was received with a shout of laughter, in the midst of which an appalling yell was heard, and, as if by magic, four Indians were seen on the backs of four of the best horses, yelling like fiends, and driving all the other horses furiously before them over the plain. How they got there was a complete mystery, but the men did not wait to consider that point. Catching up their guns they sprang after them with the fury of madmen, and were quickly scattered far and wide. Dick ordered Crusoe to follow and help the men, and turned to spring on the back of Charlie, but at that moment he observed an Indian's head and shoulders rise above the grass, not fifty yards in advance from him, so without hesitation he darted forward, intending to pounce upon him. Well would it have been for Dick Varley had he at that time possessed a little more experience of the wiles and stratagems of the Banattees. The Snake nation is subdivided into several tribes, of which those inhabiting the Rocky Mountains, called the Banattees, are the most perfidious. Indeed, they are confessedly the banditti of the hills, and respect neither friend nor foe, but rob all who come in their way. Dick reached the spot where the Indian had disappeared in less than a minute, but no savage was to be seen! Thinking he had crept ahead he ran on a few yards further, and darted about hither and thither, while his eye glanced from side to side. Suddenly a shout in the camp attracted his attention, and looking back he beheld the savage on Charlie's back turning to fly. Next moment he was off and away far beyond the hope of recovery. Dick had left his rifle in the camp, otherwise the savage would have gone but a short way--as it was, Dick returned, and sitting down on a mound of grass, stared straight before him with a feeling akin to despair. Even Crusoe could not have helped him had he been there, for nothing on four legs, or on two, could keep pace with Charlie. The Banattee achieved this feat by adopting a stratagem which invariably deceives those who are ignorant of their habits and tactics. When suddenly pursued the Banattee sinks into the grass, and, serpentlike, creeps along with wonderful rapidity, not _from_ but _towards_ his enemy, taking care, however, to avoid him, so that when the pursuer reaches the spot where the pursued is supposed to be hiding, he hears him shout a yell of defiance far away in the rear. It was thus that the Banattee eluded Dick and gained the camp almost as soon as the other reached the spot where he had disappeared. One by one the trappers came back weary, raging, and despairing. In a short time they all assembled, and soon began to reproach each other. Ere long one or two had a fight, which resulted in several bloody noses and black eyes, thus adding to the misery which, one would think, had been bad enough without such additions. At last they finished their suppers and their pipes, and then lay down to sleep under the trees till morning, when they arose in a particularly silent and sulky mood, rolled up their blankets, strapped their things on their shoulders, and began to trudge slowly back to the camp on foot. CHAPTER TWENTY ONE. WOLVES ATTACK THE HORSES, AND CAMERON CIRCUMVENTS THE WOLVES--A BEAR-HUNT, IN WHICH HENRI SHINES CONSPICUOUS--JOE AND THE "NATTER-LIST"--AN ALARM--A SURPRISE AND A CAPTURE. We must now return to the camp where Walter Cameron still guarded the goods, and the men pursued their trapping avocations. Here seven of the horses had been killed in one night by wolves while grazing in a plain close to the camp, and on the night following a horse that had strayed was also torn to pieces and devoured. The prompt and daring manner in which this had been done convinced the trader that white wolves had unfortunately scented them out, and he set several traps in the hope of capturing them. White wolves are quite distinct from the ordinary wolves that prowl through woods and plains in large packs. They are much larger, weighing sometimes as much as a hundred and thirty pounds; but they are comparatively scarce, and move about alone, or in small bands of three or four. Their strength is enormous, and they are so fierce that they do not hesitate, upon occasions, to attack man himself. Their method of killing horses is very deliberate. Two wolves generally undertake the cold-blooded murder. They approach their victim with the most innocent looking and frolicsome gambols, lying down and rolling about, and frisking pleasantly until the horse becomes a little accustomed to them. Then one approaches right in front, the other in rear, still frisking playfully, until they think themselves near enough, when they make a simultaneous rush. The wolf which approaches in rear is the true assailant; the rush of the other is a mere feint; then both fasten on the poor horse's haunches and never let go till the sinews are cut and he is rolling on his side. The horse makes comparatively little struggle in this deadly assault. He seems paralysed and soon falls to rise no more. Cameron set his traps towards evening in a circle with a bait in the centre and then retired to rest. Next morning he called Joe Blunt and the two went off together. "It is strange that these rascally white wolves should be so bold when the smaller kinds are so cowardly," remarked Cameron, as they walked along. "So 'tis," replied Joe, "but I've seed them other chaps bold enough too in the prairie when they were in large packs and starvin'." "I believe the small wolves follow the big fellows and help them to eat what they kill, though they generally sit round and look on at the killing." "Hist!" exclaimed Joe, cocking his gun, "there he is, an' no mistake." There he was, undoubtedly. A wolf of the largest size with one of his feet in the trap. He was a terrible-looking object, for, besides his immense size and naturally ferocious aspect, his white hair bristled on end and was all covered with streaks and spots of blood from his bloody jaws. In his efforts to escape he had bitten the trap until he had broken his teeth and lacerated his gums, so that his appearance was hideous in the extreme. And when the two men came up he struggled with all his might to fly at them. Cameron and Joe stood looking at him in a sort of wondering admiration. "We'd better put a ball in him," suggested Joe after a time. "Mayhap the chain won't stand sich tugs long." "True, Joe; if it breaks we might get an ugly nip before we killed him." So saying Cameron fired into the wolf's head and killed it. It was found, on examination, that four wolves had been in the traps, but the rest had escaped. Two of them, however, had gnawed off their paws and left them lying in the traps. After this the big wolves did not trouble them again. The same afternoon, a bear-hunt was undertaken, which well-nigh cost one of the Iroquois his life. It happened thus:-- While Cameron and Joe were away after the white wolves, Henri came floundering into camp tossing his arms like a maniac, and shouting that "seven bars wos be down in de bush close bye!" It chanced that this was an idle day with most of the men, so they all leaped on their horses, and taking guns and knives sallied forth to give battle to the bears. Arrived at the scene of action they found the seven bears busily engaged in digging up roots, so the men separated in order to surround them, and then closed in. The place was partly open and partly covered with thick bushes into which a horseman could not penetrate. The moment the bears got wind of what was going forward they made off as fast as possible, and then commenced a scene of firing, galloping, and yelling, that defies description! Four out of the seven were shot before they gained the bushes; the other three were wounded, but made good their retreat. As their places of shelter, however, were like islands in the plain, they had no chance of escaping. The horsemen now dismounted and dashed recklessly into the bushes, where they soon discovered and killed two of the bears; the third was not found for some time. At last an Iroquois came upon it so suddenly that he had not time to point his gun before the bear sprang upon him and struck him to the earth, where it held him down. Instantly the place was surrounded by eager men, but the bushes were so thick and the fallen trees among which the bear stood were so numerous, that they could not use their guns without running the risk of shooting their companion. Most of them drew their knives and seemed about to rush on the bear with these, but the monster's aspect, as it glared round, was so terrible that they held back for a moment in hesitation. At this moment Henri, who had been at some distance engaged in the killing of one of the other bears, came rushing forward after his own peculiar manner. "Ah! fat is eet--hay? de bar no go under yit?" Just then his eye fell on the wounded Iroquois with the bear above him, and he uttered a yell so intense in tone that the bear himself seemed to feel that something decisive was about to be done at last. Henri did not pause, but with a flying dash he sprang like a spread eagle, arms and legs extended, right into the bear's bosom. At the same moment he sent his long hunting-knife down into its heart. But Bruin is proverbially hard to kill, and although mortally wounded, he had strength enough to open his jaws and close them on Henri's neck. There was a cry of horror, and at the same moment a volley was fired at the bear's head, for the trappers felt that it was better to risk shooting their comrades than see them killed before their eyes. Fortunately the bullets took effect, and tumbled him over at once without doing damage to either of the men, although several of the balls just grazed Henri's temple and carried off his cap. Although uninjured by the shot, the poor Iroquois had not escaped scatheless from the paw of the bear. His scalp was torn almost off, and hung down over his eyes, while blood streamed down his face. He was conveyed by his comrades to the camp, where he lay two days in a state of insensibility, at the end of which time he revived and recovered daily. Afterwards when the camp moved he had to be carried, but in the course of two months he was as well as ever, and quite as fond of bear-hunting! Among other trophies of this hunt there were two deer, and a buffalo, which last had probably strayed from the herd. Four or five Iroquois were round this animal whetting their knives for the purpose of cutting it up when Henri passed, so he turned aside to watch them perform the operation, quite regardless of the fact that his neck and face were covered with blood which flowed from one or two small punctures made by the bear. The Indians began by taking off the skin, which certainly did not occupy them more than five minutes. Then they cut up the meat and made a pack of it, and cut out the tongue, which is somewhat troublesome, as that member requires to be cut out from under the jaw of the animal, and not through the natural opening of the mouth. One of the fore-legs was cut off at the knee joint, and this was used as a hammer with which to break the skull for the purpose of taking out the brains, these being used in the process of dressing and softening the animal's skin. An axe would have been of advantage to break the skull, but in the hurry of rushing to the attack the Indians had forgotten their axes, so they adopted the common fashion of using the buffalo's hoof as a hammer, the shank being the handle. The whole operation of flaying, cutting up, and packing the meat, did not occupy more than twenty minutes. Before leaving the ground these expert butchers treated themselves to a little of the marrow and warm liver in a raw state! Cameron and Joe walked up to the group while they were indulging in this little feast. "Well, I've often seen that eaten, but I never could do it myself," remarked the former. "No!" cried Joe in surprise; "now that's oncommon cur'us. I've _lived_ on raw liver an' marrow-bones for two or three days at a time, when we wos chased by the Camanchee Injuns and didn't dare to make a fire, an' it's ra'al good it is. Won't ye try it _now_?" Cameron shook his head. "No, thankee; I'll not refuse when I can't help it, but until then I'll remain in happy ignorance of how good it is." "Well, it _is_ strange how some folk can't abide anything in the meat way they han't bin used to. D'ye know I've actually knowd men from the cities as wouldn't eat a bit o' horseflesh for love or money. Would ye believe it?" "I can well believe that, Joe, for I have met with such persons myself; in fact, they are rather numerous. What are you chuckling at, Joe?" "Chucklin'? if ye mean be that `larfin' in to myself' it's because I'm thinkin' o' a chap as once comed out to the prairies." "Let us walk back to the camp, Joe, and you can tell me about him as we go along." "I think," continued Joe, "he comed from Washington, but I never could make out right whether he wos a government man or not. Anyhow, he wos a pheelosopher--a natter-list I think he call his-self." "A naturalist," suggested Cameron. "Ay, that wos more like it. Well, he wos about six feet two in his moccasins, an' as thin as a ramrod, an' as blind as a bat--leastways he had weak eyes an wore green spectacles. He had on a grey shootin' coat and trousers and vest and cap, with rid whiskers an' a long nose as rid at the point as the whiskers wos. "Well, this gentleman engaged me an' another hunter to go a trip with him into the prairies, so off we sot one fine day on three hosses with our blankets at our backs--we wos to depend on the rifle for victuals. At first I thought the Natter-list one o' the cruellest beggars as iver went on two long legs, for he used to go about everywhere pokin' pins through all the beetles, and flies, an' creepin' things he could sot eyes on, an' stuck them in a box; but he told me he comed here a-purpose to git as many o' them as he could; so says I, `If that's it, I'll fill yer box in no time.' "`Will ye?' says he, quite pleased like. "`I will,' says I, an' galloped off to a place as was filled wi' all sorts o' crawlin' things. So I sets to work, and whenever I seed a thing crawlin' I sot my fut on it and crushed it, and soon filled my breast pocket. I coched a lot o' butterflies too, an' stuffed them into my shot pouch, and went back in an hour or two an' showed him the lot. He put on his green spectacles and looked at them as if he'd seen a rattlesnake. "`My good man,' says he, `you've crushed them all to pieces!' "`They'll taste as good for all that,' says I, for somehow I'd taken't in me head that he'd heard o' the way the Injuns make soup o' the grasshoppers, an was wantin' to try his hand at a new dish! "He laughed when I said this, an' told me he wos collectin' them to take home to be _looked_ at. But that's not wot I wos goin' to tell ye about him," continued Joe; "I wos goin' to tell ye how we made him eat horseflesh. He carried a revolver, too, this Natter-list did, to load wi' shot as small as dust a-most, and shoot little birds with. I've seed him miss birds only three feet away with it. An' one day he drew it all of a suddent and let fly at a big bum-bee that wos passin', yellin' out that it wos the finest wot he had iver seed. He missed the bee, of coorse, cause it was a flyin' shot, he said, but he sent the whole charge right into Martin's back--Martin was my comrade's name. By good luck Martin had on a thick leather coat, so the shot niver got the length o' his skin. "One day I noticed that the Natter-list had stuffed small corks into the muzzles of all the six barrels of his revolver. I wondered what they wos for, but he wos al'ays doin' sich queer _things_ that I soon forgot it. `May be,' thought I, jist before it went out o' my mind,--`may be he thinks that 'll stop the pistol from goin' off by accident,' for ye must know he'd let it off three times the first day by accident, and well-nigh blowed off his leg the last time, only the shot lodged in the back o' a big toad he'd jist stuffed into his breeches' pocket. Well, soon after, we shot a buffalo bull, so when it fell, off he jumps from his horse an runs up to it. So did I, for I wasn't sure the beast was dead, an' I had jist got up when it rose an' rushed at the Natter-list. "`Out o' the way,' I yelled, for my rifle was empty; but he didn't move, so I rushed forward an' drew the pistol out o' his belt and let fly in the bull's ribs jist as it ran the poor man down. Martin came up that moment an' put a ball through its heart, and then we went to pick up the Natter-list. He came to in a little, an' the first thing he said was, `Where's my revolver?' When I gave it to him he looked at it, an' said with a solemcholy shake o' the head, `There's a whole barrel-full lost!' It turned out that he had taken to usin' the barrels for bottles to hold things in, but he forgot to draw the charges, so sure enough I had fired a charge o' bum-bees, an' beetles, an' small shot into the buffalo! "But that's not what I wos goin' to tell ye yet. We comed to a part o' the plains where we wos well-nigh starved for want o' game, an' the Natter-list got so thin that ye could a-most see through him, so I offered to kill my horse, an' cut it up for meat; but you niver saw sich a face he made. `I'd rather die first,' says he, `than eat it;' so we didn't kill it. But that very day Martin got a shot at a wild horse and killed it. The Natter-list was down in the bed o' a creek at the time gropin' for creepers, an' he didn't see it. "`He'll niver eat it,' says Martin. "`That's true,' says I. "`Let's tell him it's a buffalo,' says he. "`That would be tellin' a lie,' says I. "So we stood lookin' at each other, not knowin' what to do. "`I'll tell ye what,' cries Martin, `we'll cut it up, and take the meat into camp and cook it without _sayin' a word_.' "`Done,' says I, `that's it;' for ye must know the poor creature wos no judge o' meat. He couldn't tell one kind from another, an' he niver axed questions. In fact he niver a-most spoke to us all the trip. Well, we cut up the horse and carried the flesh and marrow-bones into camp, takin' care to leave the hoofs and skin behind, and sot to work and roasted steaks and marrow-bones. "When the Natter-list came back ye should ha' seen the joyful face he put on when he smelt the grub, for he was all but starved out, poor critter. "`What have we got here?' cried he, rubbin' his hands and sittin' down. "`Steaks an' marrow-bones,' says Martin. "`Capital!' says he. `I'm _so_ hungry.' "So he fell to work like a wolf. I niver seed a man pitch into anything like as that Natter-list did into that horseflesh. "`These are first-rate marrow-bones,' says he, squintin' with one eye down the shin bone o' the hind-leg to see if it was quite empty. "`Yes, sir, they is,' answered Martin, as grave as a judge. "`Take another, sir,' says I. "`No, thankee,' says he with a sigh, for he didn't like to leave off. "Well, we lived for a week on horseflesh, an' first-rate livin' it wos; then we fell in with buffalo, an' niver ran short again till we got to the settlements, when he paid us our money an' shook hands, sayin' we'd had a nice trip an' he wished us well. Jist as we wos partin' I said, says I, `D'ye know what it wos we lived on for a week arter we wos well-nigh starved in the prairies?' "`What,' says he, `when we got yon capital marrow-bones?' "`The same,' says I; `yon was _horseflesh_,' says I, `an' I think ye'll sur'ly niver say again that it isn't first-rate livin'.' "`Yer jokin',' says he, turnin' pale. "`It's true, sir, as true as yer standin' there.' "Well, would ye believe it; he turned--that Natter-list did--as sick as a dog on the spot wot he wos standin' on, an' didn't taste meat again for three days!" Shortly after the conclusion of Joe's story they reached the camp, and here they found the women and children flying about in a state of terror, and the few men who had been left in charge arming themselves in the greatest haste. "Hallo! something wrong here," cried Cameron hastening forward followed by Joe. "What has happened, eh?" "Injuns comin', monsieur, look dere," answered a trapper, pointing down the valley. "Arm and mount at once, and come to the front of the camp," cried Cameron in a tone of voice that silenced every other, and turned confusion into order. The cause of all this outcry was a cloud of dust seen far down the valley, which was raised by a band of mounted Indians who approached the camp at full speed. Their numbers could not be made out, but they were a sufficiently formidable band to cause much anxiety to Cameron, whose men, at the time, were scattered to the various trapping grounds, and only ten chanced to be within call of the camp. However, with these ten he determined to show a bold front to the savages, whether they came as friends or foes. He therefore ordered the women and children within the citadel formed of the goods and packs of furs piled upon each other, which point of retreat was to be defended to the last extremity. Then galloping to the front he collected his men and swept down the valley at full speed. In a few minutes they were near enough to observe that the enemy only numbered four Indians, who were driving a band of about a hundred horses before them, and so busy were they in keeping the troop together that Cameron and his men were close upon them before they were observed. It was too late to escape. Joe Blunt and Henri had already swept round and cut off their retreat. In this extremity the Indians slipped from the backs of their steeds and darted into the bushes, where they were safe from pursuit, at least on horseback, while the trappers got behind the horses and drove them towards the camp. At this moment one of the horses sprang ahead of the others and made for the mountain, with its mane and tail flying wildly in the breeze. "Marrow-bones and buttons!" shouted one of the men, "there goes Dick Varley's horse." "So it am!" cried Henri, and dashed off in pursuit, followed by Joe and two others. "Why, these are our own horses," said Cameron in surprise, as they drove them into a corner of the hills from which they could not escape. This was true, but it was only half the truth, for, besides their own horses, they had secured upwards of seventy Indian steeds, a most acceptable addition to their stud, which, owing to casualties and wolves, had been diminishing too much of late. The fact was, that the Indians who had captured the horses belonging to Pierre and his party were a small band of robbers who had travelled, as was afterwards learned, a considerable distance from the south, stealing horses from various tribes as they went along. As we have seen, in an evil hour they fell in with Pierre's party and carried off their steeds, which they drove to a pass leading from one valley to the other. Here they united them with the main band of their ill-gotten gains, and while the greater number of the robbers descended further into the plains in search of more booty, four of them were sent into the mountains with the horses already procured. These four, utterly ignorant of the presence of white men in the valley, drove their charge, as we have seen, almost into the camp. Cameron immediately organised a party to go out in search of Pierre and his companions, about whose fate he became intensely anxious, and in the course of half an hour as many men as he could spare with safety were despatched in the direction of the Blue Mountains. CHAPTER TWENTY TWO. CHARLIE'S ADVENTURES WITH SAVAGES AND BEARS--TRAPPING LIFE. It is one thing to chase a horse; it is another thing to catch it. Little consideration and less sagacity is required to convince us of the truth of that fact. The reader may perhaps venture to think this rather a trifling fact. We are not so sure of that. In this world of fancies, to have _any_ fact incontestably proved and established is a comfort, and whatever is a source of comfort to mankind is worthy of notice. Surely our reader won't deny that! Perhaps he will, so we can only console ourself with the remark that there are people in this world who would deny _anything_--who would deny that there was a nose on their face if you said there was! Well, to return to the point, which was the chase of a horse in the abstract; from which we will rapidly diverge to the chase of Dick Varley's horse in particular. This noble charger, having been ridden by savages until all his old fire, and blood, and metal were worked up to a red heat, no sooner discovered that he was pursued than he gave a snort of defiance, which he accompanied with a frantic shake of his mane, and a fling of contempt in addition to a magnificent wave of his tail; then he thundered up the valley at a pace which would speedily have left Joe Blunt and Henri out of sight behind if--ay! that's the word, _if_! what a word that _if_ is! what a world of if's we live in! There never was anything that wouldn't have been something else _if_ something hadn't intervened to prevent it! Yes, we repeat, Charlie would have left his two friends miles and miles behind in what is called "no time," _if_ he had not run straight into a gorge which was surrounded by inaccessible precipices, and out of which there was no exit except by the entrance, which was immediately barred by Henri, while Joe advanced to catch the runaway. For two hours at least did Joe Blunt essay to catch Charlie, and during that space of time he utterly failed. The horse seemed to have made up his mind for what is vulgarly termed "a lark." "It won't do, Henri," said Joe, advancing towards his companion, and wiping his forehead with the cuff of his leathern coat. "I can't catch him. The wind's a-most blowed out o' me body." "Dat am vexatiable," replied Henri, in a tone of commiseration. "S'pose I wos make try?" "In that case I s'pose ye would fail. But go ahead an' do what ye can. I'll hold yer horse." So Henri began by a rush and a flourish of legs and arms that nearly frightened the horse out his wits. For half an hour he went through all the complications of running and twisting of which he was capable, without success, when Joe Blunt suddenly uttered a stentorian yell that rooted him to the spot on which he stood. To account for this, we must explain that in the heights of the Rocky Mountains vast accumulations of snow take place among the crevices and gorges during winter. Such of these masses as form on steep slopes are loosened by occasional thaws, and are precipitated in the form of avalanches into the valleys below, carrying trees and stones along with them in their thundering descent. In the gloomy gorge where Dick's horse had taken refuge, the precipices were so steep that many avalanches had occurred, as was evident from the mounds of heaped snow that lay at the foot of most of them. Neither stones nor trees were carried down here, however, for the cliffs were nearly perpendicular, and the snow slipping over their edges had fallen on the grass below. Such an avalanche was now about to take place, and it was this that caused Joe to utter his cry of alarm and warning. Henri and the horse were directly under the cliff over which it was about to be hurled, the latter close to the wall of rock, the other at some distance away from it. Joe cried again, "Back, Henri! back _vite_!" when the mass _flowed over_ and fell with a roar like prolonged thunder. Henri sprang back in time to save his life, though he was knocked down and almost stunned, but poor Charlie was completely buried under the avalanche, which now presented the appearance of a _hill_ of snow. The instant Henri recovered sufficiently, Joe and he mounted their horses and galloped back to the camp as fast as possible. Meanwhile, another spectator stepped forward upon the scene they had left, and surveyed the snow hill with a critical eye. This was no less than a grizzly bear which had, unobserved, been a spectator, and which immediately proceeded to dig into the mound with the purpose, no doubt, of disentombing the carcase of the horse for purposes of his own. While he was thus actively engaged, the two hunters reached the camp where they found that Pierre and his party had just arrived. The men sent out in search of them had scarcely advanced a mile when they found them trudging back to the camp in a very disconsolate manner. But all their sorrows were put to flight on hearing of the curious way in which the horses had been returned to them with interest. Scarcely had Dick Varley, however, congratulated himself on the recovery of his gallant steed, when he was thrown into despair by the sudden arrival of Joe with the tidings of the catastrophe we have just related. Of course there was a general rush to the rescue. Only a few men were ordered to remain to guard the camp, while the remainder mounted their horses and galloped towards the gorge where Charlie had been entombed. On arriving, they found that Bruin had worked with such laudable zeal that nothing but the tip of his tail was seen sticking out of the hole which he had dug. The hunters could not refrain from laughing as they sprang to the ground, and standing in a semicircle in front of the hole, prepared to fire. But Crusoe resolved to have the honour of leading the assault. He seized fast hold of Bruin's flank, and caused his teeth to meet therein. Caleb backed out at once and turned round, but before he could recover from his surprise a dozen bullets pierced his heart and brain. "Now, lads," cried Cameron, setting to work with a large wooden shovel, "work like niggers. If there's any life left in the horse it'll soon be smothered out unless we set him free." The men needed no urging, however. They worked as if their lives depended on their exertions. Dick Varley, in particular, laboured like a young Hercules, and Henri hurled masses of snow about in a most surprising manner. Crusoe, too, entered heartily into the spirit of the work, and, scraping with his forepaws, sent such a continuous shower of snow behind him that he was speedily lost to view in a hole of his own excavating. In the course of half an hour a cavern was dug in the mound almost close up to the cliff, and the men were beginning to look about for the crushed body of Dick's steed, when an exclamation from Henri attracted their attention. "Ha! mes ami, here am be one hole." The truth of this could not be doubted, for the eccentric trapper had thrust his shovel through the wall of snow into what appeared to be a cavern beyond, and immediately followed up his remark by thrusting in his head and shoulders. He drew them out in a few seconds, with a look of intense amazement. "Voila! Joe Blunt. Look in dere, and you shall see fat you will behold." "Why, it's the horse, I do b'lieve!" cried Joe. "Go ahead, lads." So saying, he resumed his shovelling vigorously, and in a few minutes the hole was opened up sufficiently to enable a man to enter. Dick sprang in, and there stood Charlie close beside the cliff, looking as sedate and unconcerned as if all that had been going on had no reference to him whatever. The cause of his safety was simple enough. The precipice beside which he stood when the avalanche occurred overhung its base at that point considerably, so that when the snow descended, a clear space of several feet wide was left all along its base. Here Charlie had remained in perfect comfort until his friends dug him out. Congratulating themselves not a little on having saved the charger and bagged a grizzly bear, the trappers remounted, and returned to the camp. For some time after this nothing worthy of particular note occurred. The trapping operations went on prosperously and without interruption from the Indians, who seemed to have left the locality altogether. During this period, Dick, and Crusoe, and Charlie had many excursions together, and the silver rifle full many a time sent death to the heart of bear, and elk, and buffalo, while, indirectly, it sent joy to the heart of man, woman, and child in camp, in the shape of juicy steaks and marrow-bones. Joe and Henri devoted themselves almost exclusively to trapping beaver, in which pursuit they were so successful that they speedily became wealthy men, according to backwood notions of wealth. With the beaver that they caught, they purchased from Cameron's store powder and shot enough for a long hunting expedition and a couple of spare horses to carry their packs. They also purchased a large assortment of such goods and trinkets as would prove acceptable to Indians, and supplied themselves with new blankets, and a few pairs of strong moccasins, of which they stood much in need. Thus they went on from day to day, until symptoms of the approach of winter warned them that it was time to return to the Mustang Valley. About this time an event occurred which totally changed the aspect of affairs in these remote valleys of the Rocky Mountains, and precipitated the departure of our four friends, Dick, Joe, Henri, and Crusoe. This was the sudden arrival of a whole tribe of Indians. As their advent was somewhat remarkable, we shall devote to it the commencement of a new chapter. CHAPTER TWENTY THREE. SAVAGE SPORTS--LIVING CATARACTS--AN ALARM--INDIANS AND THEIR DOINGS--THE STAMPEDO--CHARLIE AGAIN. One day Dick Varley was out on a solitary hunting expedition near the rocky gorge, where his horse had received temporary burial a week or two before. Crusoe was with him, of course. Dick had tied Charlie to a tree, and was sunning himself on the edge of a cliff, from the top of which he had a fine view of the valley and the rugged precipices that hemmed it in. Just in front of the spot on which he sat, the precipices on the opposite side of the gorge rose to a considerable height above him, so that their ragged outlines were drawn sharply across the clear sky. Dick was gazing in dreamy silence at the jutting rocks and dark caverns, and speculating on the probable number of bears that dwelt there, when a slight degree of restlessness on the part of Crusoe attracted him. "What is't, pup?" said he, laying his hand on the dog's broad back. Crusoe looked the answer, "I don't know, Dick, but it's _something_, you may depend upon it, else I would not have disturbed you." Dick lifted his rifle from the ground, and laid it in the hollow of his left arm. "There must be something in the wind," remarked Dick. As wind is known to be composed of two distinct gases, Crusoe felt perfectly safe in replying "Yes," with his tail. Immediately after he added, "Hallo! did you hear that?"--with his ears. Dick did hear it, and sprang hastily to his feet, as a sound like, yet unlike, distant thunder came faintly down upon the breeze. In a few seconds the sound increased to a roar in which was mingled the wild cries of men. Neither Dick nor Crusoe moved, for the sounds came from behind the heights in front of them, and they felt that the only way to solve the question, "What can the sounds be?" was to wait till the sounds should solve it themselves. Suddenly the muffled sounds gave place to the distinct bellowing of cattle, the clatter of innumerable hoofs, and the yells of savage men, while at the same moment the edges of the opposite cliffs became alive with Indians and buffaloes rushing about in frantic haste--the former almost mad with savage excitement, the latter with blind rage and terror. On reaching the edge of the dizzy precipice, the buffaloes turned abruptly and tossed their ponderous heads as they coursed along the edge. Yet a few of them, unable to check their headlong course, fell over, and were dashed to pieces on the rocks below. Such falls, Dick observed, were hailed with shouts of delight by the Indians, whose sole object evidently was to enjoy the sport of driving the terrified animals over the precipice. The wily savages had chosen their ground well for this purpose. The cliff immediately opposite to Dick Varley was a huge projection from the precipice that hemmed in the gorge, or species of cape or promontory several hundred yards wide at the base, and narrowing abruptly to a point. The sides of this wedge-shaped projection were quite perpendicular; indeed, in some places the top overhung the base, and they were at least three hundred feet high. Broken and jagged rocks, of that peculiarly chaotic character which probably suggested the name to this part of the great American chain, projected from, and were scattered all round, the cliffs. Over these the Indians, whose numbers increased every moment, strove to drive the luckless herd of buffaloes that had chanced to fall in their way. The task was easy. The unsuspecting animals, of which there were hundreds, rushed in a dense mass upon the cape referred to. On they came with irresistible impetuosity, bellowing furiously, while their hoofs thundered on the turf with the muffled continuous roar of a distant, but mighty cataract--the Indians, meanwhile, urging them on by hideous yell and frantic gesture. The advance-guard came bounding madly to the edge of the precipice. Here they stopped short, and gazed affrighted at the gulf below. It was but for a moment. The irresistible momentum of the flying mass behind pushed them over. Down they came, absolutely a living cataract, upon the rocks below. Some struck on the projecting rocks in the descent, and their bodies were dashed almost in pieces, while their blood spurted out in showers. Others leaped from rock to rock with awful bounds, until, losing their foot-hold, they fell headlong, while others descended sheer down into the sweltering mass that lay shattered at the base of the cliffs. Dick Varley and his dog remained rooted to the rock, as they gazed at the sickening sight, as if petrified. Scarce fifty of that noble herd of buffaloes escaped the awful leap, but they escaped only to fall before the arrows of their ruthless pursuers. Dick had often heard of this tendency of the Indians, where buffaloes were very numerous, to drive them over precipices in mere wanton sport and cruelty, but he had never seen it until now, and the sight filled his soul with horror. It was not until the din and tumult of the perishing herd and the shrill yells of the Indians had almost died away that he turned to quit the spot. But the instant he did so another shout was raised. The savages had observed him, and were seen galloping along the cliffs towards the head of the gorge, with the obvious intention of gaining the other side and capturing him. Dick sprang on Charlie's back, and the next instant was flying down the valley towards the camp. He did not, however, fear being overtaken, for the gorge could not be crossed, and the way round the head of it was long and rugged; but he was anxious to alarm the camp as quickly as possible, so that they might have time to call in the more distant trappers and make preparations for defence. "Where away now, youngster," inquired Cameron, emerging from his tent as Dick, taking the brook that flowed in front at a flying leap, came crashing through the bushes into the midst of the fur-packs at full speed. "Injuns!" ejaculated Dick, reining up, and vaulting out of the saddle. "Hundreds of 'em. Fiends incarnate every one!" "Are they near?" "Yes; an hour 'll bring them down on us. Are Joe and Henri far from camp to-day?" "At Ten-mile Creek," replied Cameron with an expression of bitterness, as he caught up his gun and shouted to several men, who hurried up on seeing our hero's burst into camp. "Ten-mile Creek!" muttered Dick. "I'll bring 'em in, though," he continued, glancing at several of the camp horses that grazed close at hand. In another moment he was on Charlie's back, the line of one of the best horses was in his hand, and almost before Cameron knew what he was about he was flying down the valley like the wind. Charlie often stretched out at full speed to please his young master, but seldom had he been urged forward as he was upon this occasion. The led horse being light and wild, kept well up, and, in a marvellously short space of time, they were at Ten-mile Creek. "Hallo, Dick, wot's to do?" inquired Joe Blunt, who was up to his knees in the water, setting a trap at the moment his friend galloped up. "Injuns! Where's Henri?" demanded Dick. "At the head o' the dam there." Dick was off in a moment, and almost instantly returned with Henri galloping beside him. No word was spoken. In time of action these men did not waste words. During Dick's momentary absence, Joe Blunt had caught up his rifle and examined the priming, so that when Dick pulled up beside him, he merely laid his hand on the saddle, saying, "All right!" as he vaulted on Charlie's back behind his young companion. In another moment they were away at full speed. The mustang seemed to feel that unwonted exertions were required of him. Double weighted though he was, he kept well up with the other horse, and in less than two hours after Dick's leaving the camp the three hunters came in sight of it. Meanwhile Cameron had collected nearly all his forces, and put his camp in a state of defence before the Indians arrived, which they did suddenly, and, as usual, at full gallop, to the amount of at least two hundred. They did not at first seem disposed to hold friendly intercourse with the trappers, but assembled in a semicircle round the camp in a menacing attitude, while one of their chiefs stepped forward to hold a palaver. For some time the conversation on both sides was polite enough, but by degrees the Indian chief assumed an imperious tone, and demanded gifts from the trappers, taking care to enforce his request by hinting that thousands of his countrymen were not far distant. Cameron stoutly refused, and the palaver threatened to come to an abrupt and unpleasant termination just at the time that Dick and his friends appeared on the scene of action. The brook was cleared at a bound; the three hunters leaped from their steeds and sprang to the front with a degree of energy that had a visible effect on the savages, and Cameron, seizing the moment, proposed that the two parties should smoke a pipe and hold a council. The Indians agreed, and in a few minutes they were engaged in animated and friendly intercourse. The speeches were long, and the compliments paid on either side were inflated, and, we fear, undeserved; but the result of the interview was, that Cameron made the Indians a present of tobacco and a few trinkets, and sent them back to their friends to tell them that he was willing to trade with them. Next day the whole tribe arrived in the valley, and pitched their deerskin tents on the plain opposite to the camp of the white men. Their numbers far exceeded Cameron's expectation, and it was with some anxiety that he proceeded to strengthen his fortifications as much as circumstances and the nature of the ground would admit. The Indian camp, which numbered upwards of a thousand souls, was arranged with great regularity, and was divided into three distinct sections, each section being composed of a separate tribe. The Great Snake Nation at that time embraced three tribes or divisions--namely, the Shirry-dikas, or dog-eaters; the War-are-ree-kas, or fish-eaters; and the Banattees, or robbers. These were the most numerous and powerful Indians on the west side of the Rocky Mountains. The Shirry-dikas dwelt in the plains, and hunted the buffaloes; dressed well; were cleanly; rich in horses; bold, independent, and good warriors. The War-are-ree-kas lived chiefly by fishing, and were found on the banks of the rivers and lakes throughout the country. They were more corpulent, slovenly, and indolent than the Shirry-dikas, and more peaceful. The Banattees, as we have before mentioned, were the robbers of the mountains. They were a wild and contemptible race, and at enmity with every one. In summer they went about nearly naked. In winter they clothed themselves in the skins of rabbits and wolves. Being excellent mimics, they could imitate the howling of wolves, the neighing of horses, and the cries of birds, by which means they could approach travellers, rob them, and then fly to their rocky fastnesses in the mountains, where pursuit was vain. Such were the men who now assembled in front of the camp of the fur-traders, and Cameron soon found that the news of his presence in the country had spread far and wide among the natives, bringing them to the neighbourhood of his camp in immense crowds, so that, during the next few days, their numbers increased to thousands. Several long palavers quickly ensued between the red men and the white, and the two great chiefs who seemed to hold despotic rule over the assembled tribes were extremely favourable to the idea of universal peace which was propounded to them. In several set speeches of great length and very considerable power, these natural orators explained their willingness to enter into amicable relations with all the surrounding nations as well as with the white men. "But," said Pee-eye-em, the chief of the Shirry-dikas, a man above six feet high, and of immense muscular strength,--"but my tribe cannot answer for the Banattees, who are robbers, and cannot be punished, because they dwell in scattered families among the mountains. The Banattees are bad; they cannot be trusted." None of the Banattees were present at the council when this was said; and if they had been it would have mattered little, for they were neither fierce nor courageous, although bold enough in their own haunts to murder and rob the unwary. The second chief did not quite agree with Pee-eye-em; he said that it was impossible for them to make peace with their natural enemies, the Peigans and the Blackfeet on the east side of the mountains. It was very desirable, he admitted, but neither of these tribes would consent to it, he felt sure. Upon this Joe blunt rose and said, "The great chief of the War-are-ree-kas is wise, and knows that enemies cannot be reconciled unless deputies are sent to make proposals of peace." "The Pale-face does not know the Blackfeet," answered the chief. "Who will go into the lands of the Blackfeet? My young men have been sent once and again, and their scalps are now fringes to the leggings of their enemies. The War-are-ree-kas do not cross the mountains but for the purpose of making war." "The chief speaks truth," returned Joe, "yet there are three men round the council-fire who will go to the Blackfeet and the Peigans with messages of peace from the Snakes if they wish it." Joe pointed to himself, Henri, and Dick as he spoke, and added, "We three do not belong to the camp of the fur-traders; we only lodge with them for a time. The Great Chief of the white men has sent us to make peace with the Red-men, and to tell them that he desires to trade with them--to exchange hatchets, and guns, and blankets for furs." This declaration interested the two chiefs greatly, and after a good deal of discussion they agreed to take advantage of Joe Blunt's offer, and appoint him as a deputy to the court of their enemies. Having arranged these matters to their satisfaction, Cameron bestowed a red flag and a blue surtout with brass buttons on each of the chiefs, and a variety of smaller articles on the other members of the council, and sent them away in a particularly amiable frame of mind. Pee-eye-em burst the blue surtout at the shoulders and elbows in putting it on, as it was much too small for his gigantic frame, but, never having seen such an article of apparel before, he either regarded this as the natural and proper consequence of putting it on, or was totally indifferent to it, for he merely looked at the rents with a smile of satisfaction, while his squaw surreptitiously cut off the two back buttons and thrust them into her bosom. By the time the council closed the night was far advanced, and a bright moon was shedding a flood of soft light over the picturesque and busy scene. "I'll go to the Injun camp," said Joe to Walter Cameron, as the chiefs rose to depart. "The season's far enough advanced already; it's time to be off; and if I'm to speak for the Red-skins in the Blackfeet Council, I'd need to know what to say." "Please yourself, Master Blunt," answered Cameron. "I like your company and that of your friends, and if it suited you I would be glad to take you along with us to the coast of the Pacific; but your mission among the Indians is a good one, and I'll help it on all I can. I suppose you will go also?" he added, turning to Dick Varley, who was still seated beside the council-fire caressing Crusoe. "Wherever Joe goes, I go," answered Dick. Crusoe's tail, ears and eyes demonstrated high approval of the sentiment involved in this speech. "And your friend Henri?" "He goes too," answered Joe. "It's as well that the Red-skins should see the three o' us before we start for the east side o' the mountains. Ho! Henri, come here, lad." Henri obeyed, and in a few seconds the three friends crossed the brook to the Indian camp, and were guided to the principal lodge by Pee-eye-em. Here a great council was held, and the proposed attempt at negotiations for peace with their ancient enemies fully discussed. While they were thus engaged, and just as Pee-eye-em had, in the energy of an enthusiastic peroration burst the blue surtout _almost_ up to the collar, a distant rushing sound was heard, which caused every man to spring to his feet, run out of the tent, and seize his weapons. "What can it be, Joe?" whispered Dick, as they stood at the tent door leaning on their rifles, and listening intently. "Dunno," answered Joe shortly. Most of the numerous fires of the camp had gone out, but the bright moon revealed the dusky forms of thousands of Indians, whom the unwonted sound had startled, moving rapidly about. The mystery was soon explained. The Indian camp was pitched on an open plain of several miles in extent, which took a sudden bend half a mile distant, where a spur of the mountains shut out the further end of the valley from view. From beyond this point the dull rumbling sound proceeded. Suddenly there was a roar as if a mighty cataract had been let loose upon the scene. At the same moment a countless herd of wild horses came thundering round the base of the mountain and swept over the plain straight towards the Indian camp. "A stampedo!" cried Joe, springing to the assistance of Pee-eye-em, whose favourite horses were picketted near the tent. On they came like a living torrent, and the thunder of a thousand hoofs was soon mingled with the howling of hundreds of dogs in the camp, and the yelling of Indians, as they vainly endeavoured to restrain the rising excitement of their steeds. Henri and Dick stood rooted to the ground, gazing in silent wonder at the fierce and uncontrollable gallop of the thousands of panic-stricken horses that bore down upon the camp with the tumultuous violence of a mighty cataract. As the maddened troop drew nigh, the camp horses began to snort and tremble violently, and when the rush of the wild steeds was almost upon them, they became ungovernable with terror, broke their halters and hobbles, and dashed wildly about. To add to the confusion at that moment, a cloud passed over the moon and threw the whole scene into deep obscurity. Blind with terror, which was probably increased by the din of their own mad flight, the galloping troop came on, and, with a sound like the continuous roar of thunder that for an instant drowned the yell of dog and man, they burst upon the camp, trampling over packs and skins, and dried meat, etcetera, in their headlong speed, and overturning several of the smaller tents. In another moment they swept out upon the plain beyond, and were soon lost in the darkness of the night, while the yelping of dogs, as they vainly pursued them, mingled and gradually died away with the distant thunder of their retreat. This was a "_stampedo_," one of the most extraordinary scenes that can be witnessed in the western wilderness. "Lend a hand, Henri," shouted Joe, who was struggling with a powerful horse. "Wot's comed over yer brains, man? This brute 'll git off if ye don't look sharp." Dick and Henri both answered to the summons, and they succeeded in throwing the struggling animal on its side and holding it down until its excitement was somewhat abated. Pee-eye-em had also been successful in securing his favourite hunter, but nearly every other horse belonging to the camp had broken loose and joined the whirlwind gallop, but they gradually dropped out, and, before morning, the most of them were secured by their owners. As there were at least two thousand horses and an equal number of dogs in the part of the Indian camp which had been thus over-run by the wild mustangs, the turmoil, as may be imagined, was prodigious! Yet, strange to say, no accident of a serious nature occurred beyond the loss of several chargers. In the midst of this exciting scene there was one heart there which beat with a nervous vehemence that well-nigh burst it. This was the heart of Dick Varley's horse, Charlie. Well-known to him was that distant rumbling sound that floated on the night air into the fur-trader's camp where he was picketted close to Cameron's tent. Many a time had he heard the approach of such a wild troop, and often, in days not long gone by, had his shrill neigh rung out as he joined and led the panic-stricken band. He was first to hear the sound, and by his restive actions, to draw the attention of the fur-traders to it. As a precautionary measure they all sprang up and stood by their horses to soothe them, but as a brook with a belt of bushes and quarter of a mile of plain intervened between their camp and the mustangs as they flew past, they had little or no trouble in restraining them. Not so, however, with Charlie. At the very moment that his master was congratulating himself on the supposed security of his position, he wrenched the halter from the hand of him who held it, burst through the barrier of felled trees that had been thrown round the camp, cleared the brook at a bound, and, with a wild hilarious neigh, resumed his old place in the ranks of the free-born mustangs of the prairie. Little did Dick think, when the flood of horses swept past him, that his own good steed was there, rejoicing in his recovered liberty. But Crusoe knew it. Ay, the wind had borne down the information to his acute nose before the living storm burst upon the camp, and when Charlie rushed past with the long tough halter trailing at his heels, Crusoe sprang to his side, seized the end of the halter with his teeth, and galloped off along with him. It was a long gallop and a tough one, but Crusoe held on, for it was a settled principle in his mind _never_ to give in. At first the check upon Charlie's speed was imperceptible, but by degrees the weight of the gigantic dog began to tell, and, after a time, they fell a little to the rear; then, by good fortune, the troop passed through a mass of underwood, and the line, getting entangled, brought their mad career forcibly to a close; the mustangs passed on, and the two friends were left to keep each other company in the dark. How long they would have remained thus is uncertain, for neither of them had sagacity enough to undo a complicated entanglement; fortunately, however, in his energetic tugs at the line, Crusoe's sharp teeth partially severed it, and a sudden start on the part of Charlie caused it to part. Before he could escape, Crusoe again seized the end of it and led him slowly but steadily back to the Indian camp, never halting or turning aside until he had placed the line in Dick Varley's hand. "Hallo, pup! where have ye bin. How did ye bring him here?" exclaimed Dick, as he gazed in amazement at his foam-covered horse. Crusoe wagged his tail, as if to say, "Be thankful that you've got him, Dick, my boy, and don't ask questions that you know I can't answer." "He must ha' broke loose and jined the stampedo," remarked Joe, coming out of the chief's tent at the moment; "but tie him up, Dick, and come in, for we want to settle about startin' to-morrow or nixt day." Having fastened Charlie to a stake, and ordered Crusoe to watch him, Dick re-entered the tent where the council had re-assembled, and where Pee-eye-em--having, in the recent struggle, split the blue surtout completely up to the collar, so that his backbone was visible throughout the greater part of its length--was holding forth in eloquent strains on the subject of peace in general and peace with the Blackfeet, the ancient enemies of the Shirry-dikas, in particular. CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR. PLANS AND PROSPECTS--DICK BECOMES HOME-SICK, AND HENRI METAPHYSICAL--THE INDIANS ATTACK THE CAMP--A BLOW-UP. On the following day the Indians gave themselves up to unlimited feasting, in consequence of the arrival of a large body of hunters with an immense supply of buffalo meat. It was a regular day of rejoicing. Upwards of six hundred buffaloes had been killed, and as the supply of meat before their arrival had been ample, the camp was now overflowing with plenty. Feasts were given by the chiefs, and the medicine-men went about the camp uttering loud cries, which were meant to express gratitude to the Great Spirit for the bountiful supply of food. They also carried a portion of meat to the aged and infirm who were unable to hunt for themselves, and had no young men in their family circle to hunt for them. This arrival of the hunters was a fortunate circumstance, as it put the Indians in great good-humour, and inclined them to hold friendly intercourse with the trappers, who for some time continued to drive a brisk trade in furs. Having no market for the disposal of their furs, the Indians of course had more than they knew what to do with, and were therefore glad to exchange those of the most beautiful and valuable kind for a mere trifle, so that the trappers laid aside their traps for a time and devoted themselves to traffic. Meanwhile Joe Blunt and his friends made preparations for their return journey. "Ye see," remarked Joe to Henri and Dick, as they sat beside the fire in Pee-eye-em's lodge, and feasted on a potful of grasshopper soup, which the great chiefs squaw had just placed before them,--"ye see, my calc'lations is as follows. Wot with trappin' beavers and huntin', we three ha' made enough to sot us up, an it likes us, in the Mustang Valley--" "Ha!" interrupted Dick, remitting for a few seconds the use of his teeth in order to exercise his tongue,--"ha! Joe, but it don't like _me_! What, give up a hunter's life and become a farmer? I should think not!" "Bon!" ejaculated Henri, but whether the remark had reference to the grasshopper soup or the sentiment, we cannot tell. "Well," continued Joe, commencing to devour a large buffalo steak with a hunter's appetite, "ye'll please yourselves, lads, as to that; but, as I wos sayin', we've got a powerful lot o' furs, an' a big pack o' odds and ends for the Injuns we chance to meet with by the way, an' powder and lead to last us a twelve-month, besides five good horses to carry us an' our packs over the plains; so if it's agreeable to you, I mean to make a bee-line for the Mustang Valley. We're pretty sure to meet with Blackfeet on the way, and if we do we'll try to make peace between them an' the Snakes. I 'xpect it'll be pretty well on for six weeks afore we git to home, so we'll start to-morrow." "Dat is fat vill do ver' vell," said Henri; "vill you please donnez me one petit morsel of steak." "I'm ready for anything, Joe," cried Dick, "you are leader. Just point the way, and I'll answer for two o' us followin' ye--eh! won't we, Crusoe?" "We will," remarked the dog quietly. "How comes it," inquired Dick, "that these Indians don't care for our tobacco?" "They like their own better, I s'pose," answered Joe; "most all the western Injuns do. They make it o' the dried leaves o' the shumack and the inner bark o' the red-willow, chopped very small an' mixed together. They call this stuff _Kinnekinnik_, but they like to mix about a fourth o' our tobacco with it, so Pee-eye-em tells me, an' he's a good judge; the amount that red-skinned mortal smokes _is_ oncommon." "What are they doin' yonder?" inquired Dick, pointing to a group of men who had been feasting for some time past in front of a tent within sight of our trio. "Goin' to sing, I think," replied Joe. As he spoke, six young warriors were seen to work their bodies about in a very remarkable way, and give utterance to still more remarkable sounds, which gradually increased until the singers burst out into that terrific yell, or war-whoop, for which American savages have long been famous. Its effect would save been appalling to unaccustomed ears. Then they allowed their voices to die away in soft, plaintive tones, while their action corresponded thereto. Suddenly the furious style was revived, and the men wrought themselves into a condition little short of madness, while their yells rung wildly through the camp. This was too much for ordinary canine nature to withstand, so all the dogs in the neighbourhood joined in the horrible chorus. Crusoe had long since learned to treat the eccentricities of Indians and their curs with dignified contempt. He paid no attention to this serenade, but lay sleeping by the fire until Dick and his companions rose to take leave of their host, and return to the camp of the fur-traders. The remainder of that night was spent in making preparations for setting forth on the morrow, and when, at grey dawn, Dick and Crusoe lay down to snatch a few hours' repose, the yells and howling in the Snake camp were going on as vigorously as ever. The sun had arisen, and his beams were just tipping the summits of the Rocky Mountains, causing the snowy peaks to glitter like flame, and the deep ravines and gorges to look sombre and mysterious by contrast, when Dick, and Joe, and Henri mounted their gallant steeds, and, with Crusoe gambolling before, and the two pack-horses trotting by their side, turned their faces eastward, and bade adieu to the Indian camp. Crusoe was in great spirits. He was perfectly well aware that he and his companions were on their way home, and testified his satisfaction by bursts of scampering over the hills and valleys. Doubtless he thought of Dick Varley's cottage, and of Dick's mild, kind-hearted mother. Undoubtedly, too, he thought of his own mother, Fan, and felt a glow of filial affection as he did so. Of this we feel quite certain. He would have been unworthy the title of hero if he hadn't. Perchance he thought of Grumps, but of this we are not quite so sure. We rather think, upon the whole, that he did. Dick, too, let his thoughts run away in the direction of _home_. Sweet word! Those who have never left it cannot, by any effort of imagination, realise the full import of the word "home." Dick was a bold hunter, but he was young, and this was his first long expedition. Oftentimes, when sleeping under the trees and gazing dreamily up through the branches at the stars, had he thought of home, until his longing heart began to yearn to return. He repelled such tender feelings, however, when they became too strong, deeming them unmanly, and sought to turn his mind to the excitements of the chase, but latterly his efforts were in vain. He became thoroughly home-sick, and, while admitting the fact to himself, he endeavoured to conceal it from his comrades. He thought that he was successful in this attempt. Poor Dick Varley! as yet he was sadly ignorant of human nature. Henri knew it, and Joe Blunt knew it. Even Crusoe knew that something was wrong with his master, although he could not exactly make out what it was. But Crusoe made memoranda in the note-book of his memory. He jotted down the peculiar phases of his master's new disease with the care and minute exactness of a physician; and, we doubt not, ultimately added the knowledge of the symptoms of homesickness to his already well-filled stores of erudition. It was not till they had set out on their homeward journey that Dick Varley's spirits revived, and it was not till they reached the beautiful prairies on the eastern slopes of the Rocky Mountains, and galloped over the green sward towards the Mustang Valley, that Dick ventured to tell Joe Blunt what his feelings had been. "D'ye know, Joe," he said confidentially, reining up his gallant steed after a sharp gallop, "d'ye know I've bin feelin' awful low for some time past." "I know it, lad," answered Joe, with a quiet smile, in which there was a dash of something that implied he knew more than he chose to express. Dick felt surprised, but he continued, "I wonder what it could have bin. I never felt so before." "'Twas homesickness, boy," returned Joe. "How d'ye know that?" "The same way as how I know most things, by experience an' obsarvation. I've bin home-sick myself once--but it was long, long agone." Dick felt much relieved at this candid confession by such a bronzed veteran, and, the chords of sympathy having been struck, he opened up his heart at once, to the evident delight of Henri, who, among other curious partialities, was extremely fond of listening to and taking part in conversations that bordered on the metaphysical, and were hard to be understood. Most conversations that were not connected with eating and hunting were of this nature to Henri. "Hom'-sik," he cried, "veech mean bein' sik of hom'! hah! dat is fat I am always be, ven I goes hout on de expedition. Oui, vraiment." "I always packs up," continued Joe, paying no attention to Henri's remark,--"I always packs up an' sots off for home when I gits home-sick; it's the best cure, an' when hunters are young like you, Dick, it's the only cure. I've know'd fellers a'most die o' homesickness, an' I'm told they _do_ go under altogether sometimes." "Go onder!" exclaimed Henri; "oui, I vas all but die myself ven I fust try to git away from hom'. If I have not git away, I not be here to-day." Henri's idea of homesickness was so totally opposed to theirs, that his comrades only laughed, and refrained from attempting to set him right. "The fust time I was took bad with it wos in a country somethin' like that," said Joe, pointing to the wide stretch of undulating prairie, dotted with clusters of trees and wandering streamlets, that lay before them; "I had bin out about two months, an wos makin' a good thing of it, for game wos plenty, when I began to think somehow more than usual o' home. My mother wos alive then." Joe's voice sank to a deep, solemn tone as he said this, and for a few minutes he rode on in silence. "Well, it grew worse and worse, I dreamed o' home all night, an' thought of it all day, till I began to shoot bad, an' my comrades wos gittin' tired o' me; so says I to them one night, says I, `I give out, lads, I'll make tracks for the settlement to-morrow.' They tried to laugh me out of it at first, but it was no go, so I packed up, bid them good-day, an' sot off alone on a trip o' five hundred miles. The very first mile o' the way back I began to mend, and before two days I wos all right again." Joe was interrupted at this point by the sudden appearance of a solitary horseman on the brow of an eminence not half a mile distant. The three friends instantly drove their pack-horses behind a clump of trees, but not in time to escape the vigilant eye of the Red-man, who uttered a loud shout, which brought up a band of his comrades at full gallop. "Remember, Henri," cried Joe Blunt, "our errand is one of _peace_." The caution was needed, for in the confusion of the moment Henri was making preparation to sell his life as dearly as possible. Before another word could be uttered, they were surrounded by a troop of about twenty yelling Blackfeet Indians. They were, fortunately, not a war-party, and, still more fortunately, they were peaceably disposed, and listened to the preliminary address of Joe Blunt with exemplary patience; after which the two parties encamped on the spot, the council-fire was lighted, and every preparation made for a long palaver. We will not trouble the reader with the details of what was said on this occasion. The party of Indians was a small one, and no chief of any importance was attached to it. Suffice it to say that the pacific overtures made by Joe were well received, the trifling gifts made thereafter were still better received, and they separated with mutual expressions of good will. Several other bands which were afterwards met with were equally friendly, and only one war-party was seen. Joe's quick eye observed it in time to enable them to retire unseen behind the shelter of some trees, where they remained until the Indian warriors were out of sight. The next party they met with, however, were more difficult to manage, and, unfortunately, blood was shed on both sides before our travellers escaped. It was at the close of a beautiful day that a war-party of Blackfeet were seen riding along a ridge on the horizon. It chanced that the prairie at this place was almost destitute of trees or shrubs large enough to conceal the horses. By dashing down the grassy wave into the hollow between the two undulations, and dismounting, Joe hoped to elude the savages, so he gave the word,--but at the same moment a shout from the Indians told that they were discovered. "Look sharp, lads, throw down the packs on the highest point of the ridge," cried Joe, undoing the lashings, seizing one of the bales of goods, and hurrying to the top of the undulation with it; "we must keep them at arm's length, boys--be alive. War-parties are not to be trusted." Dick and Henri seconded Joe's efforts so ably, that in the course of two minutes the horses were unloaded, the packs piled in the form of a wall in front of a broken piece of ground, the horses picketted close beside them, and our three travellers peeping over the edge, with their rifles cocked, while the savages--about thirty in number--came sweeping down towards them. "I'll try to git them to palaver," said Joe Blunt, "but keep yer eye on 'em, Dick, an' if they behave ill, shoot the _horse_ o' the leadin' chief. I'll throw up my left hand as a signal. Mind, lad, don't hit human flesh till my second signal is given, and see that Henri don't draw till I git back to ye." So saying, Joe sprang lightly over the slight parapet of their little fortress, and ran swiftly out, unarmed, towards the Indians. In a few seconds he was close up with them, and in another moment was surrounded. At first the savages brandished their spears and rode round the solitary man, yelling like fiends, as if they wished to intimidate him; but as Joe stood like a statue, with his arms crossed, and a grave expression of contempt on his countenance, they quickly desisted, and, drawing near, asked him where he came from, and what he was doing there. Joe's story was soon told; but instead of replying, they began to shout vociferously, and evidently meant mischief. "If the Blackfeet are afraid to speak to the Pale-face, he will go back to his braves," said Joe, passing suddenly between two of the warriors and taking a few steps towards the camp. Instantly every bow was bent, and it seemed as if our bold hunter were about to be pierced by a hundred arrows, when he turned round and cried:-- "The Blackfeet must not advance a single step. The first that moves his _horse_ shall die. The second that moves _himself_ shall die." To this the Blackfoot chief replied scornfully, "The Pale-face talks with a big mouth. We do not believe his words. The Snakes are liars, we will make no peace with them." While he was yet speaking, Joe threw up his hand; there was a loud report, and the noble horse of the savage chief lay struggling in death agony on the ground. The use of the rifle, as we have before hinted, was little known at this period among the Indians of the far west, and many had never heard the dreaded report before, although all were aware, from hearsay, of its fatal power. The fall of the chief's horse, therefore, quite paralysed them for a few moments, and they had not recovered from their surprise when a second report was heard, a bullet whistled past, and a second horse fell. At the same moment there was a loud explosion in the camp of the Pale-faces, a white cloud enveloped it, and from the midst of this a loud shriek was heard, as Dick, Henri, and Crusoe bounded over the packs with frantic gestures. At this the gaping savages wheeled their steeds round, the dismounted horsemen sprang on behind two of their comrades, and the whole band dashed away over the plains as if they were chased by evil spirits. Meanwhile Joe hastened towards his comrades in a state of great anxiety, for he knew at once that one of the powder-horns must have been accidentally blown up. "No damage done, boys, I hope?" he cried on coming up. "Damage!" cried Henri, holding his hands tight over his face. "Oh! oui, great damage--moche damage, me two eyes be blowed out of dere holes." "Not quite so bad as that, I hope," said Dick, who was very slightly singed, and forgot his own hurts in anxiety about his comrade. "Let me see?" "My eye!" exclaimed Joe Blunt, while a broad grin overspread his countenance, "ye've not improved yer looks, Henri." This was true. The worthy hunter's hair was singed to such an extent that his entire countenance presented the appearance of a universal frizzle. Fortunately the skin, although much blackened, was quite uninjured, a fact which, when he ascertained it beyond a doubt, afforded so much satisfaction to Henri, that he capered about shouting with delight, as if some piece of good fortune had befallen him. The accident had happened in consequence of Henri having omitted to replace the stopper of his powder-horn, and when, in his anxiety for Joe, he fired at random amongst the Indians, despite Dick's entreaties to wait, a spark communicated with the powder-horn and blew him up. Dick and Crusoe were only a little singed, but the former was not disposed to quarrel with an accident which had sent their enemies so promptly to the right-about. This band followed them for some nights, in the hope of being able to steal their horses while they slept; but they were not brave enough to venture a second time within range of the death-dealing rifle. CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE. DANGERS OF THE PRAIRIE--OUR TRAVELLERS ATTACKED BY INDIANS, AND DELIVERED IN A REMARKABLE MANNER. There are periods in the life of almost all men when misfortunes seem to crowd upon them in rapid succession, when they escape from one danger only to encounter another, and when, to use a well-known expression, they succeed in leaping out of the frying-pan at the expense of plunging into the fire. So was it with our three friends upon this occasion. They were scarcely rid of the Blackfeet, who found them too watchful to be caught napping, when, about daybreak one morning they encountered a roving band of Camanchee Indians, who wore such a warlike aspect that Joe deemed it prudent to avoid them if possible. "They don't see us yit, I guess," said Joe, as he and his companions drove the horses into a hollow between the grassy waves of the prairie, "any if we only can escape their sharp eyes till we're in yonder clump o' willows, we're safe enough." "But why don't you ride up to them, Joe," inquired Dick, "and make peace between them and the Pale-faces, as you ha' done with other bands?" "Because it's o' no use to risk our scalps for the chance o' makin' peace wi' a rovin' war-party. Keep yer head down, Henri! If they git only a sight o' the top o' yer cap, they'll be down on us like a breeze o' _wind_." "Hah! let dem come!" said Henri. "They'll come without askin' yer leave," remarked Joe drily. Notwithstanding his defiant expression, Henri had sufficient prudence to induce him to bend his head and shoulders, and in a few minutes they reached the shelter of the willows unseen by the savages. At least so thought Henri, Joe was not quite sure about it, and Dick hoped for the best. In the course of half an hour the last of the Camanchees was seen to hover for a second on the horizon, like a speck of black against the sky, and then to disappear. Immediately the three hunters bolted on their steeds and resumed their journey; but before that evening closed they had sad evidence of the savage nature of the band from which they had escaped. On passing the brow of a slight eminence, Dick, who rode first, observed that Crusoe stopped and snuffed the breeze in an anxious, inquiring manner. "What is't, pup?" said Dick, drawing up, for he knew that his faithful dog never gave a false alarm. Crusoe replied by a short, uncertain bark, and then bounding forward, disappeared behind a little wooded knoll. In another moment a long, dismal howl floated over the plains. There was a mystery about the dog's conduct which, coupled with his melancholy cry, struck the travellers with a superstitious feeling of dread, as they sat looking at each other in surprise. "Come, let's clear it up," cried Joe Blunt, shaking the reins of his steed, and galloping forward. A few strides brought them to the other side of the knoll where, scattered upon the torn and bloody turf, they discovered the scalped and mangled remains of about twenty or thirty human beings. Their skulls had been cleft by the tomahawk, and their breasts pierced by the scalping-knife; and from the position in which many of them lay, it was evident that they had been slain while asleep. Joe's brow flushed, and his lips became tightly compressed, as he muttered between his set teeth, "Their skins are white." A short examination sufficed to show that the men who had thus been barbarously murdered while they slept had been a band of trappers, or hunters; but what their errand had been, or whence they came, they could not discover. Everything of value had been carried off, and all the scalps had been taken. Most of the bodies, although much mutilated, lay in a posture that led our hunters to believe they had been killed while asleep; but one or two were cut almost to pieces, and from the blood-bespattered and trampled sward around, it seemed as if they had struggled long and fiercely for life. Whether or not any of the savages had been slain, it was impossible to tell, for if such had been the case, their comrades, doubtless, had carried away their bodies. That they had been slaughtered by the party of Camanchees who had been seen at daybreak, was quite clear to Joe; but his burning desire to revenge the death of the white men had to be stifled, as his party was so small. Long afterwards it was discovered that this was a band of trappers who, like those mentioned at the beginning of this volume, had set out to avenge the death of a comrade; but God, who has retained the right of vengeance in His own hand, saw fit to frustrate their purpose, by giving them into the hands of the savages whom they had set forth to slay. As it was impossible to bury so many bodies, the travellers resumed their journey, and left them to bleach there in the wilderness; but they rode the whole of that day almost without uttering a word. Meanwhile the Camanchees, who had observed the trio, and had ridden away at first for the purpose of deceiving them into the belief that they had passed unobserved, doubled on their track, and took a long sweep in order to keep out of sight until they could approach under the shelter of a belt of woodland towards which the travellers now approached. The Indians adopted this course instead of the easier method of simply pursuing so weak a party, because the plains at this part were bordered by a long stretch of forest into which the hunters could have plunged, and rendered pursuit more difficult, if not almost useless. The detour thus taken was so extensive that the shades of evening were beginning to descend before they could put their plan into execution. The forest lay about a mile to the right of our hunters, like some dark mainland, of which the prairie was the sea, and the scattered clumps of wood the islands. "There's no lack o' game here," said Dick Varley, pointing to a herd of buffaloes which rose at their approach, and fled away towards the wood. "I think we'll ha' thunder soon," remarked Joe. "I never feel it onnatteral hot like this without looking out for a plump." "Hah! den ve better look hout for one goot tree to get b'low," suggested Henri. "Voila!" he added, pointing with his finger towards the plain; "dere am a lot of wild hosses." A troop of about thirty wild horses appeared, as he spoke, on the brow of a ridge, and advanced slowly towards them. "Hist!" exclaimed Joe, reining up; "hold on, lads. Wild horses! my rifle to a pop-gun there's wilder men on t'other side o' them." "What mean you, Joe?" inquired Dick, riding close up. "D'ye see the little lumps on the shoulder o' each horse?" said Joe. "Them's Injun's _feet_; an' if we don't want to lose our scalps we'd better make for the forest." Joe proved himself to be in earnest by wheeling round and making straight for the thick woods as fast as his horse could run. The others followed, driving the pack-horses before them. The effect of this sudden movement on the so-called "wild horses" was very remarkable, and to one unacquainted with the habits of the Camanchee Indians, must have appeared almost supernatural. In the twinkling of an eye every steed had a rider on its back, and before the hunters had taken five strides in the direction of the forest, the whole band were in hot pursuit, yelling like furies. The manner in which these Indians accomplish this feat is very singular, and implies great activity and strength of muscle on the part of the savages. The Camanchees are low in stature, and usually are rather corpulent. In their movements on foot they are heavy and ungraceful, and they are, on the whole, a slovenly and unattractive race of men. But the instant they mount their horses they seem to be entirely changed, and surprise the spectator with the ease and elegance of their movements. Their great and distinctive peculiarity as horsemen is the power they have acquired of throwing themselves suddenly on either side of their horse's body, and clinging on in such a way that no part of them is visible from the other side save the foot by which they cling. In this manner they approach their enemies at full gallop, and without rising again to the saddle, discharge their arrows at them over their horses' backs, or even under their necks. This apparently magical feat is accomplished by means of a halter of horsehair, which is passed round under the neck of the horse, and both ends braided into the mane, on the withers, thus forming a loop which hangs under the neck and against the breast. This being caught by the hand, makes a sling, into which the elbow falls, taking the weight of the body on the middle of the upper arm. Into this loop the rider drops suddenly and fearlessly, leaving his heel to hang over the horse's back, to steady him, and also to restore him to his seat when desired. By this stratagem the Indians had approached on the present occasion almost within rifle range before they were discovered, and it required the utmost speed of the hunters' horses to enable them to avoid being overtaken. One of the Indians, who was better mounted than his fellows, gained on the fugitives so much that he came within arrow range, but reserved his shaft until they were close on the margin of the wood, when, being almost alongside of Henri, he fitted an arrow to his bow. Henri's eye was upon him, however; letting go the line of the pack-horse which he was leading, he threw forward his rifle, but at the same moment the savage disappeared behind his horse, and an arrow whizzed past the hunter's ear. Henri fired at the horse, which dropped instantly, hurling the astonished Camanchee upon the ground, where he lay for some time insensible. In a few seconds pursued and pursuers entered the wood, where both had to advance with caution, in order to avoid being swept off by the overhanging branches of the trees. Meanwhile the sultry heat of which Joe had formerly spoken increased considerably, and a rumbling noise, as if of distant thunder, was heard; but the flying hunters paid no attention to it, for the led horses gave them so much trouble, and retarded their flight so much, that the Indians were gradually and visibly gaining on them. "We'll ha' to let the packs go," said Joe, somewhat bitterly, as he looked over his shoulder. "Our scalps 'll pay for't if we don't." Henri uttered a peculiar and significant _hiss_ between his teeth, as he said, "P'raps ve better stop and fight!" Dick said nothing, being resolved to do exactly what Joe Blunt bid him; and Crusoe, for reasons best known to himself, also said nothing, but bounded along beside his master's horse, casting an occasional glance upwards to catch any signal that might be given. They had passed over a considerable space of ground, and were forcing their way, at the imminent hazard of their necks, through a densely-clothed part of the wood, when the sound above referred to increased, attracting the attention of both parties. In a few seconds the air was filled with a steady and continuous rumbling sound, like the noise of a distant cataract. Pursuers and fugitives drew rein instinctively, and came to a dead stand, while the rumbling increased to a roar, and evidently approached them rapidly, though as yet nothing to cause it could be seen, except that there was a dense, dark cloud overspreading the sky to the southward. The air was oppressively still and hot. "What can't be?" inquired Dick, looking at Joe, who was gazing with an expression of wonder, not unmixed with concern, at the southern sky. "Dunno, boy. I've bin more in the woods than in the clearin' in my day, but I niver heerd the likes o' that." "It am like t'ondre," said Henri; "mais it nevair do stop." This was true. The sound was similar to continuous, uninterrupted thunder. On it came with a magnificent roar that shook the very earth, and revealed itself at last in the shape of a mighty whirlwind. In a moment the distant woods bent before it, and fell like grass before the scythe. It was a whirling hurricane, accompanied by a deluge of rain such as none of the party had ever before witnessed. Steadily, fiercely, irresistibly, it bore down upon them, while the crash of falling, snapping, and uprooting trees mingled with the dire artillery of that sweeping storm like the musketry on a battle-field. "Follow me, lads!" shouted Joe, turning his horse and dashing at full speed towards a rocky eminence that offered shelter. But shelter was not needed. The storm was clearly defined. Its limits were as distinctly marked by its Creator as if it had been a living intelligence sent forth to put a belt of desolation round the world; and, although the edge of devastation was not five hundred yards from the rock behind which the hunters were stationed, only a few drops of ice-cold rain fell upon them. It passed directly between the Camanchee Indians and their intended victims, placing between them a barrier which it would have taken days to cut through. The storm blew for an hour, then it travelled onward in its might, and was lost in distance. Whence it came and whither it went none could tell; but, far as the eye could see on either hand, an avenue a quarter of a mile wide was cut through the forest. It had levelled everything with the dust; the very grass was beaten flat, the trees were torn, shivered, snapped across, and crushed; and the earth itself in many places was ploughed up and furrowed with deep scars. The chaos was indescribable, and it is probable that centuries will not quite obliterate the work of that single hour. While it lasted, Joe and his comrades remained speechless and awe-stricken. When it passed, no Indians were to be seen. So our hunters remounted their steeds, and, with feelings of gratitude to God for having delivered them alike from savage foes and from the destructive power of the whirlwind, resumed their journey towards the Mustang Valley. CHAPTER TWENTY SIX. ANXIOUS FEARS FOLLOWED BY A JOYFUL SURPRISE--SAFE HOME AT LAST, AND HAPPY HEARTS. One fine afternoon, a few weeks after the storm of which we have given an account in the last chapter, old Mrs Varley was seated beside her own chimney corner in the little cottage by the lake, gazing at the glowing logs with the earnest expression of one whose thoughts were far away. Her kind face was paler than usual, and her hands rested idly on her knee, grasping the knitting wires to which was attached a half-finished stocking. On a stool near to her sat young Marston, the lad to whom, on the day of the shooting match, Dick Varley had given his old rifle. The boy had an anxious look about him, as he lifted his eyes from time to time to the widow's face. "Did ye say, my boy, that they were _all_ killed?" inquired Mrs Varley, awaking from her reverie with a deep sigh. "Every one," replied Marston. "Jim Scraggs, who brought the news, said they wos all lyin' dead with their scalps off. They wos a party o' white men." Mrs Varley sighed again, and her face assumed an expression of anxious pain as she thought of her son Dick being exposed to a similar fate. Mrs Varley was not given to nervous fears; but as she listened to the boy's recital of the slaughter of a party of white men, news of which had just reached the valley, her heart sank, and she prayed inwardly to Him who is the husband of the widow that her dear one might be protected from the ruthless hand of the savage. After a short pause, during which young Marston fidgeted about and looked concerned, as if he had something to say which he would fain leave unsaid, Mrs Varley continued:-- "Was it far off where the bloody deed was done?" "Yes; three weeks off, I believe. And Jim Scraggs said that he found a knife that looked like the one wot belonged to--to--" the lad hesitated. "To whom, my boy? Why don't ye go on?" "To your son Dick." The widow's hands dropped by her side, and she would have fallen had not Marston caught her. "O mother dear, don't take on like that!" he cried, smoothing down the widow's hair as her head rested on his breast. For some time Mrs Varley suffered the boy to fondle her in silence, while her breast laboured with anxious dread. "Tell me all," she said at last, recovering a little. "Did Jim see-- Dick?" "No," answered the boy. "He looked at all the bodies, but did not find his; so he sent me over here to tell ye that p'raps he's escaped." Mrs Varley breathed more freely, and earnestly thanked God; but her fears soon returned when she thought of his being a prisoner, and recalled the tales of terrible cruelty often related of the savages. While she was still engaged in closely questioning the lad, Jim Scraggs himself entered the cottage, and endeavoured in a gruff sort of way to re-assure the widow. "Ye see, mistress," he said, "Dick is a oncommon tough customer, an' if he could only git fifty yards start, there's not a Injun in the west as could git hold o' him agin; so don't be takin' on." "But what if he's bin taken prisoner?" said the widow. "Ay, that's jest wot I've comed about. Ye see it's not onlikely he's bin took; so about thirty o' the lads o' the valley are ready jest now to start away and give the red riptiles chase, an' I come to tell ye; so keep up heart, mistress." With this parting word of comfort, Jim withdrew, and Marston soon followed, leaving the widow to weep and pray in solitude. Meanwhile an animated scene was going on near the block-house. Here thirty of the young hunters of the Mustang Valley were assembled, actively engaged in supplying themselves with powder and lead, and tightening their girths, preparatory to setting out in pursuit of the Indians who had murdered the white men, while hundreds of boys and girls, and not a few matrons, crowded round and listened to the conversation, and to the deep threats of vengeance that were uttered ever and anon by the younger men. Major Hope, too, was among them. The worthy major, unable to restrain his roving propensities, determined to revisit the Mustang Valley, and had arrived only two days before. Backwoodsmen's preparations are usually of the shortest and simplest. In a few minutes the cavalcade was ready, and away they went towards the prairies, with the bold major at their head. But their journey was destined to come to an abrupt and unexpected close. A couple of hours' gallop brought them to the edge of one of those open plains which sometimes break up the woodland near the verge of the great prairies. It stretched out like a green lake towards the horizon, on which, just as the band of horsemen reached it, the sun was descending in a blaze of glory. With a shout of enthusiasm, several of the younger members of the party sprang forward into the plain at a gallop; but the shout was mingled with one of a different tone from the older men. "Hist!--hallo!--hold on, ye cat-a-mounts! There's Injuns ahead!" The whole band came to a sudden halt at this cry, and watched eagerly, and for some time in silence, the motions of a small party of horsemen who were seen in the far distance, like black specks on the golden sky. "They come this way, I think," said Major Hope, after gazing steadfastly at them for some minutes. Several of the old hands signified their assent to this suggestion by a grunt, although to unaccustomed eyes the objects in question looked more like crows than horsemen, and their motion was for some time scarcely perceptible. "I sees pack-horses among them," cried young Marston in an excited tone; "an' there's three riders; but there's somethin' else, only wot it be I can't tell." "Ye've sharp eyes, younker," remarked one of the men, "an' I do b'lieve yer right." Presently the horsemen approached, and soon there was a brisk fire of guessing as to who they could be. It was evident that the strangers observed the cavalcade of white men, and regarded them as friends, for they did not check the headlong speed at which they approached. In a few minutes they were clearly made out to be a party of three horsemen driving pack-horses before them, and _somethin'_ which some of the hunters guessed was a buffalo calf. Young Marston guessed too, but his guess was different. Moreover, it was uttered with a yell that would have done credit to the fiercest of all the savages. "Crusoe!" he shouted, while at the same moment he brought his whip heavily down on the flank of his little horse, and sprang over the prairie like an arrow. One of the approaching horsemen was far ahead of his comrades, and seemed as if encircled with the flying and voluminous mane of his magnificent horse. "Hah! ho!" gasped Marston in a low tone to himself, as he flew along. "Crusoe! I'd know ye, dog, among a thousand! A buffalo calf! Ha! git on with ye!" This last part of the remark was addressed to his horse, and was followed by a whack that increased the pace considerably. The space between two such riders was soon devoured. "Hallo! Dick,--Dick Varley!" "Eh! why, Marston, my boy!" The friends reined up so suddenly, that one might have fancied they had met like the knights of old in the shock of mortal conflict. "Is't yerself, Dick Varley?" Dick held out his hand, and his eyes glistened, but he could not find words. Marston seized it, and pushing his horse close up, vaulted nimbly off and alighted on Charlie's back behind his friend. "Off ye go, Dick! I'll take ye to yer mother." Without reply, Dick shook the reins, and in another minute was in the midst of the hunters. To the numberless questions that were put to him he only waited to shout aloud, "We're all safe! They'll tell ye all about it," he added, pointing to his comrades, who were now close at hand; and then, dashing onward, made straight for home, with little Marston clinging to his waist like a monkey. Charlie was fresh, and so was Crusoe; so you may be sure it was not long before they all drew up opposite the door of the widow's cottage. Before Dick could dismount, Marston had slipped off, and was already in the kitchen. "Here's Dick, mother!" The boy was an orphan, and loved the widow so much that he had come at last to call her mother. Before another word could be uttered, Dick Varley was in the room. Marston immediately stepped out, and softly shut the door. Reader, we shall not open it! Having shut the door, as we have said, Marston ran down to the edge of the lake, and yelled with delight--usually terminating each paroxysm with the Indian war-whoop, with which he was well acquainted. Then he danced, and then he sat down on a rock, and became suddenly aware that there were other hearts there, close beside him, as glad as his own. Another mother of the Mustang Valley was rejoicing over a long-lost son. Crusoe and his mother Fan were scampering round each other in a manner that evinced powerfully the strength of their mutual affection. Talk of holding converse! Every hair on Crusoe's body, every motion of his limbs, was eloquent with silent language. He gazed into his mother's mild eyes as if he would read her inmost soul (supposing that she had one). He turned his head to every possible angle, and cocked his ears to every conceivable elevation, and rubbed his nose against Fan's, and barked softly, in every imaginable degree of modulation, and varied these proceedings by bounding away at full speed over the rocks of the beach, and in among the bushes and out again, but always circling round and round Fan, and keeping her in view! It was a sight worth seeing, and young Marston sat down on a rock, deliberately and enthusiastically, to gloat over it. But perhaps the most remarkable part of it has not yet been referred to. There was yet another heart there that was glad--exceeding glad--that day. It was a little one too, but it was big for the body that held it. Grumps was there, and all that Grumps did was to sit on his haunches and stare at Fan and Crusoe, and wag his tail as well as he could in so awkward a position! Grumps was evidently bewildered with delight, and had lost nearly all power to express it. Crusoe's conduct towards him, too, was not calculated to clear his faculties. Every time he chanced to pass near Grumps in his elephantine gambols, he gave him a passing touch with his nose, which always knocked him head over heels; whereat Grumps invariably got up quickly and wagged his tail with additional energy. Before the feelings of those canine friends were calmed, they were all three ruffled into a state of comparative exhaustion. Then young Marston called Crusoe to him, and Crusoe, obedient to the voice of friendship, went. "Are you happy, my dog?" "You're a stupid fellow to ask such a question; however, it's an amiable one. Yes, I am." "What do _you_ want, ye small bundle o' hair?" This was addressed to Grumps, who came forward innocently, and sat down to listen to the conversation. On being thus sternly questioned, the little dog put down its ears flat, and hung its head, looking up at the same time with a deprecatory look as if to say, "Oh, dear! I beg pardon; I--I only want to sit near Crusoe, please, but if you wish it I'll go away, sad and lonely, with my tail _very_ much between my legs--indeed I will, only say the word, but--but I'd _rather_ stay if I might." "Poor bundle!" said Marston, patting its head, "you can stay then. Hooray! Crusoe, are you happy, I say? Does your heart bound in you like a cannon ball that wants to find its way out and can't--eh?" Crusoe put his snout against Marston's cheek, and, in the excess of his joy, the lad threw his arms round the dog's neck and hugged it vigorously, a piece of impulsive affection which that noble animal bore with characteristic meekness, and which Grumps regarded with idiotic satisfaction. CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. REJOICINGS--THE FEAST AT THE BLOCK-HOUSE--GRUMPS AND CRUSOE COME OUT STRONG--THE CLOSING SCENE. The day of Dick's arrival with his companions was a great day in the annals of the Mustang Valley, and Major Hope resolved to celebrate it by an impromptu festival at the old block-house; for many hearts in the valley had been made glad that day, and he knew full well that, under such circumstances, some safety-valve must be devised for the escape of overflowing excitement. A messenger was sent round to invite the population to assemble without delay in front of the block-house. With backwoods-like celerity the summons was obeyed; men, women, and children hurried towards the central point wondering, yet more than half suspecting, what was the major's object in calling them together. They were not long in doubt. The first sight that presented itself as they came trooping up the slope in front of the log hut, was an ox roasting whole before a gigantic bonfire. Tables were being extemporised on the broad level plot in front of the gate. Other fires there were, of smaller dimensions, on which sundry steaming pots were placed, and various joints of wild horse, bear, and venison roasted, and sent forth a savoury odour as well as a pleasant hissing noise. The inhabitants of the block-house were self-taught brewers, and the result of their recent labours now stood displayed in a row of goodly casks of beer--the only beverage with which the dwellers in these far-off regions were wont to regale themselves. The whole scene--as the cooks moved actively about upon the lawn, and children romped round the fires, and settlers came flocking through the forests--might have recalled the revelry of merry England in the olden time, though the costumes of the far west were, perhaps, somewhat different from those of old England. No one of all the band assembled there on that day of rejoicing required to ask what it was all about. Had any one been in doubt for a moment, a glance at the centre of the crowd assembled round the gate of the western fortress would have quickly enlightened him; for there stood Dick Varley, and his mild-looking mother, and his loving dog, Crusoe. There, too, stood Joe Blunt, like a bronzed warrior returned from the fight, turning from one to another as question poured in upon question almost too rapidly to permit of a reply. There, too, stood Henri, making enthusiastic speeches to whoever chose to listen to him,--now glaring at the crowd, with clenched fists and growling voice, as he told of how Joe and he had been tied hand and foot, and lashed to poles and buried in leaves, and threatened with a slow death by torture,--at other times bursting into a hilarious laugh as he held forth on the predicament of Mahtawa when that wily chief was treed by Crusoe in the prairie. Young Marston was there too, hanging about Dick, whom he loved as a brother and regarded as a perfect hero. Grumps, too, was there, and Fan. Do you think, reader, that Grumps looked at any one but Crusoe? If you do you are mistaken. Grumps on that day became a regular, an incorrigible, utter, and perfect nuisance to everybody--not excepting himself, poor beast! Grumps was a dog of one idea, and that idea was Crusoe. Out of that great idea there grew one little secondary idea, and that idea was, that the only joy on earth worth mentioning was to sit on his haunches, exactly six inches from Crusoe's nose, and gaze steadfastly into his face. Wherever Crusoe went Grumps went. If Crusoe stopped Grumps was down before him in an instant. If Crusoe bounded away, which, in the exuberance of his spirits, he often did, Grumps was after him like a bundle of mad hair. He was in everybody's way--in Crusoe's way, and being, so to speak, "beside himself," was also in his own way. If people trod upon him accidentally, which they often did, Grumps uttered a solitary heart-rending yell, proportioned in intensity to the excruciating nature of the torture he endured, then instantly resumed his position and his fascinated stare. Crusoe generally held his head up, and gazed over his little friend at what was going on around him, but if for a moment he permitted his eye to rest on the countenance of Grumps, that creature's tail became suddenly imbued with an amount of wriggling vitality that seemed to threaten its separation from the body. It was really quite interesting to watch this unblushing, and disinterested, and utterly reckless display of affection on the part of Grumps, and the amiable way in which Crusoe put up with it--we say put up with it, advisedly, because it must have been a very great inconvenience to him, seeing that if he attempted to move, his satellite moved in front of him, so that his only way of escaping, temporarily, was by jumping over Grumps's head. Grumps was everywhere all day. Nobody, almost, escaped trampling on part of him. He tumbled over everything, into everything, and against everything. He knocked himself, singed himself, and scalded himself, and in fact forgot himself altogether; and when, late that night, Crusoe went with Dick into his mother's cottage, and the door was shut, Grumps stretched his ruffled, battered, ill-used, and dishevelled little body down on the doorstep, thrust his nose against the opening below the door, and lay in humble contentment all night, for he knew that Crusoe was there. Of course such an occasion could not pass without a shooting match. Rifles were brought out after the feast was over, just before the sun went down into its bed on the western prairies, and "the nail" was soon surrounded by bullets, tipped by Joe Blunt and Jim Scraggs, and, of course, driven home by Dick Varley, whose silver rifle had now become, in its owner's hand, a never-failing weapon. Races, too, were started, and here again Dick stood pre-eminent, and when night spread her dark mantle over the scene, the two best fiddlers in the settlement were placed on empty beer-casks, and some danced by the light of the monster fires, while others listened to Joe Blunt as he recounted their adventures on the prairies and among the Rocky Mountains. There were sweethearts, and wives, and lovers at the feast, but we question whether any heart there was so full of love, and admiration, and gratitude as that of the Widow Varley as she watched her son Dick, throughout that merry evening. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Years rolled by, and the Mustang Valley prospered. Missionaries went there, and a little church was built, and to the blessings of a fertile land were added the far greater blessings of Christian light and knowledge. One sad blow fell on the Widow Varley's heart. Her only brother, Daniel Hood, was murdered by the Indians. Deeply and long she mourned, and it required all Dick's efforts and those of the pastor of the settlement to comfort her. But from the first the widow's heart was sustained by the loving hand that dealt the blow, and when time blunted the keen edge of her feelings, her face became as sweet and mild, though not so lightsome, as before. Joe Blunt and Henri became leading men in the councils of the Mustang Valley, but Dick Varley preferred the woods, although, as long as his mother lived, he hovered round her cottage--going off sometimes for a day, sometimes for a week, but never longer. After her head was laid in the dust, Dick took altogether to the woods with Crusoe and Charlie the wild horse as his only companions, and his mother's Bible in the breast of his hunting shirt. And soon Dick, the bold hunter, and his dog Crusoe, became renowned in the frontier settlements from the banks of the Yellow Stone River to the Gulf of Mexico. Many a grizzly bear did the famous "silver rifle" lay low, and many a wild exciting chase and adventure did Dick go through, but during his occasional visits to the Mustang Valley, he was wont to say to Joe Blunt and Henri--with whom he always sojourned--that "nothin' he ever felt or saw came up to his first grand dash over the Western Prairies into the heart of the Rocky Mountains." And in saying this, with enthusiasm in his eye and voice, Dick invariably appealed to, and received a ready affirmative glance from, his early companion, and his faithful loving friend--the dog Crusoe. THE END. 
21734	----	The Golden Dream, by R.M. Ballantyne ________________________________________________________________________ Robert Michael Ballantyne was born in 1825 and died in 1894. He was educated at the Edinburgh Academy, and in 1841 he became a clerk with the Hudson Bay Company, working at the Red River Settlement in Northen Canada until 1847, arriving back in Edinburgh in 1848. The letters he had written home were very amusing in their description of backwoods life, and his family publishing connections suggested that he should construct a book based on these letters. Three of his most enduring books were written over the next decade, "The Young Fur Traders", "Ungava", "The Hudson Bay Company", and were based on his experiences with the H.B.C. In this period he also wrote "The Coral island" and "Martin Rattler", both of these taking place in places never visited by Ballantyne. Having been chided for small mistakes he made in these books, he resolved always to visit the places he wrote about. With these books he became known as a great master of literature intended for teenagers. He researched the Cornish Mines, the London Fire Brigade, the Postal Service, the Railways, the laying down of submarine telegraph cables, the construction of light-houses, the light-ship service, the life-boat service, South Africa, Norway, the North Sea fishing fleet, ballooning, deep-sea diving, Algiers, and many more, experiencing the lives of the men and women in these settings by living with them for weeks and months at a time, and he lived as they lived. He was a very true-to-life author, depicting the often squalid scenes he encountered with great care and attention to detail. His young readers looked forward eagerly to his next books, and through the 1860s and 1870s there was a flow of books from his pen, sometimes four in a year, all very good reading. The rate of production diminished in the last ten or fifteen years of his life, but the quality never failed. He published over ninety books under his own name, and a few books for very young children under the pseudonym "Comus". For today's taste his books are perhaps a little too religious, and what we would nowadays call "pi". In part that was the way people wrote in those days, but more important was the fact that in his days at the Red River Settlement, in the wilds of Canada, he had been a little dissolute, and he did not want his young readers to be unmindful of how they ought to behave, as he felt he had been. Some of his books were quite short, little over 100 pages. These books formed a series intended for the children of poorer parents, having less pocket-money. These books are particularly well-written and researched, because he wanted that readership to get the very best possible for their money. They were published as six series, three books in each series. Re-created as an e-Text by Nick Hodson, August 2003. ________________________________________________________________________ THE GOLDEN DREAM, BY R.M. BALLANTYNE. CHAPTER ONE. ADVENTURES IN THE FAR WEST. THE CAUSE OF THE WHOLE AFFAIR. Ned Sinton gazed at the scene before him with indescribable amazement! He had often witnessed strange things in the course of his short though chequered life, but he had never seen anything like this. Many a dream of the most extravagant nature had surrounded his pillow with creatures of curious form and scenes of magic beauty, but never before, either by actual observation or in nightly vision, had Ned Sinton beheld a scene so wonderful as that which now lay spread out before him. Ned stood in the centre of a cavern of vast dimensions--so vast, and so full of intense light, that instead of looking on it as a huge cave, he felt disposed to regard it as a small world. The sides of this cavern were made of pure gold, and the roof--far above his head--was spangled all over with glittering points, like a starry sky. The ground, too, and, in short, everything within the cave, was made of the same precious metal. Thousands of stalactites hung from the roof like golden icicles. Millions of delicate threads of the same material also depended from the star-spangled vault, each thread having a golden ball at the end of it, which, strange to say, was transparent, and permitted a bright flame within to shine through, and shed a yellow lustre over surrounding objects. All the edges, and angles, and points of the irregularly-formed walls were of burnished gold, which reflected the rays of these pendant lamps with dazzling brilliancy, while the broad masses of the frosted walls shone with a subdued light. Magnificent curtains of golden filigree fell in rich voluminous folds on the pavement, half concealing several archways which led into smaller caverns, similar to the large one. Altogether it was a scene of luxurious richness and splendour that is utterly indescribable. But the thing that amazed Ned Sinton most was, that the company of well-dressed ladies and gentlemen who moved about in these splendid halls, and ate golden ices, or listened to the exquisite strains of music that floated on the atmosphere, were all as yellow as guineas! Ned could by no means understand this. In order to convince himself that there was no deception in the matter, he shook hands with several of the people nearest to him, and found that they were cold and hard as iron; although, to all appearance, they were soft and pliable, and could evidently move about with perfect freedom. Ned was very much puzzled indeed. One would have thought he must have believed himself to be dreaming. Not a bit of it. He knew perfectly well that he was wide-awake. In fact, a doubt upon that point never crossed his mind for a moment. At length he resolved to ask the meaning of it all, and, observing a stout old gentleman, with a bland smile on his yellow countenance, in the act of taking a pinch of golden snuff from a gold snuff-box, he advanced and accosted him. "Pray, sir," began Ned, modestly, "may I take the liberty of asking you what is the meaning of all this?" "All what, sir?" inquired the old gentleman, in a deep metallic voice. "This golden cave, with its wonderful lamps, and especially these golden people; and--excuse me, sir, for remarking on the circumstance--you seem to be _made of gold_ yourself. I have often heard the term applied to extremely rich persons, but I really never expected to see a man who was literally `worth his weight in gold.'" The old gentleman laughed sarcastically at this sally, and took an enormous pinch of gold-dust. As he did not seem inclined to be communicative, however, Ned said again, "What is the meaning of it all? can you explain what has done it?" Smiling blandly at his interrogator, this gentleman of precious metal placed his head a little on one side, and tapped the lid of his snuff-box, but said nothing. Then he suddenly exclaimed, at the full pitch of his voice, "California, my boy! That's what's done it, Edward! _California for ever_! Ned, hurrah!" As the deep tones of his voice rang through the star-spangled vault, the company took up the shout, and with "California for ever!" made the cavern ring again. In the excess of their glee the gentlemen took off their hats, and the ladies their wreaths and turbans, and threw them in the air. As many of them failed to catch these portions of costume in their descent, the clatter caused by their fall on the golden pavement was very striking indeed. "Come here, my lad," said the old gentleman, seizing Ned Sinton by the arm, and laughing heartily as he dragged him towards an immense mirror of burnished gold; "look at yourself there." Ned looked, and started back with horror on observing that he himself had been converted into gold. There could be no mistake whatever about it. There he stood, staring at himself like a yellow statue. His shooting-jacket was richly chased with alternate stripes of burnished and frosted work; the buttons on his vest shone like stars; his pantaloons were striped like the coat; his hair was a mass of dishevelled filigree; and his hands, when, in the height of his horror, he clasped them together, rang like a brass-founder's anvil. For a few moments he stood before the mirror speechless. Then a feeling of intense indignation unaccountably took possession of him, and he turned fiercely on the old gentleman, exclaiming-- "_You_ have done this, sir! What do you mean by it? eh!" "You're quite mistaken, Ned. I didn't do it. California has done it. Ha! ha! my boy, you're done for! Smitten with the yellow fever, Neddy? California for ever! See here--" As he spoke, the old gentleman threw out one leg and both arms, and began to twirl round, after the fashion of a peg-top, on one toe. At first he revolved slowly, but gradually increased his speed, until no part of him could be distinctly observed. Ned Sinton stood aghast. Suddenly the old gentleman shot upwards like a rocket, but he did not quit the ground; he merely elongated his body until his head stuck against the roof of the cave. Then he ceased to revolve, and remained in the form of a golden stalactite--his head surrounded by stars and his toe resting on the ground! While Ned stood rooted to the spot, turning the subject over in his mind, and trying to find out by what process of chemical or mechanical action so remarkable a transformation could have been accomplished, he became aware that his uncle, old Mr Shirley, was standing in the middle of the cave regarding him with a look of mingled sarcasm and pity. He observed, too, that his uncle was not made of gold, like the people around him, but was habited in a yeomanry uniform. Mr Shirley had been a yeoman twenty years before his nephew was born. Since that time his proportions had steadily increased, and he was now a man of very considerable rotundity--so much so, that his old uniform fitted him with excessive tightness; the coat would by no means button across his capacious chest, and, being much too short, shewed a very undignified amount of braces below it. "Uncle!" exclaimed Ned Sinton, rushing up to his relative, "what _can_ be the meaning of all this? Everybody seems to be mad. I think you must be mad yourself, to come here such a figure as that; and I'm quite sure _I_ shall go mad if you don't explain it to me. What _does_ it all mean?" "California," replied Mr Shirley, becoming more sarcastic in expression and less pitiful. "Why, that's what everybody cries," exclaimed Ned, who was now driven almost to desperation. "My dear uncle, do look like yourself and exercise some of your wonted sagacity. Just glance round at the cave and the company, all made of gold, and look at me--gold too, if not pinchbeck, but I'm not a good-enough judge of metals to tell which. What _has_ done it, uncle? _Do_ look in a better humour, and tell me how it has happened." "California," replied Mr Shirley. "Yes, yes; I know that. California seems to be everything here. But how has it come about? Why are _you_ here, and what has brought me here?" "California," repeated Mr Shirley. "Uncle, I'll go deranged if you don't answer me. What do you mean?" "California," reiterated Mr Shirley. At the same moment a stout golden lady with a filigree turban shouted, "for ever!" at the top of a very shrill voice, and immediately the company took up the cry again, filling the cave with deafening sounds. Ned Sinton gave one look of despair at his relative--then turned and fled. "Put him out," shouted the company. "Down with the intruder!" Ned cast a single glance backward, and beheld the people pushing and buffeting his uncle in a most unceremonious manner. His helmet was knocked down over his eyes, and the coat--so much too small for him--was rendered an easy fit by being ripped up behind to the neck. Ned could not stand this. He was stout of limb and bold as a lion, although not naturally addicted to fighting, so he turned suddenly round and flew to the rescue. Plunging into the midst of the struggling mass of golden creatures, Ned hit out right and left like a young Hercules, and his blows rang upon their metal chests and noses like the sound of sledge-hammers, but without any other effect. Suddenly he experienced an acute sensation of pain, and--awoke to find himself hammering the bed-post with bleeding knuckles, and his uncle standing beside his bed chuckling immensely. "O uncle," cried Ned, sitting up in his bed, and regarding his knuckles with a perplexed expression of countenance, "I've had _such_ an extraordinary dream!" "Ay, Ned," interrupted his uncle, "and all about California, I'll be bound." "Why, how did you guess that?" "It needs not a wizard to guess that, lad. I've observed that you have read nothing in the newspapers for the last three months but the news from the gold-diggings of California. Your mind has of late been constantly running on that subject, and it is well-known that day-dreams are often reproduced at night. Besides, I heard you shouting the word in your sleep as I entered your room. Were you fighting with gold-diggers, eh! or Indians?" "Neither, uncle; but I was fighting with very strange beings, I assure you, and--" "Well, well," interrupted Mr Shirley, "never mind the dream just now; we shall have it at some other time. I have important matters to talk over with you, my boy. Morton has written to me. Get up and come down as quickly as you can, and we'll discuss the matter over our breakfast." As the door closed after the retreating form of his uncle, Edward Sinton leaped out of bed and into his trousers. During his toilet he wondered what matters of importance Mr Shirley could intend to discuss with him, and felt half inclined to fear, from the grave expression of his uncle's face when he spoke of it, that something of a disagreeable nature awaited him. But these thoughts were intermingled with reminiscences of the past night. His knuckles, too, kept constantly reminding him of his strange encounter, and, do what he would, he could not banish from his mind the curious incidents of that remarkable golden dream. CHAPTER TWO. OUR HERO. We have entered thus minutely into the details of our hero's dream, because it was the climax to a long series of day-dreams, in which he had indulged ever since the discovery of gold in California. Edward Sinton was a youth of eighteen at the time of which we write, and an orphan. He was tall, strong, broad-shouldered, fair-haired, blue-eyed, Roman-nosed, and gentle as a lamb. This last statement may perhaps appear inconsistent with the fact that, during the whole course of his school-life, he had a pitched battle every week--sometimes two or three in the week. Ned never began a fight, and, indeed, did not like fighting. But some big boys _will_ domineer over little ones, and Ned would not be domineered over; consequently he had to be thrashed. He was possessed, even in boyhood, of an amount of physical courage that would have sufficed for any two ordinary men. He did not boast. He did not quarrel. He never struck the first blow, but, if twenty boys had attacked him, he would have tried to fight them all. He never tyrannised over small boys. It was not his nature to do so; but he was not perfect, any more than you are, dear reader. He sometimes punched small boys' heads when they worried him, though he never did so without repenting of it, and doing them a kindness afterwards in order to make up. He was very thoughtless, too, and very careless; nevertheless he was fond of books--specially of books of adventure--and studied these like a hero--as he was. Boys of his own size, or even a good deal bigger, never fought with Ned Sinton. They knew better than that; but they adored him, in some cases envied him, and in all cases trusted and followed him. It was only _very_ big boys who fought with him, and all they got by it was a good deal of hard pummelling before they floored their little adversary, and a good deal of jeering from their comrades for fighting a small boy. From one cause or another, Ned's visage was generally scratched, often cut, frequently swelled, and almost always black and blue. But as Ned grew older, the occasions for fighting became less frequent; his naturally amiable disposition improved, (partly owing, no doubt, to the care of his uncle, who was, in every sense of the term, a good old man,) and when he attained the age of fifteen and went to college, and was called "Sinton," instead of "Ned," his fighting days were over. No man in his senses would have ventured to attack that strapping youth with the soft blue eyes, the fair hair, the prominent nose, and the firm but smiling lips, or, if he had, he would have had to count on an hour's extremely hard work, whether the fortune of war went for or against him. When Ned had been three years at college, his uncle hinted that it was time to think of a profession, and suggested that as he was a first-rate mathematician, and had been fond of mechanics from his childhood, he should turn an engineer. Ned would probably have agreed to this cheerfully, had not a thirst for adventure been created by the stirring accounts which had begun to arrive at this time from the recently-discovered gold-fields of California. His enthusiastic spirit was stirred, not so much by the prospect of making a large fortune suddenly by the finding of a huge nugget--although that was a very pleasant idea--as by the hope of meeting with wild adventures in that imperfectly-known and distant land. And the effect of such dreams was to render the idea of sitting down to an engineer's desk, or in a mercantile counting-room, extremely distasteful. Thus it came to pass that Edward Sinton felt indisposed to business, and disposed to indulge in golden visions. When he entered the breakfast-parlour, his mind was still full of his curious dream. "Come along, my lad," cried Mr Shirley, laying down the Bible, and removing his spectacles from a pair of eyes that usually twinkled with a sort of grave humour, but in which there was now an expression of perplexity; "set to work and get the edge off your appetite, and then I'll read Moxton's letter." When Mr Shirley had finished breakfast, Ned was about half done, having just commenced his third slice of toast. So the old gentleman complimented his nephew on the strength of his appetite, put on his spectacles, drew a letter from his pocket, and leaned back in his chair. "Now, lad, open your ears and consider what I am about to read." "Go on, uncle, I'm all attention," said Ned, attacking slice number four. "This is Moxton's letter. It runs thus-- "`Dear Sir,--I beg to acknowledge receipt of yours of the 5th inst. I shall be happy to take your nephew on trial, and, if I find him steady, shall enter into an engagement with him, I need not add that unremitting application to business is the only road to distinction in the profession he is desirous of adopting. Let him call at my office to-morrow between ten and twelve.--Yours very truly, Daniel Moxton.'" "Is that all?" inquired Ned, drawing his chair towards the fire, into which he gazed contemplatively. Mr Shirley looked at his nephew over the top of his spectacles, and said-- "That's all." "It's very short," remarked Ned. "But to the point," rejoined his uncle. "Now, boy, I see that you don't relish the idea, and I must say that I would rather that you became an engineer than a lawyer; but then, lad, situations are difficult to get now-a-days, and, after all, you might do worse than become a lawyer. To be sure, I have no great love for the cloth, Ned; but the ladder reaches very high. The foot is crowded with a struggling mass of aspirants, many of whom are of very questionable character, but the top reaches to one of the highest positions in the empire. You might become the Lord High Chancellor at last, who knows! But seriously, I think you should accept this offer. Moxton is a grave, stern man, but a sterling fellow for all that, and in good practice. Now, what do you think!" "Well, uncle," replied Ned, "I've never concealed my thoughts from you since the day you took me by the hand, eleven years ago, and brought me to live under your roof; and I'll not begin to dissemble now. The plain truth is, that I don't like it at all." "Stop, now," cried Mr Shirley, with a grieved expression of countenance; "don't be hasty in forming your opinion. Besides, my boy, you ought to be more ready to take my advice, even although it be not altogether palatable." "My dear uncle, you quite misunderstand me. I only tell you what I _think_ about the proposal. As to taking your advice, I fully intend to do that whether I like it or not; but I think, if you will listen to me for a few minutes, you will change your mind in regard to this matter. You know that I am very fond of travelling, and that I dislike the idea of taking up my abode on the top of a three-legged stool, either as a lawyer's or a merchant's clerk. Well, unless a man likes his profession, and goes at it with a will, he cannot hope to succeed, so that I have no prospect of getting on, I fear, in the line you wish me to adopt. Besides, there are plenty of poor fellows out of work, who love sitting still from nine a.m. to ten p.m., and whose bread I would be taking out of their mouths by devoting myself to the legal profession, and--" At this point Ned hesitated for a moment, and his uncle broke in with-- "Tell me, now, if every one thought about business as you do, how would the world get on, think you?" "Badly, I fear," replied the youth, with a smile; "but everybody doesn't think of it as I do; and, tell me, uncle, if everybody thought of business as you would wish me to do, what would come of the soldiers and sailors who defend our empire, and extend our foreign trade, and achieve the grand geographical discoveries that have of late added so much lustre to the British name?" Ned flushed and became quite eloquent at this point. "Now, look at California," he continued; "there's a magnificent region, full of gold; not a mere myth, or an exaggeration, but a veritable fact, attested by the arrival of letters and gold-dust every month. Surely that land was made to be peopled; and the poor savages who dwell there need to be converted to Christianity, and delivered from their degraded condition; and the country must be worked, and its resources be developed; and who's to do it, if enterprising clergymen, and schoolmasters, and miners do not go to live there, and push their fortunes?" "And which of the three callings do you propose adopting?" inquired Mr Shirley, with a peculiar smile. "Well uncle, I--a--the fact is, I have not thought much about that as yet. Of course, I never thought of the first. I do not forget your own remark, that the calling of a minister of the gospel of Christ is not, like other professions, to be adopted merely as a means of livelihood. Then, as to the second, I might perhaps manage that; but I don't think it would suit me." "Do you think, then, that you would make a good digger?" "Well, perhaps I would," replied Ned, modestly. Mr Shirley gravely regarded the powerful frame that reclined in the easy-chair before him, and was compelled to admit that the supposition was by no means outrageous. "Besides," continued the youth, "I might turn my hand to many things in a new country. You know I have studied surveying, and I can sketch a little, and know something of architecture. I suppose that Latin and Greek would not be of much use, but the little I have picked up of medicine and surgery among the medical students would be useful. Then I could take notes, and sketch the scenery, and bring back a mass of material that might interest the public, and do good to the country." "Oh," said the old gentleman, shortly; "come back and turn author, in fact, and write a book that nobody would publish, or which, in the event of its being published, nobody would read!" "Come, now, my dear uncle, don't laugh at me. I assure you it seems very reasonable to me to think that what others have done, and are doing every day, I am able to do." "Well, I won't laugh at you; but, to be serious, you are wise enough to know that an old man's experience is worth more than a youth's fancies. Much of what you have said is true, I admit, but I assure you that the bright prospects you have cut out for yourself are very delusive. They will never be realised, at least in the shape in which you have depicted them on your imagination. They will dissolve, my boy, on a nearer approach, and, as Shakespeare has it, `like the baseless fabric of a vision, leave not a wrack behind,' or, at least, not much more than a wrack." Ned reverted to the golden dream, and felt uneasy under his uncle's kind but earnest gaze. "Most men," continued Mr Shirley, "enjoy themselves at first, when they go to wild countries in search of adventure, but they generally regret the loss of their best years afterwards. In my opinion men should never emigrate unless they purpose making the foreign land they go to their _home_. But I won't oppose you, if you are determined to go; I will do all I can to help you, and give you my blessing; but before you make up your mind, I would recommend you to call on Mr Moxton, and hear what prospects he holds out to you. Then take a week to think seriously over it; and if at the end of that time, you are as anxious to go as ever, I'll not stand in your way." "You are kind to me, uncle; more so than I deserve," said Ned earnestly. "I'll do as you desire, and you may depend upon it that the generous way in which you have left me to make my own choice will influence me against going abroad more than anything else." Ned sighed as he rose to quit the room, for he felt that his hopes at that moment were sinking. "And before you take a step in the matter, my boy," said old Mr Shirley, "go to your room and ask counsel of Him who alone has the power to direct your steps in this life." Ned replied briefly, "I will, uncle," and hastily left the room. Mr Shirley poked the fire, put on his spectacles, smoothed out the wrinkles on his bald forehead with his hand, took up the _Times_, and settled himself down in his easy-chair to read; but his nephew's prospects could not be banished from his mind. He went over the whole argument again, mentally, with copious additions, ere he became aware of the fact, that for three-quarters of an hour he had been, (apparently), reading the newspaper upside down. CHAPTER THREE. HOPES AND FEARS--MR. SHIRLEY RECEIVES A VISIT AND A WILD PROPOSAL. When Edward Sinton left his chamber, an hour after the conversation related in the last chapter, his brow was unruffled and his step light. He had made up his mind that, come what might, he would not resist the wishes of his only near relative and his best friend. There was a day in the period of early boyhood that remained as fresh on the memory of young Sinton as if it had been yesterday--the day on which his mother died. The desolation of his early home on that day was like the rising of a dark thunder-cloud on a bright sky. His young heart was crushed, his mind stunned, and the first ray of light that broke upon him--the first gush of relief--was when his uncle arrived and took him on his knee, and, seated beside the bed where that cold, still form lay, wept upon the child's neck as if his heart would break. Mr Shirley buried the sister whom he had been too late to see alive. Then he and his little nephew left the quiet country village and went to dwell in the great city of London. From that time forward Mr Shirley was a father to Ned, who loved him more than any one else on earth, and through his influence he was early led to love and reverence his heavenly Father and his blessed Redeemer. The subject of going abroad was the first in regard to which Ned and his uncle had seriously disagreed, and the effect on the feelings of both was very strong. Ned's mind wandered as he put on his hat, and buttoned his great-coat up to the chin, and drew on his gloves slowly. He was not vain of his personal appearance; neither was he reckless of it. He always struck you as being a particularly well-dressed man, and he had naturally a dashing look about him. Poor fellow! he felt anything but dashing or reckless as he hurried through the crowded streets in the direction of the city that day. Moxton's door was a green one, with a brass knocker and a brass plate, both of which ornaments, owing to verdigris, were anything but ornamental. The plate was almost useless, being nearly illegible, but the knocker was still fit for duty. The street was narrow--as Ned observed with a feeling of deep depression--and the house to which the green door belonged, besides being dirty, retreated a little, as if it were ashamed of itself. On the knocker being applied, the green door was opened by a disagreeable-looking old woman, who answered to the question, "Is Mr Moxton in?" with a short "Yes," and, without farther remark, ushered our hero into a very dingy and particularly small office, which, owing to the insufficient quantity of daylight that struggled through the dirty little windows, required to be lighted with gas. Ned felt, so to speak, like a thermometer which was falling rapidly. "Can I see Mr Moxton?" he inquired of a small dishevelled clerk, who sat on a tall stool behind a high desk, engaged in writing his name in every imaginable form on a sheet of note paper. The dishevelled clerk pointed to a door which opened into an inner apartment, and resumed his occupation. Ned tapped at the door indicated. "Come in," cried a stern voice. Ned, (as a thermometer), fell considerably lower. On entering, he beheld a tall, gaunt man, with a sour cast of countenance, standing with his back to the fire. Ned advanced with a cheerful expression of face. Thermometrically speaking, he fell to the freezing-point. "You are young Sinton, I suppose. You've come later than I expected." Ned apologised, and explained that he had had some difficulty in finding the house. "Umph! Your uncle tells me that you're a sharp fellow, and write a good hand. Have you ever been in an office before?" "No, sir. Up till now I have been at college. My uncle is rather partial, I fear, and may have spoken too highly of me. I think, however, that my hand is not a bad one. At least it is legible." "At least!" said Mr Moxton, with a sarcastic expression that was meant for smile, perhaps for a grin. "Why, that's the _most_ you could say of it. No hand is good, sir, if it is not legible, and no hand can possibly be bad that _is_ legible. Have you studied law?" "No, sir, I have not." "Umph! you're too old to begin. Have you been used to sit at the desk?" "Yes; I have been accustomed to study the greater part of the day." "Well, you may come here on Monday, and I'll speak to you again, and see what you can do. I'm too busy just now. Good-morning." Ned turned to go, but paused on the threshold, and stood holding the door-handle. "Excuse me, sir," he said, hesitatingly, "may I ask what room I shall occupy, if--if--I come to work here?" Mr Moxton looked a little surprised at the question, but pointed to the outer office where the dishevelled clerk sat, and said, "There." Ned fell to twenty below the freezing-point. "And pray, sir," he continued, "may I ask what are office-hours?" "From nine a.m. till nine p.m., with an interval for meals," said Mr Moxton, sharply; "but we usually continue at work till eleven at night, sometimes later. Good-morning." Ned fell to zero, and found himself in the street, with an indistinct impression of having heard the dishevelled clerk chuckling vociferously as he passed through the office. It was a hard struggle, a very hard struggle, but he recalled to mind all that his uncle had ever done for him, and the love he bore him, and manfully resolved to cast California behind his back for ever, and become a lawyer. Meanwhile Mr Shirley received a visit from a very peculiar personage. He was still seated in his arm-chair pondering his nephew's prospects when this personage entered the room, hat in hand--the hat was a round straw one--and cried heartily, "Good day, kinsman." "Ha! Captain Bunting, how are ye? Glad to see you, old fellow," exclaimed Mr Shirley, rising and seizing the sailor by the hand. "Sit down, sit down, and let's hear your news. Why, I believe it's six months since I saw you." "Longer, Shirley, longer than that," replied the captain, seating himself in the chair which Ned Sinton had vacated a short time before. "I hope your memory is not giving way. I have been half round the world, and it's a year and six months to-day since I sat here last." "Is it?" cried Mr Shirley, in surprise. "Now, that is very remarkable. But do you know, captain, I have often thought upon that subject, and wondered why it is that, as we get older, time seems to fly faster, and events which happened a month ago seem as if they only occurred yesterday. But let me hear all about it. Where have you been, and where are you going next?" "I've been," replied the captain, who was a big, broad man with a rough over-all coat, rough pilot-cloth trousers, rough red whiskers, a shaggy head of hair, and a rough-skinned face; the only part of him, in fact, which wasn't rough was his heart; that was soft and warm-- "I've been, as I remarked before, half round the world, and I'm goin' next to America. That's a short but comprehensive answer to your question. If you have time and patience, kinsman, I'll open the log-book of my memory and give you some details of my doings since we last met. But first tell me, how is my young friend, Ned?" "Oh, he's well--excellently well--besides being tall and strong. You would hardly know him, captain. He's full six feet high, I believe, and the scamp has something like a white wreath of smoke over his upper lip already! I wish him to become an engineer or a lawyer, but the boy is in love with California just now, and dreams about nothing but wild adventures and gold-dust." The captain gave a grunt, and a peculiar smile crossed his rugged visage as he gazed earnestly and contemplatively into the fire. Captain Bunting was a philosopher, and was deeply impressed with the belief that the smallest possible hint upon any subject whatever was sufficient to enable him to dive into the marrow of it, and prognosticate the probable issue of it, with much greater certainty than any one else. On the present occasion, however, the grunt above referred to was all he said. It is not necessary to trouble the reader with the lengthened discourse that the captain delivered to his kinsman. When he concluded, Mr Shirley pushed his spectacles up on his bald head, gazed at the fire, and said, "Odd, very odd; and interesting too--very interesting." After a short pause, he pulled his spectacles down on his nose, and looking over them at the captain, said, "And what part of America are you bound for now?" "California," answered the captain, slowly. Mr Shirley started, as if some prophetic vision had been called up by the word and the tone, in which it was uttered. "And that," continued the captain, "brings me to the point. I came here chiefly for the purpose of asking you to let your nephew go with me, as I am in want of a youth to assist me, as a sort of supercargo and Jack-of-all-trades. In fact, I like your nephew much, and have long had my eye on him. I think him the very man for my purpose. I want a companion, too, in my business--one who is good at the pen and can turn his hand to anything. In short, it would be difficult to explain all the outs and ins of why I want him. But he's a tight, clever fellow, as I know, and I _do_ want him, and if you'll let him go, I promise to bring him safe back again in the course of two years--if we are all spared. From what you've told me, I've no doubt the lad will be delighted to go. And, believe me, his golden dreams will be all washed out by the time he comes back. Now, what say you!" For the space of five minutes Mr Shirley gazed at the captain over his spectacles in amazement, and said nothing. Then he threw himself back on his chair, pushed his spectacles up on his forehead, and gazed at him from underneath these assistants to vision. The alteration did not seem to improve matters, for he still continued to gaze in silent surprise. At last his lips moved, and he said, slowly but emphatically-- "Now, that is the most remarkable coincidence I ever heard of." "How so?" inquired the captain. "Why, that my nephew should be raving about going to California, and that you should be raving about getting him to go, and that these things should suddenly come to a climax on the same forenoon. It's absolutely incredible. If I had read it in a tale, now, or a romance, I would not have been surprised, for authors are such blockheads, generally, that they always make things of this kind fit in with the exactness of a dove-tail; but that it should _really_ come to pass in my own experience, is quite incomprehensible. And so suddenly, too!" "As to that," remarked the captain, with a serious, philosophical expression of countenance, "most things come to a climax suddenly, and coincidences invariably happen together; but, after all, it doesn't seem so strange to me, for vessels are setting sail for California every other day, and--" "Well," interrupted Mr Shirley, starting up with energy, as if he had suddenly formed a great resolve, "I _will_ let the boy go. Perhaps it will do him good. Besides, I have my own reasons for not caring much about his losing a year or two in regard to business. Come with me to the city, captain, and we'll talk over it as we go along." So saying, Mr Shirley took his kinsman by the arm, and they left the house together. CHAPTER FOUR. THE END OF THE BEGINNING--FAREWELL TO OLD ENGLAND. As Captain Bunting sagaciously remarked, "most things come to a climax suddenly." On the evening of the day in which our tale begins, Edward Sinton--still standing at zero--walked into his uncle's parlour. The old gentleman was looking earnestly, though unintentionally, at the cat, which sat on the rug; and the cat was looking attentively at the kettle, which sat on the fire, hissing furiously, as if it were disgusted at being kept so long from tea. Ned's face was very long and sad as he entered the room. "Dear uncle," said he, taking Mr Shirley by the hand, "I'm not going to take a week to think over it. I have made up my mind to remain at home, and become a lawyer." "Ned," replied Mr Shirley, returning his nephew's grasp, "I'm not going to take a week to think over it either. I have made up my mind that you are to go to California, and become a--a--whatever you like, my dear boy; so sit down to tea, and I'll tell you all about it." Ned was incredulous at first, but as his uncle went on to explain how matters stood, and gradually diverged from that subject to the details of his outfit, he recovered from his surprise, and sprang suddenly up to 100 degrees of Fahrenheit, even in the shade of the prospect of parting for a time from old Mr Shirley. Need we be surprised, reader, that our hero on that night dreamed the golden dream over again, with many wonderful additions, and sundry remarkable variations. Thus it came to pass that, two weeks afterwards, Ned and his uncle found themselves steaming down the Thames to Gravesend, where the good ship _Roving Bess_ lay riding at anchor, with a short cable, and top-sails loose, ready for sea. "Ned," said Mr Shirley, as they watched the receding banks of the noble river, "you may never see _home_ again, my boy. Will you be sure not to forget me! will you write often, Ned!" "Forget you, uncle!" exclaimed Ned, in a reproachful voice, while a tear sprang to his eye. "How can you suggest such a--" "Well, well, my boy, I know it--I know it; but I like to hear the assurance repeated by your own lips. I'm an old man now, and if I should not live to see you again, I would like to have some earnest, loving words to think upon while you are away." The old man paused a few moments, and then resumed-- "Ned, remember when far from home, that there is another home--eternal in the heavens--to which, if you be the Lord's child, you are hastening. You will think of that home, Ned, won't you! If I do not meet you again here at any rate I shall hope to meet you _there_." Ned would have spoken, but his heart was too full. He merely pressed old Mr Shirley's arm. "Perhaps," continued his uncle, "it is not necessary to make you promise to read God's blessed Word. You'll be surrounded by temptations of no ordinary kind in the gold-regions; and depend upon it that the Bible, read with prayer, will be the best chart and compass to guide you safely through them all." "My dear uncle," replied Ned, with emotion, "perhaps the best promise I can make is to assure you that I will endeavour to do, in all things and at all times, as you have taught me, ever since I was a little boy. If I succeed, I feel assured that I shall do well." A long and earnest conversation ensued between the uncle and nephew, which was interrupted at last, by the arrival of the boat at Gravesend. Jumping into a wherry, they pushed off, and were soon alongside of the _Roving Bess_, a barque of about eight hundred tons burden, and, according to Captain Bunting, "an excellent sea-boat." "Catch hold o' the man-ropes," cried the last-named worthy, looking over the side; "that's it; now then, jump! all right! How are ye, kinsman? Glad to see you, Ned. I was afraid you were goin' to give me the slip." "I have not kept you waiting, have I?" inquired Ned. "Yes, you have, youngster," replied the captain, with a facetious wink, as he ushered his friends into the cabin, and set a tray of broken biscuit and a decanter of wine before them. "The wind has been blowin' off shore the whole morning, and the good ship has been straining at a short cable like a hound chained up. But we'll be off now in another half-hour." "So soon?" said Mr Shirley, with an anxious expression on his kind old face. "All ready to heave up the anchor, sir," shouted the first mate down the companion. The captain sprang on deck, and soon after the metallic clatter of the windlass rang a cheerful accompaniment to the chorus of the sailors. One by one the white sails spread out to the breeze, and the noble ship began to glide through the water. In a few minutes more the last words were spoken, the last farewell uttered, and Mr Shirley stood alone in the stern-sheet of the little boat, watching the departing vessel as she gathered way before the freshening breeze. As long as the boat was visible Ned Sinton stood on the ship's bulwarks, holding on to the mizzen shrouds, and waving his handkerchief from time to time. The old man stood with his head uncovered, and his thin locks waving in the wind. Soon the boat was lost to view. Our hero brushed away a tear, and leaped upon the deck, where the little world, of which for many days to come he was to form a part, busied itself in making preparation for a long, long voyage. The British Channel was passed; the Atlantic Ocean was entered; England sank beneath the horizon; and, for the first time in his life, Ned Sinton found himself--at sea. CHAPTER FIVE. THE SEA--DANGERS OF THE DEEP, AND UNCERTAINTY OF HUMAN AFFAIRS--A DISASTROUS NIGHT AND A BRIGHT MORNING--CALIFORNIA AT LAST. Only those who have dwelt upon the ocean for many months together can comprehend the feelings of delight, with which the long-imprisoned voyager draws near to his desired haven. For six long months did the _Roving Bess_ do battle with the surging billows of the great deep. During that time she steered towards the Gulf of Mexico--carefully avoiding that huge reservoir of sea-weed, termed the Saragossa sea, in which the unscientific but enterprising mariners of old used to get becalmed oftentimes for days and weeks together--she coasted down the eastern shores of South America; fired at, and "shewed her heels" to, a pirate; doubled Cape Horn; fought with the tempests that take special delight in revelling there; and, finally, spreading her sails to the genial breezes of the Pacific Ocean, drew near to her voyage-end. All this the good ship _Roving Bess_ did with credit to herself and comfort to her crew; but a few weeks after she entered the Pacific, she was met, contrary to all expectation, by the bitterest gale that had ever compelled her to scud under bare poles. It was a beautiful afternoon when the first symptoms of the coming storm were observed. Captain Bunting had just gone down below, and our hero was standing at the weather gangway, observing the sudden dart of a shoal of flying-fish, which sprang out of the sea, whizzed through the air a few hundred feet, and fell with a splash into the water, in their frantic efforts to escape from their bitter enemy, the dolphin. While Ned gazed contemplatively at the spot where the winged fish had disappeared, the captain sprang on deck. "We're goin' to catch it," he said, hurriedly, as he passed forward; "tumble up, there; tumble up; all hands to shorten sails. Hand down the royals, and furl the t'gallant sails, Mr Williams, (to the first mate,) and look alive." "Ay, ay, sir," was answered in that prompt tone of voice which indicates thorough discipline and unquestioning obedience, while the men scrambled up the fore-hatch, and sprang up the ratlines hand over hand. A moment before, the vessel had lain quietly on the bosom of the unruffled deep, as if she were asleep, now she was all uproar and apparent confusion; sails slewed round, ropes rattled, and blocks creaked, while the sonorous voice of the first mate sounded commands like a trumpet from the quarter-deck. "I see no indication of a storm," remarked young Sinton, as the captain walked aft. "Possibly not, lad; but _I_ do. The barometer has fallen lower, all of a sadden, than I ever saw it fall before. You may depend upon it, we shall have to look out for squalls before long. Just cast your eyes on the horizon over the weather bows there; it's not much of a cloud, and, to say truth, I would not have thought much of it had the glass remained steady, but that faithful servant never--" "Better close-reef the top-sails, sir," said the mate, touching his cap, and pointing to the cloud just referred to. "Do so, Mr Williams, and let the watch below remain on deck, and stand by to man the halyards." In less than an hour the _Roving Bess_ was running at the rate of twelve knots, under close-reefed top-sails, before a steady gale, which in half-an-hour later increased to a hurricane, compelling them to take in all sail and "lay to." The sun set in a blaze of mingled black and lurid clouds, as if the heavens were on fire; the billows rose to their utmost height as the shrieking winds heaved them upwards, and then, cutting off their crests, hurled the spray along like driving clouds of snow, and dashed it against the labouring ship, as if impatient to engulf her in that ravening maw which has already swallowed up so many human victims. But the little vessel faced the tempest nobly, and rose like a sea-mew on the white crest of each wave, while the steersmen--for there were two lashed to the wheel--kept her to the wind. Suddenly the sheet of the fore trysail parted, the ship came up to the wind, and a billow at that moment broke over her, pouring tons of water on her deck, and carrying away the foremast, main-top-masts, and the jib-boom. "Clear the wreck--down the helm, and let her scud," shouted the captain, who stood by the mizzen-mast, holding on to a belaying-pin. But the captain's voice was drowned by the whistling winds, and, seeing that the men were uncertain what to do, he seized one of the axes which were lashed to the foot of the mast, and began to cut away the ropes which dragged the wreck of the foremast under the lee of the ship. Williams, the mate, and the second mate, followed his example, while Ned sprang to the wheel to see the orders to the steersmen obeyed. In half-an-hour all was clear, and the ship was scudding before the gale under bare poles. "We've not seen the worst of it," remarked the captain, as he resumed his post on the quarter-deck, and brushed the brine from his whiskers; "I fear, too, that she has received some bad thumps from the wreck of the foremast. You'd better go below, Sinton, and put on a topcoat; its no use gettin' wetter than you can help." "I'm as wet as I can be, captain; besides, I can work better as I am, if there's anything for me to do." "Well, there ain't much: you'll have enough to do to keep yourself from being washed overboard. How's her head, Larry?" "Nor' east an' by east," replied one of the men at the wheel, Larry O'Neil by name--a genuine son of Erin, whose jovial smile of rollicking good humour was modified, but by no means quenched, by the serious circumstances in which he found himself placed. His comrade, William Jones, who stood on the larboard side of the wheel, was a short, thick-set, stern seaman, whose facial muscles were scarcely capable of breaking into a smile, and certainly failed to betray any of the owner's thoughts or feelings, excepting astonishment. Such passions as anger, pity, disgust, fear, and the like, whatever place they might have in Jones's breast, had no visible index on his visage. Both men were sailor-like and powerful, but they were striking contrasts to each other, as they stood--the one sternly, the other smilingly--steering the _Roving Bess_ before that howling storm. "Is not `nor' east and by east' our direct course for the harbour of San Francisco?" inquired Ned Sinton. "It is," replied the captain, "as near as I can guess; but we've been blown about so much that I can't tell exactly. Moreover, it's my opinion we can't be far off the coast now; and if this gale holds on I'll have to bring to, at the risk of bein' capsized. Them plaguey coral-reefs, too, are always springin' up in these seas where you least expect 'em. If we go bump against one as we are goin' now, its all up with us." "Not a pleasant idea," remarked Ned, somewhat gravely. "Do these storms usually last long?" Before the captain could reply, the first mate came up and whispered in his ear. "Eh! how much d'ye say?" he asked quickly. "Five feet, sir; she surged heavily once or twice on the foremast, and I think must have started a plank." "Call all hands to work the pumps; and don't let the men know how much water there is in the hold. Come below, Ned. I want you. Keep her head steady as she goes." "Ay, ay, sir," sang out O'Neil, as the captain descended the companion-hatch to the cabin, followed by his young friend. The dim light in the swinging lamp flickered fitfully when the ship plunged into the troughs of the seas, and rose again with a violent surge, as each wave passed under her, while every plank and spar on board seemed to groan under the strain. Darkness now added to the terrors of the wild storm. Sitting down on a locker, Captain Bunting placed his elbows on the table, and covering his face with his hands, remained silent for several minutes, while Ned sat down beside him, but forbore to interrupt his thoughts. "Boy," he said, at length, looking up anxiously, "we've sprung a leak, and a few minutes will shew what our fate is to be. Five feet of water in the hold in so short a time implies a bad one." "Five feet two, sir," said the mate, looking in at the cabin door; "and the carpenter can't get at the leak." "I feared as much," muttered the captain. "Keep the men hard at the pumps, Mr Williams, and let me hear how it stands again in ten minutes." "Captain," said Ned, "it does not become a landsman to suggest, perhaps, but I can't help reminding you, that leaks of this kind have been stopped by putting a sail below the ship's bottom." "I know it, boy, I know it; but we could never get a sail down in such a night." "Can nothing be done, then?" "Yes, lad; it's hard to do it, but it must be done; life is more precious than gold--we must heave the cargo overboard. I have invested every farthing I have in the world in this venture," continued Captain Bunting, sadly, "but there's no help for it. Now, you were at the shifting of the cargo when we opened the hatches during the calms off the Brazilian coast, and as you know the position of the bales and boxes, I want you to direct the men so as to get it hove out quickly. Luckily, bein' a general cargo, most o' the bales are small and easily handled. Here comes the mate again--well, Mr Williams?" "Up another inch, sir." "Go, Ned, over with it. I'll superintend above; so good-bye to our golden dreams." There was a slight tone of bitterness in the captain's voice as he spoke, but it passed away quickly, and the next instant he was on deck encouraging his men to throw the valuable cargo over the side. Bale after bale and box after box were tossed ruthlessly out upon the raging sea until little was left in the ship, save the bulky and less valuable portion of the cargo. Then a cry arose that the leak was discovered! The carpenter had succeeded in partially stopping it with part of a sail, and soon the pumps began to reduce the quantity of water in the hold. At last the leak was gained and effectually stopped, and before daybreak the storm began to subside. While part of the crew, being relieved from the harassing work at the pumps, busied themselves in repairing damages, Ned went to his cabin to put on dry clothes and take a little rest, of which he stood much in need. Next day the bright sun rose in a cloudless sky, and a gentle breeze now wafted the _Roving Bess_ over the Pacific, whose bosom still heaved deeply from the effects of the recent storm. A sense of fervent thankfulness to God for deliverance filled the heart of our hero as he awoke and beheld the warm sunbeams streaming in at the little window of his cabin. Suddenly he was roused from a deep reverie by the shout of "Land, ho!" on deck. Words cannot convey an adequate idea of the effect of such a shout upon all on board. "Land, ho!" was repeated by every one, as he sprang in dishabille up the hatchway. "Where away?" inquired Captain Bunting. "Right ahead, sir," answered the look-out. "Ay, there it is," said the captain, as Ned, without coat or vest, rushed to his side, and gazed eagerly over the bow, "there it is, Ned,-- California, at last! Yonder rise the golden mountains that have so suddenly become the world's magnet; and yonder, too, is the `Golden Gate' of the harbour of San Francisco. Humph! much good it'll do us." Again there was a slight tone of bitterness in the captain's voice. "Don't let down your spirits, captain," said Ned, in a cheering tone; "there is still enough of the cargo left to enable us to make a start for the gold-fields. Perhaps we may make more money there than we would have made had we sold the cargo at a large profit by trafficking on the coast." Captain Bunting hooked his thumbs into the armholes of his waistcoat, and shook his head. It was evident that he had no faith in gold-digging. Meanwhile the crew had assembled on the forecastle, and were looking out ahead with wistful and excited glances; for the fame of the golden land to which they were approaching had spread far and wide, and they longed to see the gold-dust and nuggets with their own eyes. "It's a beautiful land, intirely," exclaimed Larry O'Neil, with an irrepressible shout of enthusiasm, which called forth a general cheer from the men. "Arrah, now," remarked another Patlander, "don't ye wish ye wos up to the knees and elbows in the goolden sands already? Faix I'd give a month's pay to have wan day at the diggin's." "I don't believe a word about it--I don't," remarked Jones, with the dogged air of a man who shouldn't, wouldn't, and didn't believe, and yet felt, somehow, that he couldn't help it. "Nother do I," said another, "It's all a sham; come, now, ain't it, Bill?" he added, turning to a bronzed veteran who had visited California two years before. "A sham!" exclaimed Bill. "I tell 'e wot it is, messmate, when you comes for to see the miners in San Francisco drinkin' _sham_pain like water, an' payin' a dollar for a glass o' six-water grog, you'll--" "How much is a dollar?" inquired a soft-looking youth, interrupting him. Bill said it was "'bout four shillin's," and turned away with a look of contempt at such a display of ignorance. "_Four shillin's_!" exclaimed the soft youth, in amazement. "Clear the anchor, and clew up the main-topsail," shouted the mate. In another moment the crew were scattered, some aloft to "lay out" on the topsail yard, some to the clew-lines, and some to clear the anchor, which latter had not been disturbed since the _Roving Bess_ left the shores of Old England. CHAPTER SIX. SAN FRANCISCO--AN UNEXPECTED DESERTION--CAPTAIN BUNTING TAKES A GLOOMY VIEW OF THINGS IN GENERAL--NEW FRIENDS AND NEW PLANS--SINGULAR FACTS AND CURIOUS FANCIES. The "Golden Gates," as they are called, of San Francisco, are two rocky headlands, about a mile apart, which form the entrance to one of the finest harbours, or rather land-locked seas, in the world. This harbour is upwards of forty miles long, by about twelve miles broad at its widest point, and receives at its northern end the waters of the noble Sacramento river, into which all the other rivers in California flow. Nearly opposite to the mouth of the Sacramento, on the southern shores of the bay, stands the famous city of San Francisco, close to which the _Roving Bess_ let go her anchor and clasped the golden strand. The old adage that, "truth is strange, stranger than fiction," was never more forcibly verified than in the growth and career of this wonderful city. No dreams of Arabian romance ever surpassed the inconceivable wonders that were matters of every-day occurrence there during the first years of the gold-fever; and many of the results attributed to Aladdin's wonderful lamp were almost literally accomplished--in some cases actually surpassed--in and around the cities of California. Before the discovery of gold, San Francisco was a mere hamlet. It consisted of a few rude cottages, built of sun-dried bricks, which were tenanted by native Californians; there were also a few merchants who trafficked in hides and horns. Cruisers and whalers occasionally put into the harbour to obtain fresh supplies of water, but beyond these and the vessels engaged in the hide-trade few ships ever visited the port, and the name of San Francisco was almost unknown. But the instant the rumour got abroad that gold had been discovered there, the eyes of the world were turned towards it. In a few months men and ships began to pour into the capacious harbour; a city of tents overspread the sand-hills on which the hamlet stood; thousands upon thousands of gold-hunters rushed to the mines; the golden treasures of the land were laid bare, and immense fortunes were made, literally in the course of a few weeks. In many cases these were squandered or gambled away almost as soon as made; but hundreds of men retired from the gold-fields after a few months' labour, and returned home possessed of ample fortunes. Thousands, too, failed--some from physical inability to stand the fatiguing labour of the mines, and some from what they termed "want of luck," though want of perseverance was, in nine cases out of ten, the real cause; while many hundreds perished from exposure and from the diseases that were prevalent in the country. Well would it have been for these last had they remembered God's word, "Make not haste to be rich;" but the thirst for gold, and the prospect of the sudden acquisition of enormous wealth, had blinded them to the fact that their frames were not equal to the rough life at the mines. The excitement was at its height when the _Roving Bess_ anchored off the shores of this land of gold. The sun was just setting as the anchor dropped, and the crippled ship swung round towards the shore, for the tide had just begun to rise. "Faix, it's a quare town," said Larry O'Neil to Ned, who was gazing in wrapt, astonishment and admiration ever the stern. It was indeed "quare." The entire city was made up of the most flimsy and make-shift materials that can be conceived. Many of the shops were mere tents with an open framework of wood in front; some were made of sheet-iron nailed to wooden posts; some were made of zinc; others, (imported from the States), of wood, painted white, and edged with green; a few were built of sun-dried bricks, still fewer of corrugated iron, and many of all these materials pieced together in a sort of fancy patchwork. Even boats were used as dwellings, turned keel up, with a hole cut in their sides for the egress of a tin smoke-pipe, and two others of larger size to serve as door and window. Finding space scarce, owing to the abrupt rise of the hills from the shore, many enterprising individuals had encroached upon the sea, and built houses on piles driven into the sand nearly half-a-mile below the original high water mark. Almost every nation under the sun had representatives there, and the consequent confusion of tongues was equal to that of Babel. The hills overhanging the lower part of the town were also well covered with tents, temporary houses, and cottages that had some appearance of comfort about them. Such was the city on which the sun went down that night, and many were the quaint, sagacious, and comic remarks made by the men as they sat round their various mess-tables in the forecastle of the _Roving Bess_, speculating noisily and half-seriously on the possibility of getting a run into the interior for a day or two. But there was a party of men in the ship whose conversation that night was neither so light-hearted nor so loud. They sat in a dark corner of the forecastle talking earnestly in subdued tones after the watch for the night was set. Their chief spokesman was a rough, ill-looking fellow, named Elliot. "Ye see, lads," said this man to the half-dozen comrades around him, "we must do it to-night, if we're to do it at all. There's the captain's small boat layin' out astarn, which comes quite handy, an', as we lose all our pay by the dodge, I don't see why we shouldn't take it." The man struck his fist into his left palm, and looked round the circle for opinions. "I don't half like it," said one; "it seems to me a sneaking way of doin' it." "Bah!" ejaculated another, "wot gammon you do talk. If _he_ lose the boat, don't _we_ lose the tin? Besides, are we agoin' to let sich a trifle stand in the way o' us an' our fortins?" "Have ye spoken to the other men, Elliot?" inquired one of the group. "Ay, in coorse I have; an' they're all agreeable. Young Spense stood out pretty stiff at first; but I talked him over. Only I said nothing to Larry O'Neil or Bill Jones. I know it's of no use. They'll never agree; and if we wos to speak of it to either on 'em, he'd go right away aft an' tell the captain. Their watch below 'll come on in an hour, an' then the watch on deck'll be on our side. So, lads, go and git ready-- an' sharp's the word." The party broke up, and went quietly below to prepare for flight, leaving no one on deck except O'Neil and Jones, and two of their comrades, who formed part of the watch. As Elliot had said, the watch was changed in about an hour. The mate and captain came on deck, looked round to see that all was right, and then returned to the cabin, to consult about the preliminary arrangements for disposing of the remnant of the cargo. Ned Sinton had turned in to have a good sleep before the expected toil and bustle of the following day; O'Neil and Jones, being relieved from duty, were glad to jump into their hammocks; and the deck was left in charge of the conspirators. It was a clear, lovely night. Not a zephyr stirred the surface of the sea, in whose depths the starry host and the images of a hundred ships of all shapes and tonnage were faithfully mirrored. Bright lights illumined the city, those in the tents giving to them the appearance of cones and cubes of solid fire. The subdued din of thousands of human voices floated over the water, and mingled with the occasional shout or song that rose from the fleet and the splash of oars, as boats passed to and from the shore. Over all, the young moon shed a pale, soft light, threw into deep shadow the hills towards the north, which rose abruptly to a height of 3000 feet, and tipped with a silver edge the peak of Monte Diavolo, whose lofty summit overlooks all the golden land between the great range of the Sierra Nevada and the ocean. It was a scene of peaceful beauty, well fitted to call forth the adoration of man to the great and good Creator. Doubtless there were some whose hearts rose that night above the sordid thoughts of gain and gold; but few such were recognisable by their fellow-men, compared with the numerous votaries of sin and so-called pleasure. Towards midnight, Captain Bunting turned in, ordering the steward to call him at daybreak; and shortly afterwards the mate retired, having previously looked round the deck and spoken the watch. A few minutes after, Elliot and his comrades appeared on deck, with their boots and small bundles in their hands. "Is all right?" whispered Elliot. "All right!" replied one of the watch. Nothing more was said; the boat was hauled softly alongside, and held firmly there while two men descended and muffled the oars; then one by one the men slid down the side, and a bag of biscuit and a junk of beef were lowered into it by the second mate, who was one of the conspirators. At that moment the first mate came on deck, and went forward to inquire what was wrong. "It's something in the boat, sir," replied the second mate. The mate looked over the side, and the sailors felt that they must be discovered, and that their plans were about to be frustrated. But the second mate was a man of decision. He suddenly seized Williams round the neck, and, covering his mouth with his hand, held him as if in a vice until he was secured and gagged. "Shall we leave him!" whisperingly inquired one of the men. "No, he'd manage to kick up a row; take him with us." The helpless mate was immediately passed over the side, the rope was cast off; and the boat floated softly away. At first, the oars were dipped so lightly that no sound was heard, even by those on board, except the drops of brine that trickled from the blades as they rose from the water; then, as the distance increased, the strokes were given more vigorously, and, at last, the men bent to it "with a will;" and they were soon shooting over the vast bay in the direction of the Sacramento river, up which they meant to proceed to the "diggings." With the exception of O'Neil and Jones, who had already reached the diggings in their dreams, the whole crew, sixteen in all, levanted, leaving Captain Bunting to navigate the ship back to Old England as he best might. It is easier to conceive than to describe the feelings of the captain, when, on the following morning, he discovered that his crew had fled. He stamped, and danced, and tugged his hair, and pursed up his lips so tight that nothing but an occasional splutter escaped them! Then he sat down on the cabin skylight, looked steadily at Ned, who came hurriedly on deck in his shirt and drawers to see what was wrong, and burst into a prolonged fit of laughter. "Hallo, captain! what's up!" "Nothin', lad, ha! ha! Oh yes, human flesh is up, Ned; sailors is riz, an' we've been sold;--we have--uncommon!" Hereupon the captain roared again; but there was a slight peculiarity in the tone, that indicated a strong infusion of rage with the seeming merriment. "They're all gone--every man, Jack," said Jones, with a face of deep solemnity, as he stood looking at the captain. "So they are, the blackguards; an' that without biddin' us good mornin', bad luck to them," added O'Neil. At first, Ned Sinton felt little disposed to take a comic view of the affair, and urged the captain strongly to take the lightest boat and set off in pursuit; but the latter objected to this. "It's of no use," he said, "the ship can't be repaired here without heavy expense; so, as I don't mean to go to sea again for some time, the desertion of the men matters little after all." "Not go to sea again!" exclaimed Ned, in surprise. "What, then, do you mean to do?" "That's more than I can tell. I must see first how the cargo is to be disposed of; after that, it will be time enough to concoct plans for the future. It is quite clear that the tide of luck is out about as far as it can go just now; perhaps it may turn soon." "No doubt of it, captain," cried his young _protege_ with a degree of energy that shewed he had made up his mind as to what _his_ course should be, in the event of things coming to the worst. "I'll go down and put on a few more articles of clothing, and then we'll have a talk over matters." The "talk," which was held over the breakfast-table in the cabin, resulted in the captain resolving to go ashore, and call on a Scotch merchant, named Thompson, to whom he had a letter of introduction. Half-an-hour later this resolve was carried out. Jones rowed them ashore in the smallest boat they had, and sculled back to the ship, leaving O'Neil with them to assist in carrying up two boxes which were consigned to Mr Thompson. The quay on which they stood was crowded with men of all nations, whose excited looks, and tones, and "go-ahead" movements, testified to the high-pressure speed with which business in San Francisco was transacted. "It's more nor I can do to carry them two boxes at wance," said Larry O'Neil, regarding them with a puzzled look, "an' sorra a porter do I see nowhere." As he spoke, a tall, gentlemanly-looking young man, in a red-flannel shirt, round-crowned wide-awake, long boots, and corduroys, stepped forward, and said, "I'll help you, if you like." "D'ye think ye can lift it!" inquired Larry, with a dubious look. The youth replied by seizing one of the boxes, and lifting it with ease on his shoulder, shewing that, though destitute of fat, he had more than the average allowance of bone and sinew. "I doubt if you could do it better than that yourself, Larry," said Ned, laughing. "Come along, now, close at our heels, lest we get separated in the crowd." The young porter knew the residence of Mr Thompson well, and guided them swiftly through the crowded thoroughfares towards it. Passing completely through the town, he led them over the brow of one of the sand-hills beyond it, and descended into a little valley, where several neat villas were scattered along the sides of a pleasant green slope, that descended towards another part of the bay. Turning into the little garden in front of one of these villas, he placed the box on the wooden platform before the door, and said, "This is Mr Thompson's house." There was something striking in the appearance of this young porter; he seemed much above his station in life; and Ned Sinton regarded his bronzed and handsome, but somewhat haggard and dissipated countenance, with interest, as he drew out his purse, and asked what was to pay. "Two dollars," answered the man. Ned looked up in surprise. The idea of paying eight shillings for so slight a service had never entered his imagination. At that moment the door opened, and Mr Thompson appeared, and invited them to enter. He was a shrewd, business-like man, with stern, but kind expression of countenance. "Come in, come in, and welcome to California," he said, on perusing the captain's letter of introduction. "Glad to see you, gentlemen. You've not had breakfast, of course; we are just about to sit down. This way," he added, throwing open the door of a comfortable and elegantly-furnished parlour. "Bring the boxes into the passage--that will do. Here, Lizette, pay the men, dear; two dollars a-piece, I fancy--" "Excuse me," interrupted Captain Bunting, "only one bas to be paid, the other is one of my sailors." "Ah! very good; which is he?" Larry O'Neil stepped forward, hat in hand. "Go in there, my man, and cook will attend to you." Larry passed through the doorway pointed out with a pleasant, fluttering sensation at the heart, which was quickly changed to a feeling of considerable disappointment on discovering that "cook" was a negro. Meanwhile Lizette took two dollars from her purse, and bowing modestly to the strangers as she passed out of the room, advanced with them towards the young porter. Now, Lizette was _not_ beautiful--few women are, in the highest sense of the term, and the few who are, are seldom interesting; but she was pretty, and sweet, and innocent, and just turned sixteen. Fortunately for the male part of the world, there are many such. She had light-brown hair, which hung in dishevelled curls all round, a soft fair complexion, blue eyes, and a turned-up nose--a pert little nose that said plainly, "I _will_ have my own way; now see if I don't." But the heart that animated the body to which that nose belonged, was a good, kind, earnest one; therefore, the nose having its own way was rather a blessing than otherwise to those happy individuals who dwelt habitually in the sunshine of Lizette's presence. At this particular time, ladies were scarce in California. The immense rush of men from all parts of the earth to the diggings had not been accompanied as yet by a corresponding rush of women, consequently the sight of a female face was, as it always ought to be, a source of comfort to mankind. We say "comfort" advisedly, because life at the gold-mines was a hard, riotous, mammon-seeking, rugged, and, we regret to say it, ungodly life; and men, in whom the soft memories of "other days" were not entirely quenched, had need, sometimes, of the comforting reflection that there still existed beings on the earth who didn't rant, and roar, and drink, and swear, and wear beards, and boots, and bowie-knives. There was double cause, then, for the gaze of respectful admiration with which the young porter regarded Lizette, as she said, "Here is your fare, porter," and put the money into his hand, which he did not even thank her for, but continued to hold extended as if he wished her to take it back again. Lizette did not observe the gaze, for she turned away immediately after giving him the money, and re-entered the parlour, whereupon the youth thrust both hands into his breeches-pockets, left the house, and returned slowly to the city, with the expression on his countenance of one who had seen a ghost. Meanwhile Captain Bunting and Ned Sinton sat down with their host and hostess to a second breakfast, over which the former related the circumstances of the double loss of his crew and cargo. "You are unfortunate," said Mr Thompson, when the captain paused; "but there are hundreds in nearly the same predicament. Many of the fine-looking vessels you see in the harbour have lain helplessly there for months, the crews having taken French leave, and gone off to the diggings." "It's awkward," said the captain, with a troubled expression, as he slowly raised a square lump of pork to his mouth; "what would you advise me to do?" "Sell off the remnant of the cargo, and set up a floating boarding-house." The square lump of pork disappeared, as the captain thrust it into his cheek in order to say, "What?" with a look of intense amazement. Lizette laughed inadvertently, and, feeling that this was somewhat rude, she, in her effort to escape, plunged deeper into misfortune by turning to Sinton, with a blushing countenance, and asking him to take another cup of tea--a proposal that was obviously absurd, seeing that she had a moment before filled up his second cup. Thus suddenly appealed to, Ned stammered, "Thank you--if you--ah!--no, thank you, not any more." "Set up a floating boarding establishment," reiterated the merchant, in a tone of decision that caused them all to laugh heartily. "It may sound strange," he continued, "but I assure you it's not a bad speculation. The captain of an American schooner, whose crew deserted the very day she arrived, turned his vessel into a floating boarding-house, about two months ago, and I believe he's making a fortune." "Indeed," ejaculated the captain, helping himself to another mass of pork, and accepting Lizette's proffer of a third cup of tea. "You have no idea," continued the merchant, as he handed the bread to Ned, and pressed him to eat--"you have no idea of the strange state of things here just now, and the odd ways in which men make money. Owing to the rush of immigrants everything is enormously dear, and house-room is not to be had for love or money, so that if you were to fit up your ship for the purpose you could fill it at once. At the various hotels in the city an ordinary meal at the _table d'hote_ costs from two to three dollars--eight and twelve shillings of our money--and there are some articles that bear fabulous prices. It's a fact that eggs at this moment sell at a shilling each, and onions and potatoes at the same price; but then wages are enormously high. How long this state of things will last no one can tell; in the meantime, hundreds of men are making fortunes. Only the other day a ship arrived from New York, and one of the passengers, a `'cute' fellow, had brought out fifteen hundred copies of several newspapers, which he sold for a dollar each in less than two hours! Then, rents are tremendous. You will scarcely believe me when I tell you that the rent paid by the landlord of one of the hotels here is 110,000 dollars--about 22,000 pounds--a year, and it is but a poor building too. My own warehouse, which is a building of only one storey, with a front of twenty feet, is rented to me at 40,000 dollars--8000 pounds a year--and rents are rising." Ned and the captain leaned back in their chairs aghast at such statements, and began to entertain some doubts as to the sanity of their host; but the worthy merchant was a grave, quiet man, without a particle of romance in his composition, and he went on coolly telling them facts which Ned afterwards said made his hair almost stand on end, when he thought of how little money he possessed, and how much he would have to pay for the bare necessaries of life. After some further converse on men and things in general, and on prospects at the mines, Mr Thompson said, "And now, Captain Bunting, I'll tell you what I'll do. I will go down to your ship, overhaul the cargo, and make you an offer for the whole in the lump, taking the saleable with the unsaleable. This will, at any rate, put you in funds at once, and enable you to follow what course seems best. Will that suit you?" "It will," said the captain, "and thank 'ee. As for turning a boardin'-house keeper, I don't think I'm cut out for it. Neither is my friend Sinton, eh?" "Certainly not," answered Ned, laughing: "we might as well become washerwomen." "You'd make a pretty good thing of it if you did," retorted Mr Thompson; "would they not, Lizette? you know more about these things than I do." "Indeed, I cannot tell, papa, as I do not know the capabilities of our friends in that way; but I think the few washerwomen in the city must be making fortunes, for they charge two shillings a-piece for everything, large and small." "Now, then, gentlemen," said the merchant, rising, "if you have quite finished, we will walk down to the harbour and inspect the goods." An arch smile played round Lizette's lips as she shook hands with Ned at parting, and she seemed on the point of speaking, but checked herself. "I beg pardon," said Ned, pausing, "did you--" "Oh, it was nothing!" said Lizette; "I was only going to remark that-- that if you set up in the washing line, I shall be happy to give you all the work I can." "Ahem!" coughed Ned gravely, "and if we should set up in the _other_ line, will you kindly come and board with us?" "Hallo, Ned, what's keeping you?" roared the captain. "Coming," shouted Ned, as he ran after him. "Where has Larry O'Neil gone?" "He's away down before us to have a look at the town. We shall find him, I doubt not, cruising about the quay." In a few minutes the three friends were wending their way through the crowded streets back to the shore. CHAPTER SEVEN. THE FATE OF THE ROVING BESS--GAMBLING SCENES--MR. SINTON MAKES A NEW FRIEND--LARRY O'NEIL MAKES MONEY IN STRANGE WAYS--A MURDER, AND A BEGGAR'S DEATH--NED BECOMES A POOR MAN'S HEIR. The remnant of the cargo of the _Roving Bess_ proved to be worth comparatively little--less even than had been anticipated. After a careful inspection, Mr Thompson offered to purchase it "in the slump" for 1000 dollars--about 200 pounds sterling. This was a heavy blow to poor Captain Bunting, who had invested his all--the savings of many years--in the present unfortunate venture. However, his was not a nature to brood over misfortunes that could not be avoided, so he accepted the sum with the best grace he might, and busied himself during the next few days in assisting the merchant to remove the bales. During this period he did not converse much with any one, but meditated seriously on the steps he ought to take. From all that he heard, it seemed impossible to procure hands to man the ship at that time, so he began to entertain serious thoughts of "taking his chance" at the diggings after all. He was by nature averse to this, however; and had nearly made up his mind to try to beat up recruits for the ship, when an event occurred that settled the matter for him rather unexpectedly. This event was the bursting out of a hurricane, or brief but violent squall, which, before assistance could be procured, dragged the _Roving Bess_ from her moorings, and stranded her upon the beach, just below the town. Here was an end to sea-faring prospects. The whole of his limited capital would not have paid for a tenth part of the labour necessary to refloat the ship, so he resolved to leave her on the beach, and go to the diggings. Mr Thompson advised him to sell the hull, as it would fetch a good price for the sake of the timber, which at that time was much wanted in the town, but the captain had still a lurking hope that he might get his old ship afloat at some future period, and would not hear of it. "What," said he, "sell the _Roving Bess_, which stands _A1_ at Lloyd's, to be broken up to build gold-diggers houses? I trow not. No, no; let her lie where she is in peace." On the day after the squall, as Ned and the captain were standing on the shore regarding their late floating, and now grounded, home in sad silence, a long-legged, lantern-jawed man, in dirty canvas trousers, long boots, a rough coat, and broad straw hat, with an enormous cigar in his mouth, and both hands in his trousers-pockets, walked up and accosted them. It did not require a second glance to know that he was a Yankee. "Guess that 'ere's pretty wall fixed up, stranger," he said, addressing the captain, and pointing with his nose to the stranded vessel. "It is," answered the captain, shortly. "Fit for nothin' but firewood, I calculate." To this the captain made no reply. "I say, stranger," continued the Yankee, "I wouldn't mind to give 'e 1000 dollars for her slick off." "I don't wish to sell her," replied the captain. "Say 1500," replied the man. "I tell you, I _won't_ sell her." "No! Now that _is_ kurous. Will 'e loan her, then!" Here Ned whispered a few words to the captain, who nodded his head, and, turning to the Yankee, said-- "How much will you give?" "Wall, I reckon, she's too far out to drive a screamin' trade, but I don't mind sayin' 100 dollars a month." After some consultation with Ned, and a little more talk with the Yankee, Captain Bunting agreed to this proposal, only stipulating that the bargain should hold good for a year, that the hull should not be cut or damaged in any way, and that the rent should be paid in advance into the hands of Mr Thompson, as he himself was about to proceed to the gold-fields. Having sealed and settled this piece of business at a neighbouring tavern, where the Yankee--Major Whitlaw--ordered a "brandy-smash" for himself and two "gin-slings" for his companions, (which they civilly declined, to his intense amazement,) the contracting parties separated. "That's rather a sudden transfer of our good ship," said Ned, laughing, as they walked towards the Plaza, or principal square of the town, where some of the chief hotels and gambling-houses were situated. "I feel half sorry for havin' done it," replied the captain; "however, it can't be helped now, so I'll away to our friend Thompson's office, and tell him about it." "Then I shall wander about here until you return. It will be dinner time at the hotels two hours hence. Suppose we meet at the Parker House, and talk over our future plans while we discuss a chop?" To this the captain agreed, and then hurried off to his friend's office, while Ned entered the hotel. A large portion of this building was rented by gamblers, who paid the enormous sum of 60,000 dollars a year for it, and carried on their villainous and degrading occupation in it night and day. The chief games played were monte and faro, but no interest attached to the games _as such_, the winning or losing of money was that which lent fascination to the play. Ned had intended to stroll through the hotel and observe the various visitors who thronged the bar, but the crash of a brass band in the gambling-saloons awakened his curiosity, and induced him to enter. The scene that met his eyes was, perhaps, the strangest and the saddest he had ever looked upon. The large saloon was crowded with representatives of almost every civilised nation under the sun. English, Scotch, Irish, Yankees, French, Russians, Turks, Chinese, Mexicans, Indians, Malays, Jews, and negroes--all were there in their national costumes, and all were, more or less, under the fascinating influence of the reigning vice of California, and especially of San Francisco. The jargon of excited voices can neither be conceived nor described. Crowds surrounded the monte tables, on which glittering piles of gold and silver coin were passing from hand to hand according to varying fortune. The characteristics--and we may add the worst passions--of the various nations were ever and anon brought strongly out. The German and Spaniard laid down their money, and lost or won without a symptom of emotion; the Turk stroked his beard as if with the view of keeping himself cool; the Russian looked stolid and indifferent; the Frenchman started, frowned, swore, and occasionally clutched his concealed pistol or bowie-knife; while the Yankee stamped and swore. But, indeed, the men of all nations cursed and swore in that terrible place. Those who dwelt in the city staked gold and silver coin, while the men just returned from the mines staked gold-dust and nuggets. These last were conspicuous from their rough clothing, rugged, bronzed, and weather-worn countenances. Many of them played most recklessly. Several successful diggers staked immense sums, and either doubled or lost, in two or three throws, the hard earnings of many months of toil, and left the rooms penniless. At one end of the saloon there was a counter, with a plentiful supply of stimulants to feed the excitement of the wretched gamblers; and the waiter here was kept in constant employment. Ned had never been within the unhallowed precincts of a gambling-house before, and it was with a feeling of almost superstitious dread that he approached the table, and looked on. A tall, burly, bearded miner stepped forward at the moment and placed a huge purse of gold-dust on the table-- "Now, then," he cried, with a reckless air, "here goes--neck or nothin'." "Nothin'!" he muttered with a fearful oath, as the president raked the purse into his coffers. The man rose and strode sullenly from the room, his fingers twitching nervously about the hilt of his bowie-knife; an action which the president observed, but heeded not, being prepared with a concealed revolver for whatever might occur. Immediately another victim stepped forward, staked five hundred dollars--and won. He staked again a thousand dollars--and won; then he rose, apparently resolved to tempt fickle fortune no more, and left the saloon. As he retired his place was filled by a young man who laid down the small sum of two dollars. Fortune favoured this man for a long time, and his pile of dollars gradually increased until he became over-confident and staked fully half of his gains--and lost. Ned's attention was drawn particularly to this player, whom he thought he had seen before. On looking more fixedly at him, he recognised the young porter who had carried up the box to the merchant's house. His next stake was again made recklessly. He laid down all he possessed-- and lost. Then he rose suddenly, and drawing a pistol from his breast, rushed towards the door. None of the players who crowded the saloon paid him more than momentary attention. It mattered not to them whether he meditated suicide or murder. They made way for him to pass, and then, closing in, were deep again in the all-absorbing game. But our hero was not thus callous. A strong feeling of sympathy filled his breast, prompting him to spring through the doorway, and catch the youth by the shoulder just as he gained the street. He turned round instantly, and presented the revolver at Ned's breast, but the latter caught his right arm in his powerful grasp and held it in the air. "Be calm, my poor fellow," he said, "I mean you no harm; I only wish to have a word of conversation with you. You are an Englishman, I perceive." The young man's head fell on his breast, and he groaned aloud. "Come, come," said Ned, releasing his arm, "don't give way like that." "I'm lost," said the youth, bitterly. "I have struggled against this passion for gaming, but it has overcome me again and again. It is vain to fight against it any longer." "Not a bit of it, man," said Ned, in a cheering tone, as he drew the arm of the young man within his own, and led him slowly along the street. "You are excited just now by your disappointments. Let us walk together a while, for I have something to say to you. I am quite a stranger here, and it's a comfort to have a countryman to talk with." The kind words, and earnest, hearty manner of our hero, had the effect of soothing the agitated feelings of his new friend, and of winning his confidence. In the course of half-an-hour, he drew from him a brief account of his past history. His name, he said, was Collins; he was the son of a clergyman, and had received a good education. Five years before the period of which we now write, he had left his home in England, and gone to sea, being at that time sixteen years of age. For three years he served before the mast in a South-Sea whale-ship, and then returned home to find his father and mother dead. Having no near relations alive, and not a sixpence in the world, he turned once more towards the sea, with a heavy heart and an empty pocket, obtained a situation as second mate in a trading vessel which was about to proceed to the Sandwich Islands. Encountering a heavy gale on the western coast of South America, his vessel was so much disabled as to be compelled to put into the harbour of San Francisco for repairs. Here the first violent attack of the gold-fever had set in. The rush of immigrants was so great, that goods of all kinds were selling at fabulous prices, and the few bales that happened to be on board the ship were disposed off for twenty times their value. The captain was in ecstasies, and purposed sailing immediately to the nearest civilised port for a cargo of miscellaneous goods; but the same fate befell him which afterwards befell Captain Bunting, and many hundreds of others--the crew deserted to the mines. Thereupon the captain and young Collins also betook themselves to the gold-fields, leaving the ship to swing idly at her anchor. Like most of the first arrivals at the mines, Collins was very successful, and would soon--in diggers' parlance--have "made his pile,"--i.e. his fortune, had not scurvy attacked and almost killed him; compelling him to return to San Francisco in search of fresh vegetables and medicine, neither of which, at that time, could be obtained at the mines for love or money. He recovered slowly; but living in San Francisco was so expensive that, ere his health was sufficiently recruited to enable him to return to the gold-fields, his funds were well-nigh exhausted. In order to recruit them he went, in an evil hour, to the gaming-saloons, and soon became an inveterate gambler. In the providence of God he had been led, some years before, to become an abstainer from all intoxicating drinks, and, remaining firm to his pledge throughout the course of his downward career, was thus saved from the rapid destruction which too frequently overtook those who to the exciting influences of gambling added the maddening stimulus of alcohol. But the constant mental fever under which he laboured was beginning to undermine a naturally-robust constitution, and to unstring the nerves of a well-made, powerful frame. Sometimes, when fortune favoured him, he became suddenly possessor of a large sum of money, which he squandered in reckless gaiety, often, however, following the dictates of an amiable, sympathetic disposition, he gave the most of it away to companions and acquaintances in distress. At other times he had not wherewith to pay for his dinner, in which case he took the first job that offered in order to procure a few dollars. Being strong and active, he frequently went down to the quays and offered his services as a porter to any of the gold-hunters who were arriving in shoals from all parts of the world. It was thus, as we have seen, that he first met with Ned Sinton and his friends. All this, and a great deal more, did Ned worm out of his companion in the course of half-an-hour's stroll in the Plaza. "Now," said he, when Collins had finished, "I'm going to make a proposal to you. I feel very much interested in all that you have told me; to be candid with you, I like your looks, and I like your voice--in fact, I like _yourself_, and--but what's your Christian name?" "Tom," replied the other. "Very well; then I'll call you Tom in future, and you'll call me Ned. Now, Tom, you must come with me and Captain Bunting to the gold-fields, and try your fortune over again--nay, don't shake your head, I know what you would say, you have no money to equip yourself, and you won't be indebted to strangers, and all that sort of stuff; but that won't do, my boy. I'm not a stranger; don't I know all your history from first to last?" Tom Collins sighed. "Well, perhaps I don't know it all, but I know the most of it, and besides, I feel as if I had known you all my life--" "Ned," interrupted the other, in an earnest tone of voice, "I feel your kindness very much--no one has spoken to me as you have done since I came to the diggings--but I cannot agree to your proposal to-day. Meet me at the Parker House to-morrow, at this time, and I shall give you a final answer." "But why not give it now?" "Because--because, I want to--to get paid for a job I expect to get--" "Tom," said Ned, stopping and laying his hand on the shoulder of his companion, while he looked earnestly into his face, "let us begin our friendship with mutual candour. Do you not intend to make a few dollars, and then try to increase them by another throw at the gaming-table!" The youth's brow flushed slightly as he answered, "You are right, I had half an intention of trying my fortune for the last time--" "Then," said Ned firmly and emphatically, "you shall do nothing of the sort. Gambling for money is a mean, pitiful, contemptible thing--don't frown, my dear fellow, I do not apply these terms to _you_, I apply them to the principle of gambling--a principle which you do not hold, as I know from your admission, made to me not many minutes ago, that you have often striven against the temptation. Many men don't realise the full extent of the sinfulness of many of their practices, but although that renders them less culpable, it does not render them innocent, much less does it justify the evil practices. Gambling is all that I have styled it, and a great deal worse; and you _must_ give it up--I insist on it. Moreover, Tom, I insist on your coming to dine with me at the Parker House. I shall introduce you to my friend Captain Bunting, whom you already know by sight--so come along." "Well, I will," said Tom, smiling at his friend's energy, but still hanging back; "but you must permit me to go to my lodgings first. I shall be back immediately." "Very good. Remember, we dine in the course of an hour, so be punctual." While Tom Collins hurried away to his lodgings, Ned Sinton proceeded towards the shores of the bay in a remarkably happy frame of mind, intending to pass his leisure hour in watching the thousands of interesting and amusing incidents that were perpetually taking place on the crowded quays, where the passengers from a newly-arrived brig were looking in bewildered anxiety after their luggage, and calling for porters; where traffic, by means of boats, between the fleet and the land created constant confusion and hubbub; where men of all nations bargained for the goods of all climes in every known tongue. While he gazed in silence at the exciting and almost bewildering scene, his attention was attracted to a group of men, among whose vociferating tones he thought he distinguished familiar voices. "That's it; here's your man, sir," cried one, bursting from the crowd with a huge portmanteau on his shoulder. "Now, then, where'll I steer to?" "Right ahead to the best hotel," answered a slim Yankee, whose black coat, patent-leather boots, and white kids, in such a place, told plainly enough that a superfine dandy had mistaken his calling. "Ay, ay, sir!" shouted Bill Jones, as he brushed past Ned, in his new capacity of porter. "Faix, ye've cotched a live Yankee!" exclaimed a voice there was no mistaking, as the owner slapped Bill on the shoulder. "He'll make yer fortin', av ye only stick by him. He's just cut out for the diggin's, av his mother wos here to take care of him." Larry O'Neil gave a chuckle, slapped his pockets, and cut an elephantine caper, as he turned from contemplating the retreating figure of his shipmate's employer, and advanced towards the end of the quay. "Now, thin, who's nixt?" cried he, holding out both arms, and looking excited, as if he were ready to carry off any individual bodily in his arms to any place, for mere love, without reference to money. "Don't all spake at wance. Tshoo dollars a mile for anythin' onder a ton, an' yerself on the top of it for four! Horoo, Mister Sinton, darlint, is it yerself? Och, but this is the place intirely--goold and silver for the axin' a'most! Ah, ye needn't grin. Look here!" Larry plunged both hands into the pockets of his trousers, and pulled them forth full of half and quarter dollars, with a few shining little nuggets of gold interspersed among them. Ned opened his eyes in amazement, and, taking his excited comrade apart from the crowd, asked how he had come by so much money. "Come by it!" he exclaimed; "ye could come by twice the sum, av ye liked. Sure, didn't I find that they wos chargin' tshoo dollars--aiqual to eight shillin's, I'm towld--for carryin' a box or portmanter the length o' me fut; so I turns porter all at wance, an' faix I made six dollars in less nor an hour. But as I was comin' back, I says to myself, says I, `Larry, ye'll be the better of a small glass o' somethin'--eh!' So in I goes to a grog-shop, and faix I had to pay half-a-dollar for a thimbleful o' brandy, bad luck to them, as would turn the stomik o' a pig. I almost had a round wi' the landlord; but they towld me it wos the same iverywhere. So I wint and had another in the nixt shop I sees, jist to try; and it was thrue. Then a Yankee spies my knife,--the great pig-sticker that Bob Short swopped wi' me for my junk o' plum-duff off the Cape. It seems they've run out o' sich articles just at this time, and would give handfuls o' goold for wan. So says I, `Wot'll ye give?' "`Three dollars, I guess,' says wan. "`Four,' says another; `he's chaitin' ye.' "`Four's bid,' says I, mountin' on a keg o' baccy, and howldin up the knife; `who says more? It's the rale steel, straight from Manchester or Connaught, I misremimber which. Warranted to cut both ways, av ye only turn the idge round, and shove with a will.' "I begood in joke; but faix they took me up in arnest, an' run up the price to twinty dollars--four pounds, as sure as me name's Larry--before I know'd where I wos. I belave I could ha' got forty for it, but I hadn't the heart to ax more, for it wasn't worth a brass button." "You've made a most successful beginning, Larry. Have you any more knives like that one?" "Sorrow a wan--more's the pity. But that's only a small bit o' me speckilations. I found six owld newspapers in the bottom o' me chist, and, would ye belave it, I sowld 'em, ivery wan, for half-a-dollar the pace; and I don't rightly know how much clear goold I've got by standin' all mornin' at the post-office." "Standing at the post-office! What do you mean?" "Nother more or less nor what I say. I suppose ye know the mail's comed in yisterday morning; so says I to myself this mornin', `Ye've got no livin' sowl in the owld country that's likely to write to ye, but ye better go, for all that, an' ax if there's letters. Maybe there is; who knows?' So away I wint, and sure enough I found a row o' men waitin' for their letters; so I crushes for'ard--och! but I thought they'd ha' hung me on the spot,--and I found it was a rule that `first come first sarved--fair play and no favour.' They wos all standin' wan behind another in a line half-a-mile long av it wos a fut, as patient as could be; some readin' the noosepapers, and some drinkin' coffee and tay and grog, that wos sowld by men as went up an' down the line the whole mornin'. So away I goes to the end o' the line, an' took my place, detarmined to stand it out; and, in three minutes, I had a tail of a dozen men behind me. `Faix, Larry,' says I, `it's the first time ye iver comminced at the end of a thing in order to git to the beginnin'.' "Well, when I wos gittin' pretty near the post-office windy, I hears the chap behind me a-sayin' to the fellow behind him that he expected no letters, but only took up his place in the line to sell it to them what did. An' sure enough I found that lots o' them were there on the same errand. Just then up comes a miner, in big boots and a wide-awake. "`Och,' says he, `who'll sell me a place?' and with that he offered a lot o' pure goold lumps. "`Guess it's too little,' says the man next me. "`Ah, ye thievin' blackguard!' says I. `Here, yer honer, I'll sell ye my place for half the lot. I can wait for me letter, more be token I'm not sure there is wan.' For, ye see, I wos riled at the Yankee's greed. So out I steps, and in steps the miner, and hands me the whole he'd offered at first. "`Take them, my man,' says he; `you're an honest fellow, and it's a trate to meet wan here.'" "Capital," cried Ned, laughing heartily; "and you didn't try for a letter after all?" "Porter there?" shouted a voice from the quay. "That's me, yer honer. Here ye are," replied the Irishman, bounding away with a yell, and shouldering a huge leathern trunk, with which he vanished from the scene, leaving Ned to pursue the train of thought evoked by his account of his remarkable experiences. We deem it necessary here to assure the reader that the account given by Larry O'Neil of his doings was by no means exaggerated. The state of society, and the eccentricities of traffic displayed in San Francisco and other Californian cities during the first years of the gold-fever, beggars all description. Writers on that place and period find difficulty in selecting words and inventing similes in order to convey anything like an adequate idea of their meaning. Even eye-witnesses found it almost impossible, to believe the truth of what they heard and saw; and some have described the whole circle of life and manners there to have been more like to the wild, incongruous whirl of a pantomime than to the facts of real life. Even in the close and abrupt juxtaposition of the ludicrous and the horrible this held good. Ned Sinton had scarcely parted from his hilarious shipmate, when he was attracted by shouts, as if of men quarrelling, in a gaming-house; and, a few moments later, the report of a pistol was heard, followed by a sharp cry of agony. Rushing into the house, and forcing his way through the crowd, he reached the table in time to see the bloody corpse of a man carried out. This unfortunate had repeatedly lost large sums of money, and, growing desperate, staked his all on a final chance. He lost; and, drawing his bowie-knife, in the heat of despair, rushed at the president of the table. A dozen arms arrested him, and rendered his intended assault abortive; nevertheless, the president coolly drew a revolver from under the cloth, and shot him dead. For a few minutes there was some attempt at disturbance, and some condemned, while others justified the act. But the body was removed, and soon the game went on again as if nothing had occurred. Sickened with the sight, Ned hurried from the house, and walked rapidly towards the shores of the bay, beyond the limits of the canvas town, where he could breathe the free ocean air, and wander on the sands in comparative solitude. The last straggling tent in that quarter was soon behind bun, and he stopped by the side of an old upturned boat, against which he leaned, and gazed out upon the crowded bay with saddened feelings. As he stood in contemplation, he became aware of a sound, as if of heaving, plethoric breathing under the boat. Starting up, he listened intently, and heard a faint groan. He now observed, what had escaped his notice before, that the boat against which he leaned was a human habitation. A small hole near the keel admitted light, and possibly, at times, emitted smoke. Hastening round to the other side, he discovered a small aperture, which served as a doorway. It was covered with a rag of coarse canvas, which he lifted, and looked in. "Who's there?" inquired a voice, as sharply as extreme weakness would allow. "Have a care! There's a revolver pointing at your head. If you come in without leave, I'll blow out your brains." "I am a friend," said Ned, looking towards the further end of the boat, where, on a couch of straw, lay the emaciated form of a middle-aged man. "Put down your pistol, friend; my presence here is simply owing to the fact that I heard you groan, and I would relieve your distress, if it is in my power." "You are the first that has said so since I lay down here," sighed the man, falling back heavily. Ned entered, and, advancing as well as he could in a stooping posture, sat down beside the sick man's pallet, and felt his pulse. Then he looked anxiously in his face, on which the hand of death was visibly placed. "My poor fellow!" said Ned, in a soothing tone, "you are very ill, I fear. Have you no one to look after you?" "Ill!" replied the sick man, almost fiercely, "I am dying. I have seen death too often, and know it too well, to be mistaken." His voice sank to a whisper as he added, "It is not far off now." For a few seconds Ned could not make up his mind what to say. He felt unwilling to disturb the last moments of the man. At last he leaned forward, and repeated from memory several of the most consoling passages of Scripture. Twice over he said, "Though thy sins be as scarlet, they shall be white as wool," and, "Him that cometh unto Me, (Christ), I will in no wise cast out." The man appeared to listen, but made no reply. Suddenly he started up, and, leaning on his elbow, looked with an awfully earnest stare into Ned's face. "Young man, gold is good--gold is good--remember that, _if you don't make it your god_." After a pause, he continued, "_I_ made it my god. I toiled for it night and day, in heat and cold, wet and dry. I gave up everything for it; I spent all my time in search of it--and I got it--and what good can it do me _now_? I have spent night and day here for weeks, threatening to shoot any one who should come near my gold--Ha!" he added, sharply, observing that his visitor glanced round the apartment, "you'll not find it _here_. No, look, look round, peer into every corner, tear up every plank of my boat, and you'll find nothing but rotten wood, and dust, and rusty nails." "Be calm, my friend," said Ned, who now believed that the poor man's mind was wandering, "I don't want your gold; I wish to comfort you, if I can. Would you like me to do anything for you after--" "After I'm dead," said the man, abruptly. "No, nothing. I have no relations--no friends--no enemies, even, _now_. Yes," he added, quickly, "I have one friend. _You_ are my friend. You have spoken kindly to me--a beggar. You deserve the name of friend. Listen, I want you to be my heir. See here, I have had my will drawn up long ago, with the place for the name left blank I had intended--but no matter--what is your name?" "Edward Sinton." "Here, hand me that ink-horn, and the pen. There," continued the man, pushing the paper towards him, "I have made over to you the old boat, and the ground it lies on. Both are mine. The piece of ground is marked off by four posts. Take care of the--" The man's voice sank to a mere whisper; then it ceased suddenly. When Ned looked at him again, he started, for the cold hand of death had sealed his lips for ever. A feeling of deep, intense pity filled the youth's heart, as he gazed on the emaciated form of this friendless man--yet he experienced a sensation approaching almost to gladness, when he remembered that the last words he had spoken to him were those of our blessed Saviour to the chief of sinners. Spreading the ragged piece of canvas that formed a quilt over the dead man's face, he rose, and left the strange dwelling, the entrance to which he secured, and then hastened to give information of the death to the proper authorities. Ned was an hour too late for dinner when he arrived at the hotel, where he found Captain Bunting and his new friend awaiting him in some anxiety. Hastily informing them of the cause of his detention, he introduced them to each other, and forgot for a time the scene of death he had just witnessed, in talking over plans for the future, and in making arrangements for a trip to the diggings. CHAPTER EIGHT. OUR HERO AND HIS FRIENDS START FOR THE DIGGINGS--THE CAPTAIN'S PORTRAIT--COSTUMES, AND SCENERY, AND SURPRISES--THE RANCHE BY THE ROAD-SIDE--STRANGE TRAVELLERS--THEY MEET WITH A NEW FRIEND, AND ADOPT HIM--THE HUNTER'S STORY--LARRY OFFERS TO FIGHT A YANKEE--HIGH PRICES AND EMPTY PURSES. Ovid never accomplished a metamorphosis more striking or complete than that effected by Captain Bunting upon his own proper person. We have said, elsewhere, that the worthy captain was a big, broad man, with a shaggy head of hair, and red whiskers. Moreover, when he landed in San Francisco, he wore a blue coat, with clear brass buttons, blue vest, blue trousers, and a glazed straw hat; but in the course of a week he effected such a change in his outward man, that his most intimate friend would have failed to recognise him. No brigand of the Pyrenees ever looked more savage--no robber of the stage ever appeared more outrageously fierce. We do not mean to say that Captain Bunting "got himself up" for the purpose of making himself conspicuous. He merely donned the usual habiliments of a miner; but these habiliments were curious, and the captain's figure in them was unusually remarkable. In order that the reader may have a satisfactory view of the captain, we will change the scene, and proceed at once to that part of the road to the gold-fields which has now been reached by our adventurers. It is a wide plain, or prairie, on which the grass waves like the waters of the sea. On one side it meets the horizon, on another it is bounded by the faint and far-distant range of the Sierra Nevada. Thousands of millions of beautiful wild-flowers spangle and beautify the soft green carpet, over which spreads a cloudless sky, not a whit less blue and soft than the vaunted sky of Italy. Herds of deer are grazing over the vast plain, like tame cattle. Wild geese and other water-fowl wing their way through the soft atmosphere, and little birds twitter joyously among the flowers. Everything is bright, and green, and beautiful; for it is spring, and the sun has not yet scorched the grass to a russet-brown, and parched and cracked the thirsty ground, and banished animal and vegetable life away, as it will yet do, ere the hot summer of those regions is past and gone. There is but one tree in all that vast plain. It is a sturdy oak, and near it bubbles a cool, refreshing spring, over which, one could fancy, it had been appointed guardian. The spot is hundreds of miles from San Francisco, on the road to the gold-mines of California. Beneath that solitary oak a party of weary travellers have halted, to rest and refresh themselves and their animals; or, as the diggers have it, to take their "nooning." In the midst of that party sits our captain, on the back of a long-legged mule. On his head is, or, rather, was--for he has just removed it, in order to wipe the perspiration from his forehead--a brown felt wide-awake, very much battered in appearance, suggesting the idea that the captain had used it constantly as a night-cap, which, indeed, is the fact. Nothing but a flannel shirt, of the brightest possible scarlet, clothes the upper portion of his burly frame, while brown corduroys adorn the lower. Boots of the most ponderous dimensions engulf, not only his feet, but his entire legs, leaving only a small part of the corduroys visible. On his heels, or, rather, just above his heels, are strapped a pair of enormous Mexican spurs, with the frightful prongs of which he so lacerated the sides of his unfortunate mule, during the first part of the journey, as to drive that animal frantic, and cause it to throw him off at least six times a day. Dire necessity has now, however, taught the captain that most difficult and rarely-accomplished feat of horsemanship, to ride with the toes well in, and the heels well out. Round Captain Bunting's waist is a belt, which is of itself quite a study. It is made of tough cow-hide, full two and a half inches broad, and is fastened by a brass buckle that would cause the mouth of a robber-chief to water. Attached to it in various ways and places are the following articles:--A bowie-knife of the largest size--not far short of a small cutlass; a pair of revolving pistols, also large, and having six barrels each; a stout leathern purse; and a leathern bag of larger dimensions for miscellaneous articles. As the captain has given up shaving for many weeks past, little of his face is visible, except the nose, eyes, and forehead. All besides is a rugged mass of red hair, which rough travel has rendered an indescribable and irreclaimable waste. But the captain cares not: as long as he can clear a passage through the brushwood to his mouth, he says, his mind is easy. Such is Captain Bunting, and such, with but trifling modifications, is every member of his party. On Ned Sinton and his almost equally stalwart and handsome friend, Tom Collins, the picturesque costume of the miner sits well; and it gives a truly wild, dashing look to the whole party, as they stand beneath the shade of that lovely oak, preparing to refresh themselves with biscuit and jerked beef, and pipes of esteemed tobacco. Besides those we have mentioned, Larry O'Neil is there,--busy carrying water in a bucket to the horses, and as proud of his Mexican spurs as if they were the golden spurs of the days of chivalry. Bill Jones is there, with a blue instead of a red-flannel shirt, and coarse canvas ducks in place of corduroys. Bill affects the sailor in other respects, for he scorns heavy boots, and wears shoes and a straw hat; but he is compelled to wear the spurs, for reasons best known to his intensely obstinate mule. There is also among them a native Californian,--a _vaquero_, or herd,--who has been hired to accompany the party to the diggings, to look after the pack-mules, of which there are two, and to assist them generally with advice and otherwise. He is a fine athletic fellow--Spanish-like, both in appearance and costume; and, in addition to bad Spanish, gives utterance to a few sounds, which _he_ calls "Encleesh." The upper part of his person is covered by the _serape_, or Mexican cloak, which is simply a blanket, with a hole in its centre, through which the head of the wearer is thrust, the rest being left to fall over the shoulders. Our travellers had reached the spot on which we now find them by means of a boat voyage of more than a hundred miles, partly over the great bay of San Francisco, and partly up the Sacramento River, until they reached the city of Sacramento. Here they purchased mules and provisions for the overland journey to the mines--a further distance of about a hundred and fifty miles,--and also the picks, shovels, axes, pewter plates, spoons, pans, and pannikins, and other implements and utensils that were necessary for a campaign among the golden mountains of the Sierra Nevada. For these the prices demanded were so enormous, that when all was ready for a start they had only a few dollars left amongst them. But being on their way to dig for gold, they felt little concern on this head. As the Indians of the interior had committed several murders a short time before, and had come at various times into collision with the gold-diggers, it was deemed prudent to expend a considerable sum on arms and ammunition. Each man, therefore, was armed with a rifle or carbine, a pistol of some sort, and a large knife or short sword. Captain Bunting selected a huge old bell-mouthed blunderbuss, having, as he said, a strong partiality for the weapons of his forefathers. Among other things, Ned, by advice of Tom Collins, purchased a few simple medicines; he also laid in a stock of drawing-paper, pencils, and water-colours, for his own special use, for which he paid so large a sum that he was ashamed to tell it to his comrades; but he was resolved not to lose the opportunity of representing life and scenery at the diggings, for the sake of old Mr Shirley, as well as for his own satisfaction. Thus equipped they set forth. Before leaving San Francisco, the captain, and Ned, and Tom Collins had paid a final visit to their friend the merchant, Mr Thompson, and committed their property to his care--i.e. the hull of the good ship _Roving Bess_--the rent of which he promised to collect monthly--and Ned's curious property, the old boat and the little patch of barren sand, on which it stood. The boat itself he made over, temporarily, to a poor Irishman who had brought out his wife with him, and was unable to proceed to the diggings in consequence of the said wife having fallen into a delicate state of health. He gave the man a written paper empowering him to keep possession until his return, and refused to accept of any rent whereat the poor woman thanked him earnestly, with the tears running down her pale cheeks. It was the hottest part of an exceedingly hot day when the travellers found themselves, as we have described, under the grateful shade of what Larry termed the "lone oak." "Now our course of proceeding is as follows," said Ned, at the conclusion of their meal--"We shall travel all this afternoon, and as far into the night as the mules can be made to go. By that time we shall be pretty well off the level ground, and be almost within hail of the diggings--" "I don't belave it," said Larry O'Neil, knocking the ashes out of his pipe in an emphatic manner; "sure av there _was_ goold in the country we might have seed it by this time." Larry's feelings were a verification of the words, "hope deferred maketh the heart sick." He had started enthusiastically many days before on this journey to the gold regions, under the full conviction that on the first or second day he would be, as he expressed it, "riding through fields of goold dust;" instead of which, day after day passed, and night after night, during which he endured all the agonies inseparable from a _first_ journey on horseback, and still not a symptom of gold was to be seen, "no more nor in owld Ireland itself." But Larry bore his disappointments like an Irishman, and defied "fortin' to put him out of timper by any manes wotiver." "Patience," said Bill Jones, removing his pipe to make room for the remark, "is a wirtue--that's wot I says. If ye can't make things better, wot then? why, let 'em alone. W'en there's no wind, crowd all canvas and ketch wot there is. W'en there _is_ wind, why then, steer yer course; or, if ye can't, steer as near it as ye can. Anyhow, never back yer fore-topsail without a cause--them's my sentiments." "And very good sentiments they are, Bill," said Tom Collins, jumping up and examining the girth of his horse; "I strongly advise you to adopt them, Larry." "Wot a bottle o' wisdom it is," said O'Neil, with a look of affected contempt at his messmate. "Wos it yer grandmother, now, or yer great wan, that edicated ye?--Arrah, there ye go! Oh, morther, ye'll break me heart!" The latter part of this remark was addressed to his mule, which at that moment broke its laryat, and gambolled gaily away over the flowering plain. Its owner followed, yelling like a madman. He might as well have chased the wind; and it is probable that he would never have mounted his steed again had not the vaquero come to his aid. This man, leaping on his own horse, which was a very fine one, dashed after the runaway, with which he came up in a few minutes; then grasping the long coil of line that hung at his saddle-bow, he swung it round once or twice, and threw the lasso, or noose, adroitly over the mule's head, and brought it up. "Yer a cliver fellow," said Larry, as he came up, panting; "sure ye did it be chance?" The man smiled, and without deigning a reply, rode back to the camp, where the party were already in the saddle. In a few minutes they were trotting rapidly over the prairie. Before evening closed, the travellers arrived at one of the road-side inns, or, as they were named, ranches, which were beginning at this time to spring up in various parts of the country, for the accommodation of gold-hunters on their way to the mines. This ranche belonged to a man of the name of Dawson, who had made a few hundred dollars by digging, and then set up a grog-shop and house of entertainment, being wise enough to perceive that he could gain twice as much gold by supplying the diggers with the necessaries of life than he could hope to procure by digging. His ranche was a mere hovel, built of sun-dried bricks, and he dealt more in drinks than in edibles. The accommodation and provisions were of the poorest description, but, as there was no other house of entertainment near, mine host charged the highest possible prices. There was but one apartment in this establishment, and little or no furniture. Several kegs and barrels supported two long pine planks which constituted at different periods of the day the counter, the gaming-table, and the _table d'hote_. A large cooking stove stood in the centre of the house, but there were no chairs; guests were expected to sit on boxes and empty casks, or stand. Beds there were none. When the hour for rest arrived, each guest chose the portion of the earthen floor that suited him best, and, spreading out his blankets, with his saddle for a pillow, lay down to dream of golden nuggets, or, perchance, of home, while innumerable rats--the bane of California-- gambolled round and over him. The ranchero, as the owner of such an establishment is named, was said to be an escaped felon. Certainly he might have been, as far as his looks went. He was surly and morose, but men minded this little, so long as he supplied their wants. There were five or six travellers in the ranche when our party arrived, all of whom were awaiting the preparation of supper. "Here we are," cried the captain, as they trotted into the yard, "ready for supper, I trow; and, if my nose don't deceive me, supper's about ready for us." "I hope they've got enough for us all," said Ned, glancing at the party inside, as he leaped from the saddle, and threw the bridle to his vaquero. "Halloo, Boniface! have ye room for a large party in there?" "Come in an' see," growled Dawson, whose duties at the cooking stove rendered him indifferent as to other matters. "Ah, thin, ye've got a swate voice," said Larry O'Neil, sarcastically, as he led his mule towards a post, to which Bill Jones was already fastening his steed. "I say, Bill," he added, pointing to a little tin bowl which stood on an inverted cask outside the door of the ranche, "wot can that be for?" "Dunno," answered Bill; "s'pose it's to wash in." At that moment a long, cadaverous miner came out of the hut, and rendered further speculation unnecessary, by turning up his shirt sleeves to the elbow, and commencing his ablutions in the little tin bowl, which was just large enough to admit both his hands at once. "Faix, yer mouth and nose ought to be grateful," said Larry, in an undertone, as he and Jones stood with their arms crossed, admiring the proceedings of the man. This remark had reference to the fact that the washer applied the water to the favoured regions around his nose and mouth, but carefully avoided trespassing on any part of the territory lying beyond. "Oh! morther, wot nixt?" exclaimed Larry. Well might he inquire, for this man, having combed his hair with a public comb, which was attached to the door-post by a string, and examined himself carefully in a bit of glass, about two inches in diameter, proceeded to cleanse his teeth with a _public tooth-brush_ which hung beside the comb. All these articles had been similarly used by a miner ten minutes previously; and while this one was engaged with his toilet, another man stood beside him awaiting his turn! "W'en yer in difficulties," remarked Bill Jones, slowly, as he entered the ranche, and proceeded to fill his pipe, "git out of 'em, if ye can. If ye can't, why wot then? circumstances is adwerse, an' it's o' no use a-tryin' to mend 'em. Only my sentiments is, that I'll delay washin' till I comes to a river." "You've come from San Francisco, stranger?" said a rough-looking man, in heavy boots, and a Guernsey shirt, addressing Captain Bunting. "Maybe I have," replied the captain, regarding his interrogator through the smoke of his pipe, which he was in the act of lighting. "Goin' to the diggin's, I s'pose?" "Yes." "Bin there before?" "No." "Nor none o' your party, I expect?" "None, except one." "You'll be goin' up to the bar at the American Forks now, I calc'late?" "Don't know that I am." "Perhaps you'll try the northern diggin's?" "Perhaps." How long this pertinacious questioner might have continued his attack on the captain is uncertain, had he not been suddenly interrupted by the announcement that supper was ready, so he swaggered off to the corner of the hut where an imposing row of bottles stood, demanded a "brandy-smash," which he drank, and then, seating himself at the table along with the rest of the party, proceeded to help himself largely to all that was within his reach. The fare was substantial, but not attractive. It consisted of a large junk of boiled salt beef, a mass of rancid pork, and a tray of broken ship-biscuit. But hungry men are not particular, so the viands were demolished in a remarkably short space of time. "I'm a'most out o' supplies," said the host, in a sort of apologetic tone, "an' the cart I sent down to Sacramento some weeks ago for more's not come back." "Better than nothin'," remarked a bronzed, weatherbeaten hunter, as he helped himself to another junk of pork. "If ye would send out yer boy into the hills with a rifle now an' again, ye'd git lots o' grizzly bars." "Are grizzly-bears eaten here?" inquired Ned Sinton, pausing in the act of mastication, to ask the question. "Eaten!" exclaimed the hunter, in surprise, "in coorse they is. They're uncommon good eatin' too, I guess. Many a one I've killed an' eaten myself; an' I like 'em better than beef--I do. I shot one up in the hills there two days agone, an' supped off him; but bein' in a hurry, I left the carcase to the coyotes." (Coyotes are small wolves.) The men assembled round the rude _table d'hote_ were fifteen in number, including our adventurers, and represented at least six different nations--English, Scotch, Irish, German, Yankee, and Chinese. Most of them, however, were Yankees, and all were gold-diggers; even the hunter just referred to, although he had not altogether forsaken his former calling, devoted much of his time to searching for gold. Some, like our friends, were on their way to the diggings for the first time; others were returning with provisions, which they had travelled to Sacramento city to purchase; and one or two were successful diggers who had made their "piles,"--in other words, their fortunes--and were returning home with heavy purses of gold-dust and nuggets. Good humour was the prevailing characteristic of the party, for each man was either successful or sanguinely hopeful, and all seemed to be affected by a sort of undercurrent of excitement, as they listened to, or related, their adventures at the mines. There was only one serious drawback to the scene, and that was, the perpetual and terrible swearing that mingled with the conversation. The Americans excelled in this wicked practice. They seemed to labour to invent oaths, not for the purpose of venting angry feelings, but apparently with the view of giving emphasis to their statements and assertions. The others swore from _habit_. They had evidently ceased to be aware that they were using oaths--so terribly had familiarity with sinful practices blunted the consciences of men who, in early life, would probably have trembled in this way to break the law of God. Yes, by the way, there was one other drawback to the otherwise picturesque and interesting group, and this was the spitting propensity of the Yankees. All over the floor--that floor, too, on which other men besides themselves were to repose--they discharged tobacco-juice and spittle. The _nation_ cannot be too severely blamed and pitied for this disgusting practice, yet we feel a tendency, not to excuse, but to deal gently with _individuals_, most of whom, having been trained to spitting from their infancy, cannot be expected even to understand the abhorrence with which the practice is regarded by men of other nations. Nevertheless, brother Jonathan, it is not too much to expect that you ought to respect the universal condemnation of your spitting propensities--by travellers from all lands--and endeavour to _believe_ that ejecting saliva promiscuously is a dirty practice, even although you cannot _feel_ it. We think that if you had the moral courage to pass a law in Congress to render spitting on floors and carpets a capital offence, you would fill the world with admiration and your own bosoms with self-respect, not to mention the benefit that would accrue to your digestive powers in consequence thereof! All of the supper party were clad and armed in the rough-and-ready style already referred to, and most of them were men of the lower ranks, but there were one or two who, like Ned Sinton, had left a more polished class of mortals to mingle in the promiscuous crowd. These, in some cases, carried their manners with them, and exerted a modifying influence on all around. One young American, in particular, named Maxton, soon attracted general attention by the immense fund of information he possessed, and the urbane, gentlemanly manner in which he conveyed it to those around him. He possessed in an eminent degree those qualities which attract men at once, and irresistibly good nature, frankness, manliness, considerable knowledge of almost every subject that can be broached in general conversation, united with genuine modesty. When he sat down to table he did not grasp everything within his reach; he began by offering to carve and help others, and when at length he did begin to eat, he did not gobble. He "guessed" a little, it is true, and "calculated" occasionally, but when he did so, it was in a tone that fell almost as pleasantly on the ear as the brogue of old Ireland. Ned happened to be seated beside Maxton, and held a good deal of conversation with him. "Forgive me, if I appear inquisitive," said the former, helping himself to a handful of broken biscuit, "but I cannot help expressing a hope that our routes may lie in the same direction--are you travelling towards Sacramento city or the mines?" "Towards the mines; and, as I observed that your party came from the southward, I suppose you are going in the same direction. If so, I shall be delighted to join you." "That's capital," replied Ned, "we shall be the better of having our party strengthened, and I am quite certain we could not have a more agreeable addition to it." "Thank you for the compliment. As to the advantage of a strong party, I feel it a safeguard as well as a privilege to join yours, for, to say truth, the roads are not safe just now. Several lawless scoundrels have been roving about in this part of the country committing robberies and even murder. The Indians, too, are not so friendly as one could wish. They have been treated badly by some of the unprincipled miners; and their custom is to kill two whites for every red-man that falls. They are not particular as to whom they kill, consequently the innocent are frequently punished for the guilty." "This is sad," replied Ned. "Are, then, all the Indian tribes at enmity with the white men?" "By no means. Many tribes are friendly, but some have been so severely handled, that they have vowed revenge, and take it whenever they can with safety. Their only weapons, however, are bows and arrows, so that a few resolute white men, with rifles, can stand against a hundred of them, and they know this well. I spent the whole of last winter on the Yuba River; and, although large bands were in my neighbourhood, they never ventured to attack us openly, but they succeeded in murdering one or two miners who strayed into the woods alone." "And are these murders passed over without any attempt to bring the murderers to justice?" "I guess they are not," replied Maxton, smiling; "but justice is strangely administered in these parts. Judge Lynch usually presides, and he is a stern fellow to deal with. If you listen to what the hunter, there, is saying just now, you will hear a case in point, if I mistake not." As Maxton spoke, a loud laugh burst from the men at the other end of the table. "How did it happen?" cried several. "Out wi' the yarn, old boy." "Ay, an' don't spin it too tight, or, faix, ye'll burst the strands," cried Larry O'Neil, who, during the last half-hour, had been listening, open-mouthed, to the marvellous anecdotes of grizzlies and red-skins, with which the hunter entertained his audience. "Wall, boys, it happened this ways," began the man, tossing off a gin-sling, and setting down the glass with a violence that nearly smashed it. "Ye see I wos up in the mountains, near the head waters o' the Sacramento, lookin' out for deer, and gittin' a bit o' gold now an' again, when, one day, as I was a-comin' down a gully in the hills, I comes all of a suddint on two men. One wos an Injun, as ugly a sinner as iver I seed; t'other wos a Yankee lad, in a hole diggin' gold. Before my two eyes were well on them, the red villain lets fly an arrow, and the man fell down with a loud yell into the hole. Up goes my rifle like wink, and the red-skin would ha' gone onder in another second, but my piece snapped--cause why? the primin' had got damp; an' afore I could prime agin, he was gone. "I went up to the poor critter, and sure enough it wos all up with him. The arrow went in at the back o' his neck. He niver spoke again. So I laid him in the grave he had dug for himself, and sot off to tell the camp. An' a most tremendous row the news made. They got fifty volunteers in no time, and went off, hot-fut, to scalp the whole nation. As I had other business to look after, and there seemed more than enough o' fightin' men, I left them, and went my way. Two days after, I had occasion to go back to the same place, an' when I comed in sight o' the camp, I guess there was a mighty stir. "`Wot's to do?' says I to a miner in a hole, who wos diggin' away for gold, and carin' nothin' about it. "`Only scraggin' an Injun,' he said, lookin' up. "`Oh,' says I, `I'll go and see.' "So off I sot, and there wos a crowd o' about two hundred miners round a tree; and, jest as I come up, they wos puttin' the rope round the neck of a poor wretch of an old grey-haired red-skin, whose limbs trembled so that they wos scarce able to hold him up. "`Heave away now, Bill,' cried the man as tied the noose. "But somethin' was wrong with the hitch o' the rope round the branch o' the tree, an' it wouldn't draw, and some time wos spent in puttin' it right. I felt sorter sorry for the old man, for his grave face was bold enough, and age more than fear had to do with the tremblin' o' his legs. Before they got it right again, my eye fell on a small band o' red-skins, who were lookin' quietly on; and foremost among them the very blackguard as shot the man in the galley. I knew him at once by his ugly face. Without sayin' a word, I steps for'ard to the old Injun, and takes the noose off his neck. "`Halloo!' cried a dozen men, jumpin' at me. `Wot's that for?' `Scrag the hunter,' cries one. `Howld yer long tongues, an' hear what he's got to say,' shouts an Irishman. "`Keep your minds easy,' says I, mountin' a stump, `an' seize that Injun, or I'll have to put a ball into him before he gits off'--for, ye see, I obsarved the black villain took fright, and was sneakin' away through the crowd. They had no doubt who I meant, for I pinted straight at him; and, before ye could wink, he was gripped, and led under the tree, with a face paler than ever I saw the face o' a red-skin before. "`Now,' says I, `wot for are ye scraggin' this old man?' So they told me how the party that went off to git the murderer met a band o' injuns comin' to deliver him up to be killed, they said, for murderin' the white man. An' they gave up this old Injun, sayin' he wos the murderer. The diggers believed it, and returned with the old boy and two or three others that came to see him fixed off. "`Very good,' says I, `ye don't seem to remimber that I'm the man what saw the murder, and told ye of it. By good luck, I've come in time to point him out--an' _this is him_.' An' with that I put the noose round the villain's neck and drawed it tight. At that he made a great start to shake it off, and clear away; but before you could wink, he was swingin' at the branch o' the tree, twinty feet in the air. "Sarved him right," cried several of the men, emphatically, as the hunter concluded his anecdote. "Ay," he continued, "an' they strung up his six friends beside him." "Sarved 'em right too," remarked the tall man, whose partiality for the tin wash-hand basin and the tooth-brush we have already noticed. "If I had my way, I'd shoot 'em all off the face o' the 'arth, I would, right away." "I'm sorry to hear they did that," remarked Larry O'Neil looking pointedly at the last speaker, "for it only shewed they was greater mortherers nor the Injuns--the red-skins morthered wan man, but the diggers morthered six. "An' who are _you_ that finds fault wi' the diggers?" inquired the tall man, turning full round upon the Irishman, with a tremendous oath. "Be the mortial," cried the Irishman, starting up like a Jack-in-the-box, and throwing off his coat, "I'm Larry O'Neil, at yer sarvice. Hooroo! come on, av' ye want to be purtily worked off." Instantly the man's hand was on the hilt of his revolver; but, before he could draw it, the rest of the company started up and overpowered the belligerents. "Come, gentlemen," said the host of the ranche, stepping forward, "it's not worth while quarrelling about a miserable red-skin." "Put on your coat, Larry, and come, let's get ready for a start," said Ned; "you can't afford to fight till you've made your fortune at the diggings. How far is it to the next ranche, landlord?" This cool attempt to turn the conversation was happily successful. The next ranche, he was told, was about ten miles distant, and the road comparatively easy; so, as it was a fine moonlight night, and he was desirous of reaching the first diggings on the following day as early as possible, the horses and mules were saddled, and the bill called for. When the said bill was presented, or rather, announced to them, our travellers opened their eyes pretty wide; they had to open their purses pretty wide too, and empty them to such an extent that there was not more than a dollar left among them all! The supper, which we have described, cost them two and a half dollars-- about ten shillings and sixpence a head, including a glass of bad brandy; but not including a bottle of stout which Larry, in the ignorance and innocence of his heart, had asked for, and which cost him _three dollars_ extra! An egg, also, which Ned had obtained, cost him a shilling. "Oh, morther!" exclaimed Larry, "why didn't ye tell us the price before we tuck them?" "Why didn't ye ax?" retorted the landlord. "It's all right," remarked Maxton. "Prices vary at the diggings, as you shall find ere long. When provisions run short, the prices become exorbitant; when plentiful, they are more moderate, but they are never _low_. However, men don't mind much, for most diggers have plenty of gold." Captain Bunting and Bill Jones were unable to do more than sigh out their amazement and shake their heads, as they left the ranche and mounted their steeds; in doing which the captain accidentally, as usual, drove both spurs into the sides of his mule, which caused it to execute a series of manoeuvres and pirouettes that entertained the company for a quarter of an hour, after which they rode away over the plain. It was a beautiful country through which they now ambled pleasantly. Undulating and partially wooded, with fine stretches of meadow land between, from which the scent of myriads of wild-flowers rose on the cool night air. The moon sailed low in a perfectly cloudless sky, casting the shadows of the horsemen far before them as they rode, and clothing hill and dale, bush and tree, with a soft light, as if a cloud of silver gauze had settled down upon the scene. The incident in the ranche was quickly banished, and each traveller committed himself silently to the full enjoyment of the beauties around him--beauties which appeared less like reality than a vision of the night. CHAPTER NINE. A NIGHT RIDE IN THE WOODS--THE ENCAMPMENT--LARRY'S FIRST ATTEMPT TO DIG FOR GOLD--AN ALARM--A SUSPICIOUS STRANGER--QUEER CREATURES. In less than two hours the travellers reached the second ranche, which was little better, in appearance or accommodation, than the one they had left. Having no funds, they merely halted to water their cattle, and then pushed forward. The country became more and more undulating and broken as they advanced, and beyond the second ranche assumed the appearance of a hill country. The valleys were free from trees, though here and there occurred dense thickets of underwood, in which Maxton told them that grizzly-bears loved to dwell--a piece of information that induced most of the party to carry their rifles in a handy position, and glance suspiciously at every shadow. Large oaks and bay-trees covered the lower slopes of the hills, while higher up the white oak and fir predominated. About an hour after midnight the moon began to descend towards the horizon, and Ned Sinton, who had been unanimously elected commander of the little band, called a halt in the neighbourhood of a rivulet, which flowed round the base of an abrupt cliff whose sides were partially clothed with scrubby bushes. "We shall encamp here for the night, comrades," said he, dismounting; "here is water and food for our nags, a fine piece of greensward to spread our blankets on, and a thick-leaved oak to keep the dew off us. Now, Maxton, you are an old campaigner, let us see how soon you'll have a fire blazing." "I'll have it ready before you get the camp kettles and pans out," answered Maxton, fastening his horse to a tree, seizing an axe, and springing into the woods on the margin of the stream. "And, Captain Bunting," continued Ned, "do you water the horses and mules: our vaquero will help you. Jones will unpack the provender. Tom Collins and I will see to getting supper ready." "An', may I ax, commodore," said Larry O'Neil, touching his hat, "wot _I'm_ to do?" "Keep out of everybody's way, and do what you pleases, Larry." "Which manes, I'm to make myself ginerally useful; so here goes." And Larry, springing through the bushes, proceeded to fulfil his duties, by seizing a massive log, which Maxton had just cut, and, heaving it on his powerful shoulder, carried it to the camp. Each was immediately busied with his respective duties. Bustling activity prevailed for the space of a quarter of an hour, the result of which was that, before the moon left them in total darkness, the ruddy glare of a magnificent fire lighted up the scene brilliantly, glanced across the sun-burnt faces and vivid red shirts of our adventurers, as they clustered round it, and threw clouds of sparks in among the leaves of the stout old oak that overspread the camp. "Now, this is what I call uncommon jolly," said Captain Bunting, sitting down on his saddle before the cheerful blaze, rubbing his hands, and gazing round, with a smile of the utmost benignity on his broad, hairy countenance. "It is," replied Maxton, with an approving nod. "Do you know, I have often thought, captain, that an Indian life must be a very pleasant one--" "Av coorse it must," interrupted Larry, who at that moment was luxuriating in the first rich, voluminous puffs of a newly-filled pipe--"av coorse it must, _if_ it's always like this." "Ay," continued Maxton, "but that's what I was just going to remark upon--it's _not_ always like this. As a general rule, I have observed, men who are new to backwoods life, live _at first_ in a species of terrestrial paradise. The novelty and the excitement cause them to revel in all that is enjoyable, and to endure with indifference all that is disagreeable; sometimes, even, to take pleasure in shewing how stoically they can put up with discomfort. But after a time the novelty and excitement wear away, and then it is usual to hear the praises of Indian life spoken of immediately before and immediately after supper. Towards midnight--particularly if it should rain, or mosquitoes be numerous--men change their minds, and begin to dream of home, if they can sleep, or to wish they were there, if they can't." "Get out! you horrid philosopher," cried Tom Collin as he gazed wistfully into the iron pot, whose savoury contents, (i.e. pork, flour, and beans), he was engaged in stirring. "Don't try to dash the cup of romance from our lips ere we have tasted it. Believe me, comrades, our friend Maxton is a humbug. I am an old stager myself; have lived the life of an Indian for months and months together, and I declare to you, I'm as jolly and enthusiastic _now_ as ever I was." "That may be quite true," observed Maxton, "seeing that it is possible you may have never been jolly or enthusiastic at all; but even taking your words as you mean them to be understood, they only tend to enforce what I have said, for, you know, the exception proves the rule." "Bah! you sophisticator," ejaculated Tom, again inspecting the contents of the pot. "Och, let him spake, an' be aisy," remarked Larry, with a look of extreme satisfaction on his countenance; "we're in the navelty an' excitement stage o' life just now, an faix we'll kape it up as long as we can. Hand me a cinder, Bill Jones, an' don't look as if ye wos meditatin' wot to say, for ye know that ye can't say nothin'." Bill took no further notice of this remark than to lift a glowing piece of charcoal from the fire with his fingers, as deliberately as if they were made of iron, and hand it to O'Neil, who received it in the same cool manner, and relighted his pipe therewith. "It strikes me we shall require all our jollity and enthusiasm to keep up our spirits, if we don't reach the diggings to-morrow," said Ned Sinton, as he busied himself in polishing the blade of a superb hunting-knife, which had been presented to him by a few college friends at parting; "you all know that our funds are exhausted, and it's awkward to arrive at a ranche without a dollar to pay for a meal--still more awkward to be compelled to encamp beside a ranche and unpack our own provisions, especially if it should chance to be a wet night. Do you think we shall manage to reach the diggings to-morrow, Maxton?" "I am certain of it. Twelve miles will bring us to Little Creek, as it is called, where we can begin to take initiative lessons in gold-washing. In fact, the ground we stand on, I have not a doubt, has much gold in it. But we have not the means of washing it yet." Larry O'Neil caught his breath on hearing this statement. "D'ye mane to tell me," he said, slowly and with emphasis, "that I'm maybe sittin' at this minute on the top o' rale goold?" "You may be," answered Maxton, laughing. "W'en ye don't know," remarked Bill Jones, sententiously, removing the pipe from his lips, and looking fixedly at his messmate, "W'en ye don't know _wot's_ under ye, nor the coorse o' nature, w'ich is always more or less a-doin' things oncommon an' out o' the way, ye shouldn't ought to speckilate on wot ye know nothin' about, until ye find out how's her head, an' w'ich way the land lies. Them's my sentiments." "Halloo! Larry," cried the captain and Tom Collins simultaneously, "look out for the kettle. It'll boil over." Larry's feelings had been deeply stirred at that moment, so that the union of the sudden shout, with the profundity of Bill's remark, had the effect of causing him to clutch at the tea-kettle with such haste that he upset it into the fire. "Oh! bad luck to ye!" "Clumsy fellow!" ejaculated Ned. "Off with you to the creek, and refill it." Larry obeyed promptly, but the mischance, after all, was trifling, for the fire was fierce enough to have boiled a twenty-gallon caldron in a quarter of an hour. Besides, the contents of the iron pot had to be discussed before the tea was wanted. In a few minutes supper was ready, and all were about to begin, when it was discovered that O'Neil was missing. "Ho! Larry, come to supper!" shouted one. "Hi! where are you?" cried another. But there was no reply, until the captain put both hands to his mouth, and gave utterance to the nautical halloo with which, in days gone by, he was wont to hail the look-out at the main-top. "Ay, ay, comin' sir-r," floated back on the night wind; and, shortly afterwards, the Irishman stumbled into camp with his hands, his face, and his clothes plentifully bedaubed with mud. "Why, what have you been about?" inquired Ned. "Diggin' for goold, sure. I've made a hole in the banks o' the creek with me two hands that ye might bury a young buffalo in, an' sorrow a bit o' goold have I got for me pains." A general laugh greeted the enthusiastic digger, as he wiped his hands and sat down to supper. "Musha! av I didn't git goold, I've dug up a mortial big appetite, anyhow. Hand me the wooden spoon, Mister Collins; it's more the gauge o' me pratie-trap than the pewter wans. D'ye know, comrades, I'm a'most sure I seed an Injun in the bush. Av it wasn't, it was a ghost." "What like was he?" "Look there, and judge for yourselves," cried O'Neil, jumping suddenly to his feet, and pointing towards the wood, where a solitary figure was seen dimly against the dark background. Every man leaped up and seized his weapons. "Who goes there?" shouted Ned, advancing towards the edge of the circle of light. "A friend," was the reply, in English. Relieved to find that he was not the advance-guard of a band of savages, Ned invited the stranger to approach, and immediately he stepped within the sacred circle of the camp-fire's light. This unexpected addition to the party was by no means a pleasant one. His complexion was exceedingly dark, and he wore a jet-black beard. In manners he was coarse and repulsive--one of those forbidding men who seem to be born for the purpose of doing evil, in whatever position of life or part of the world they happen to be placed. The rude garments of the miner harmonised with the rugged expression of his bearded and bronzed face, and the harsh voice in which he addressed the party corresponded therewith. "I s'pose ye'll not object to let me rest by yer fire, strangers?" he said, advancing and seating himself without waiting for a reply. "You're welcome," answered Ned, curtly, for he neither liked the manners nor the aspect of the man. "Ye might ha' wished us the top o' the mornin', I think," suggested Larry. "Here, try an' soften yer sperrits with a sup," he added, pushing a pewter plate of soup and a spoon towards him. The man made no reply, but ate ravenously, as if he had been starving. When he had finished, he lighted his pipe, and drew his knees up to his chin as he warmed his hands before the blaze. Little information of any kind could be drawn out of this taciturn wanderer. To Ned's questions, he replied that he had been at the diggings on the Yuba River, which he described as being rich; that he had made enough gold to satisfy all his wants, and was on his way to San Francisco, where he intended to ship for England. His name, he said, was Smith. He carried a short rifle, with a peculiarly large bore, and a heavy hunting-knife, the point of which was broken off. This last Bill Jones observed, as the man laid it down, after cutting up some tobacco, preparatory to refilling his pipe. "A good knife! How did ye break it?" inquired Bill, taking up the weapon and examining it. "Never you mind," answered the man, snatching it rudely from him, and sheathing it. At this O'Neil regarded him with an angry expression. "Faix, av ye wasn't livin', so to spake, in me own house, I'd make ye change yer tone." "I don't mean no offence," said Smith, endeavouring to speak a little less gruffly. "The fact is, gents, I'm out o' sorts, 'cos I lost a grizzly bar in the hills an hour or two agone. I shot him dead, as I thought, and went up and drove my knife into his side, but it struck a rib and broke the pint, as ye see; and a'most afore I could get up a tree, he wos close up behind me. He went away after a while, and so I got clear off." To the immense satisfaction of every one, this disagreeable guest arose after finishing his pipe, knocked the ashes out, shouldered his rifle, and, bidding his entertainers good-night, re-entered the forest, and disappeared. "You're well away," remarked Tom Collins, looking after him; "I couldn't have slept comfortably with such a fellow in camp. Now, then, I'm going to turn in." "So am I," said Maxton, rolling himself in a blanket, and pillowing his head on a saddle, without more ado. In a few minutes the camp was as silent as it had previously been noisy. Captain Bunting's plethoric breathing alone told that human beings rested on that wild spot; and this, somewhat incongruously united with the tinkling of the rivulet hard by, and the howling of coyotes, constituted their lullaby. During the night the most of the travellers were awakened once or twice by a strange and very peculiar sensation, which led them to fancy the earth on which they reposed was possessed of life. The lazy members of the party lay still, and dreamily wondered until they fell asleep; those who were more active leaped up, and, lifting their blankets, gazed intently at the sward, which darkness prevented them from seeing, and felt it over with their hands, but no cause for the unwonted motion could be discovered, until the light of dawn revealed the fact that they had made their beds directly above the holes of a colony, of ground-squirrels, which little creatures, poking upwards with their noses in vain attempts to gain the upper world, had produced the curious sensations referred to. Rough travelling, however, defies almost all disadvantages in the way of rest. Tired and healthy men will sleep in nearly any position, and at any hour, despite all interruptions, so that when our friends rose at daybreak to resume their journey, they were well refreshed and eager to push on. CHAPTER TEN. GAME AND COOKERY--ARRIVAL AT THE DIGGINGS--LITTLE CREEK--LAW AND ORDER IN THE MINES--NOONING AT LITTLE CREEK--HARD-UP--OUR ADVENTURERS GET CREDIT AND BEGIN WORK--A YANKEE OUTWITTED. Deer, hares, crows, blackbirds, magpies, and quails, were the creatures that bounded, scampered, hopped, and flew before the eyes of the travellers at every step, as they wended their way pleasantly, beneath a bright morning sun, over the hills and through the lesser valleys of the great vale of the Sacramento. And all of these creatures, excepting the crows and magpies, fell before the unerring and unexpectedly useful blunderbuss of Captain Bunting, passed a temporary existence in the maw of the big iron pot, and eventually vanished into the carnivorous jaws of Ned Sinton and his friends. Crows were excluded from their bill of fare, because the whole party had an unconquerable antipathy to them; and Larry said he had "aiten many pies in his lifetime, but he had niver aiten magpies, and he'd be shot av he wos goin' to begin now." The duties of chief hunter devolved upon the captain,--first, because he was intensely fond of shooting; and, secondly, because game was so plentiful and tame, that it was difficult to avoid hitting _something_, if one only fired straight before one. For the same reasons the blunderbuss proved to be more effectual than the rifle. The captain used to load it with an enormous charge of powder and a handful of shot--swan-shot, two sizes of duck-shot, and sparrow-hail, mixed, with an occasional rifle-ball dropped in to the bargain. The recoil of the piece was tremendous, but the captain was a stout buffer--if we may be permitted the expression--and stood the shock manfully. Stewed squirrels formed one of their favourite dishes, it was frequently prepared by Tom Collins, whose powers in the culinary department proved to be so great that he was unanimously voted to the office of _chef de cuisine_--Bill Jones volunteering, (and being accepted), to assist in doing the dirty work; for it must be borne in mind that the old relations of master and man no longer subsisted amongst any of the travellers now--excepting always the native vaquero. All were equal at starting for the diggings, and the various appointments were made by, and with the consent of the whole party. Little Creek diggings were situated in a narrow gorge of the mountains, through which flowed a small though turbulent stream. The sides of the hills were in some places thickly clothed with trees, in others they were destitute not only of vegetation but of earth, the rock on the steeper declivities of the hills having been washed bare by the periodical heavy rains peculiar to those regions. Although wild and somewhat narrow, this little valley was, nevertheless, a cheerful spot, in consequence of its facing almost in a southerly direction: while, towards the east, there were several wide and picturesque gaps in the hills which seemed to have been made for the express purpose of letting the sun shine the greater part of the day upon the diggers while they were at work--an advantage, no doubt, when the weather was cool, but rather the reverse when it was hot. The entrance to Little Creek was about two miles wide, undulating, and beautifully diversified, resembling pleasure grounds rather than a portion of the great wilderness of the far west; but the vale narrowed abruptly, and, about three miles further into the mountains, became a mere gap or ravine through which the streamlet leaped and boiled furiously. It was an hour before noon when our travellers came suddenly upon the wide entrance to the valley. "How beautiful!" exclaimed Ned, as he reined up to gaze in admiration over the flowering plain, with its groups of noble trees. "Ay," said Maxton, enthusiastically, "you may well say that. There may be, perchance, as grand, but I am certain there is not a grander country in the world than America--the land of the brave and free." Ned did not assent at once to the latter part of this proposition. "You forget," he said, hesitatingly, as if disinclined to hurt the feelings or prejudices of his new friend, "you forget that it is the land of _slaves_!" "I confess that I did forget that at the moment," answered Maxton, while the blood mounted to his forehead. "It is the foulest blot upon my country's honour; but I at least am guiltless of upholding the accursed institution, as, also, are thousands of my countrymen. I feel assured, however, that the time is coming when that blot shall be wiped away." "I am glad, my friend," said Ned, heartily, "to hear you speak thus; to be frank with you, I could not have prevailed upon myself to have held out to you the hand of intimate friendship had you proved to be a defender of slavery." "Then you'll form few friendships in this country," said Tom Collins, "for many of the Yankees here have been slave-holders in their day, and almost all defend the custom." The conversation was interrupted at this point by Larry O'Neil uttering a peculiarly Hibernian exclamation, (which no combination of letters will convey,) and pointing in an excited manner to an object a few hundred yards in advance of them. "What d'ye see, lad!" inquired Bill Jones, shading his eyes with his hand. The whole party came to a halt, and gazed earnestly before them for a few minutes in silence. "Och!" said O'Neil, slowly, and with trembling earnestness, "av me two eyes are spakin' truth, it's--it's a _goold digger_!--the first o' the goold-diggers!"--and Larry followed up the discovery with a mingled cheer and war-whoop of delight that rang far and wide over the valley. At such an unwonted, we might almost say, appalling, sound, the "first o' the goold-diggers,"--who was up to his waist in a hole, quietly and methodically excavating the earth on the river's bank with a pick-axe-- raised his head, and, leaning on the haft of his pick, scrutinised the new arrivals narrowly. "Hooray, my hearty!" shouted Larry, as he advanced at a gallop, followed by his laughing comrades. "The top o' the mornin' to ye--it's good luck I'm wishin' ye, avic. How are ye gittin' on in the goold way, honey?" The rough-looking, dusty, and bearded miner, smiled good-humouredly, as he replied, in a gentle tone of voice that belied his looks--"Pretty well, friend; though not quite so well as some of my neighbours. I presume that you and your friends have just arrived at the mines?" "Tear an' ages! it's a gintleman, I do belave," cried Larry, turning to his companions with a look of surprise. The miner laughed at the remark, and, leaping out of the hole, did his best to answer the many questions that were put to him in a somewhat excited tone by the party. "Where's the gold?" inquired Jones, gravely, going down on his knees at the side of the excavation, and peering into it. "I don't see none, wotsomediver." "The dust is very fine here," answered the miner, "and not easily detected until washed. Occasionally we come upon nuggets and pockets in the dry parts of the river's bed, and the _canons_ of the hills, but I find it most profitable to work steadily down here where the whole earth, below the surface, is impregnated with fine particles of gold. Many of the diggers waste their time in _prospecting_, which word, I suppose you know, means looking out for new diggings; but, according to the proverb of my country, I prefer to remain `contented wi' little, and cantie wi' mair.'" "Are we far-distant from the other miners in this creek?" inquired Ned. "No; you are quite close. You will come upon the colony after passing that bluff of trees ahead of you," answered the Scotchman; "but come, I will shew you the way; it is not far from nooning-time, when I usually cease work for a couple of hours." So saying, the miner threw his pick-axe and shovel into the hole, and led the way towards the colony of Little Creek. "Ain't you afraid some of the bad-looking scoundrels in these parts may take a fancy to your pick and shovel?" inquired the captain, as they rode along at a foot pace. "Not in the least. Time was when I would have feared to leave them; for at one time neither life nor property was safe here, where so many ruffians congregated from all parts of the world; but the evil wrought its own cure at last. Murders and robberies became so numerous, that the miners took to Lynch law for mutual protection. Murderers and thieves were hanged, or whipped almost to death, with such promptitude, that it struck terror into the hearts of evil-doers; and the consequence is, that we of this valley are now living in a state of perfect peace and security, while in other districts, where the laws of Judge Lynch are not so well administered, murders and thefts are occasionally heard of. Here, if a man takes a fancy to go prospecting for a time, he has only to throw his pick and shovel into his claim, or upon his heap of dirt, [see note 1] and he will be sure to find them there untouched on his return, even though he should be absent several weeks. Our tents, too, are left unwatched, and our doors unfastened, with perfect safety, though it is well-known that hundreds and thousands of dollars in gold-dust lie within. I do not mean to assert that we have attained to absolute perfection--a murder and a theft do occasionally occur, but such are the exceptions, security is the rule." "Truly," said Ned Sinton, "you seem to live in a golden age in all respects." "Not in all," answered the Scot; "the terrors of the law deter from open violence, but they do not enforce morality, as the language and deportment of miners generally too plainly shew. But here we are at the colony of Little Creek." They rounded the projecting spur of one of the hills as he spoke, and the whole extent of the little valley opened up to view. It was indeed a romantic and curious sight. The vale, as we have said, was narrow, but by no means gloomy. The noontide sun shed a flood of light over the glistening rocks and verdant foliage of the hills on the left, and cast the short, rounded shadows of those on the right upon the plain. Through the centre of this the Little Creek warbled on its course; now circling round some wooded knoll, until it almost formed an island; anon dropping, in a quiet cascade, over the edge of a flat rock; in some places sweeping close under the base of a perpendicular cliff; in others shooting out into a lake-like expanse of shallow water across a bright-green meadow, as it murmured on over its golden bed towards the Sacramento. Higher up the valley the cliffs were more abrupt. Dark pines and cedars, in groups or singly, hung on their sides, and gave point to the landscape, in the background of which the rivulet glittered like a silver thread where the mountains rose in peaks towards the sky. Along the whole course of this rivulet, as far as the eye could trace it, searchers for gold were at work on both banks, while their white tents, and rude wooden shanties, were scattered, singly or in clusters of various extent, upon the wooded slopes, in every pleasant and suitable position. From the distance at which our party first beheld the scene, it appeared as if the miners were not men, but little animals grubbing in the earth. Little or no sound reached their ears; there was no bustle, no walking to and fro, as if the hundreds there assembled had various and diverse occupations. All were intently engaged in one and the same work. Pick-axe and shovel rose and fell with steady regularity as each individual wrought with ceaseless activity within the narrow limits of his own particular claim, or rocked his cradle beside it. Dig, dig, dig; rock, rock, rock; shovel, shovel, shovel, was the order of the day, as long as day lasted; and then the gold-hunters rested until recruited strength and dawning light enabled them again to go down into the mud and dig, and rock, and shovel as before. Many, alas! rocked themselves into a fatal sleep, and dug and shovelled their own graves among these golden hills. Many, too, who, although they dug and toiled for the precious metal, had neither made it their god nor their chief good, were struck down in the midst of their heavy toils, and retired staggering to their tents, and there, still clad in their damp garments, laid their fevered heads on their saddles--not unfrequently on their bags of gold-dust--to dream of the distant homes and the loved faces they were doomed to see no more; and thus, dreaming in solitude, or watched, mayhap, by a rough though warm-hearted mate, breathed out their spirits to Him who gave them, and were laid in their last resting-place with wealth untold beneath them, and earth impregnated with gold-dust for their winding-sheet. Happy, thrice happy, the few who in that hour could truly say to Jesus, "Whom have I in heaven but Thee? and there is _none upon earth_ that I desire beside Thee." Just as our travellers approached the nearest and largest cluster of huts and tents, a sudden change came over the scene. The hour of noon had arrived, and, as if with one consent, the miners threw down their tools, and swarmed, like the skirmishers of an invading host, up from the stream towards the huts--a few of the more jovial among them singing at the full pitch of their lungs, but most of them too wearied to care for aught save food and repose. Noon is the universal dinner-hour throughout the gold-mines, an hour which might be adopted with profit in every way, we venture to suggest, by those who dig for gold in commercial and legal ledgers and cash-books in more civilised lands. When the new-comers reached a moderately-sized log-cabin, which was the chief hotel of the colony, they found it in all the bustle of preparation for an immediate and simple, though substantial, meal. "Can we have dinner!" inquired Ned, entering this house of entertainment, while his companions were unsaddling and picketing their horses and mules. "To be sure ye can, my hearty," answered the smiling landlord, "if ye pay for it." "That's just the reason I asked the question," answered Ned, seating himself on a cask--all available chairs, stool; and benches having been already appropriated by mud-bespattered miners, "because, you must know, I _can't_ pay for it." "Ho!" ejaculated mine host, with a grin, "hard-up, eh! got cleaned out with the trip up, an' trust to diggin' for the future? Well, I'll give ye credit; come on, and stick in. It's every man for himself here, an' no favour." Thus invited, Ned and his friends squeezed themselves into seats beside the long _table d'hote_--which boasted a canvas table-cloth, and had casks for legs--and made a hearty meal, in the course of which they obtained a great deal of useful information from their friend McLeod the Scotchman. After dinner, which was eaten hurriedly, most of the miners returned to their work, and Ned with his friend; under the guidance of McLeod, went down to the river to be initiated into the mysteries of gold-digging and washing. As they approached several of the claims which their owners were busy working, a Yankee swaggered up to them with a cigar in his mouth, an impudent expression on his face, and a pick-axe on his shoulder. "Guess you've just come to locate in them diggin's, strangers," he said, addressing the party at large, but looking at Ned, whose superior height and commanding cast of countenance proved him unmistakeably to be a leader. "We have," replied Ned, who disliked the look of the man. "Thought so. I'm jest goin' to quit an' make tracks for the coast. 'Bliged to cut stick on business that won't wait, I calc'late. It's plaguey unlucky, too, for my claim's turnin' out no end o' dollars, but I must sell it slick off so I don't mind to let ye have it cheap." "Is your claim better than the others in the neighbourhood?" inquired Ned. "Wall, I jest opine it is. Look here," cried the Yankee, jumping into his claim, which was a pit of about eight feet square and three deep, and delving the shovel into the earth, while Ned and his friends, besides several of the other miners, drew near to witness the result. Maxton and Tom Collins, however, winked knowingly at each other, and, with the Scotchman, drew back to the rear of the group. The first shovelful of earth thrown up was absolutely full of glittering particles of gold, and the second was even more richly impregnated with the precious metal. Ned and the captain stood aghast with amazement, and Bill Jones opened mouth and eyes to their utmost extent. "Hooroo! och! goold galore! there it is at last!" shouted Larry O'Neil, tossing up his arms with delight. "Do buy it, Mr Ned, darlint." "I needn't turn up more, I guess," said the Yankee, carelessly throwing down his shovel, and filling the earth into a tin bowl or pan; "I'll jest wash it out an' shew ye what it's like." So saying he dipped the pan into the stream gently, and proceeded to wash out the gold. As this was done in the way usually practised by diggers, we shall describe it. Setting down the tin pan of earth and water, the Yankee dipped both hands into it and stirred its contents about until it became liquid mud, removing the stones in the operation. It was then moved round quickly with a peculiar motion which caused some off the top to escape over the edge of the pan with each revolution; more water was added from time to time, and the process continued until all the earthy matter was washed away, and nothing but a kind of black sand, in which the gold is usually contained, remained at the bottom. "There you are," cried the man, exultingly, lifting up a handful of the heavy and shining mixture; "fifteen dollars at least in two shovelfuls. I'll sell ye the claim, if ye like, for two hundred dollars." "I would give it at once," said Ned, feeling at the moment deeply troubled on account of his poverty; "but, to say truth, I have not a farthing in the world." A peculiar grin rested on the faces of the miners who looked on as he spoke, but before he could inquire the cause, Tom Collins stepped forward, and said: "That's a first-rate claim of yours. What did ye say was your charge for it?" "Three hundred dollars down." "I'll tell ye what," rejoined Tom, "I'll give you _six_ hundred dollars for it, if you take out another shovelful of dirt like _that_!" This remark was greeted by a general laugh from, the bystanders, which was joined in by the Yankee himself as he leaped out of the hole, and, shouldering his shovel, went off with his friends, leaving Ned and some others of his party staring at each other in astonishment. "What _does_ it all mean?" he inquired, turning to Tom Coffins, whose laughing countenance shewed that he at least was not involved in mystery. "It means simply that we were all taken for green-horns, which was quite a mistake, and that we were to have been thoroughly cheated--a catastrophe which has happily been prevented. Maxton and I determined to let the rascally fellow go as far as he could, and then step in and turn the laugh against him, as we have done." "But explain yourself. I do not yet understand," repeated Ned, with a puzzled look. "Why, the fact is, that when strangers arrive at the diggings, full of excitement and expectation, there are always a set of sharpers on the look-out, who offer to sell their claims, as they often say, `for a mere song,' and in order to prove their worth, dig out a little dirt, and wash it, as you have just seen done; taking care beforehand, however, to mingle with it a large quantity of gold-dust, which, of course, comes to light, and a bargain is generally struck on the spot, when the sharper goes off with the price, and boasts of having `done' a green-horn, for which he is applauded by his comrades. Should the fraud be detected before the completion of the bargain, as in our case, he laughs with the rest, and says, probably, he `warn't so 'cute as usual.'" "Och, the scoundrels!" cried Larry; "an' is there no law for sich doin's?" "None; at least in most diggings men are left to sharpen their own wits by experience. Sometimes, however, the biter is pretty well bitten. There was a poor Chilian once who was deceived in this way, and paid four hundred dollars for a claim that was scarcely worth working. He looked rather put out on discovering the imposture, but was only laughed at by most of those who saw the transaction for his softness. Some there were who frowned on the sharper, and even spoke of lynching him, but they were a small minority, and had to hold their peace. However, the Chilian plucked up heart, and, leaping into his claim, worked away like a Trojan. After a day or two he hit upon a good layer of blue clay, and from that time he turned out forty dollars a day for two months." "Ah! good luck to him," cried Larry. "And did the sharper hear of it?" inquired the captain. "That he did, and tried to bully the poor fellow, and get his claim back again; but there was a strong enough sense of justice among the miners to cause such an outcry that the scoundrel was fain to seek other diggings." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Note 1. "Dirt" is the name given among miners, to the soil in which gold is found. CHAPTER ELEVEN. GOLD-WASHING--OUR ADVENTURERS COUNT THEIR GAINS, AND ARE SATISFIED--THE "R'YAL BANK O' CALYFORNY" BEGINS TO PROSPER--FRYING GOLD--NIGHT VISIT TO THE GRAVE OF A MURDERED MAN--A MURDERER CAUGHT--THE ESCAPE AND PURSUIT. Having escaped from the Yankee land-shark, as has been related, our adventurers spent the remainder of the day in watching the various processes of digging and washing out gold, in imbibing valuable lessons, and in selecting a spot for their future residence. The two processes in vogue at Little Creek at that time were the _pan_ and the _cradle_ washing. The former has been already adverted to, and was much practised because the ground at that time was rich in the precious metal and easily wrought; the extreme simplicity, too, of the operation, which only required that the miner should possess a pick, a shovel, and a tin pan, commended it to men who were anxious to begin at once. An expert man, in favourable ground, could gather and wash a panful of "dirt," as it is called, every ten minutes; and there were few places in Little Creek that did not yield half-a-dollar or more to the panful, thus enabling the digger to work out gold-dust to the value of about twenty-five dollars, (five pounds sterling), every day, while occasionally he came upon a lump or nugget, equal, perhaps, to what he could produce by the steady labour of a week or more. Many of the more energetic miners, however, worked in companies and used cradles, by means of which they washed out a much larger quantity of gold in shorter time; and in places which did not yield a sufficient return by the pan process to render it worth while working, the cradle-owners obtained ample remuneration for their toil. The cradle is a very simple machine, being a semicircular trough, hollowed out of a log, from five to six feet long by sixteen inches in diameter. At one end of this is a perforated copper or iron plate, with a rim of wood round it, on which the "dirt" is thrown, and water poured thereon by one man, while the cradle is rocked by another. The gold and gravel are thus separated from the larger stones, and washed down the trough, in which, at intervals, two transverse bars, half-an-inch high, are placed; the first of these arrests the gold, which, from its great weight, sinks to the bottom, while the gravel and lighter substances are swept away by the current. The lower bar catches any particles of gold that, by awkward management, may have passed the upper one. Three men usually worked together at a rocker, one digging, one carrying the "dirt" in a bucket, and one rocking the cradle. The black sand, which, along with the gold, is usually left after all the washing and rocking processes are completed, is too heavy to be separated by means of washing. It has therefore to be blown away from the gold after the mass has been dried over a fire, and in this operation great care is requisite lest the finer particles of gold should be blown off along with it. The spot fixed on as the future residence of our friends was a level patch of greensward about a stone-cast from the banks of the stream, and twice that distance from the lowest cabin of the colony, which was separated and concealed from them by a group of wide-spreading oaks and other trees. A short distance behind the spot the mountains ascended in steep wooded slopes, and, just in front, the cliffs of the opposite hills rose abruptly from the edge of the stream, but a narrow ravine, that split them in a transverse manner, afforded a peep into the hills beyond. At evening, when the rest of the vale of Little Creek was shrouded in gloom, this ravine permitted the last beams of the setting sun to stream through and flood their encampment with rosy light. Here the tent was pitched, and a fire kindled by Tom Collins, he being intrusted with the command of the party, whose duty it was to prepare the camp. This party included Bill Jones, Maxton, and the vaquero. Ned, the captain, and Larry O'Neil went, under the guidance of McLeod, to select a claim, and take lessons in washing. "This seems a likely spot," said the Scotchman, as he led his new acquaintances down to the stream, a few yards below their encampment. "You may claim as much ground as you please, for there is room enough and to spare for all at the Creek yet. I would recommend a piece of ground of ten or twelve feet square for each to begin with." "Here is a level patch that I shall appropriate, then," said Ned, smiling at the idea of becoming so suddenly and easily a landed proprietor--and to such an extent. "I suppose we don't require to make out title-deeds!" remarked the captain. "There's _my_ title dade," cried Larry, driving his pick into the earth. "You are right, Larry," said McLeod, laughing, "no other deed is required in this delightfully-free country." "Ah! thin, it's quite to my taste; sure I niver thought to see the swate spot where I could pick out me property an' pick up me fortin' so aisy." "Don't count your chickens quite so fast," said Ned, "may be it won't be so easy as you think. But let us begin and ascertain the value of our claims; I vote that Larry shall have the honour of washing out the first panful of gold, as a reward for his enthusiasm." "A very proper obsarvation," remarked the Irishman, as he commenced work without further delay. In the course of ten minutes part of the layer of surface-earth was removed, revealing the bluish-clay soil in which gold was usually found; the pan was filled with this "pay-dirt," as it was called, in contradistinction to the "surface-dirt," which didn't "pay," and was taken down to the stream, where Larry washed it out under the eye of McLeod; but he did it clumsily, as might be expected, and lost a considerable amount of valuable material. Still, for a first attempt, it was pretty well done, and his companions watched the result with feelings of excited earnestness, that they felt half-ashamed to admit even to themselves. There was mingled with this feeling a sort of vague incredulity, and a disposition to ridicule the idea that they were actually endeavouring to wash gold out of the ground; but when Larry's panful began to diminish, and the black sand appeared, sparkling with unmistakeably-brilliant particles of reddish-yellow metal, they felt that the golden dream was in truth becoming a sober reality. As the process proceeded, and the precious metal began to appear, Larry's feelings found vent in abrupt remarks. "Och! av me tshoo eyes--musha! there it is--goold intirely--av it isn't brass. Ah ye purty little stars!--O Larry, it's yerself as'll buy yer owld mother a pig, an' a coach to boot. Hooroo! Mr Scotchman, I misremimber yer name, wot's that?" Larry started up in excitement, and held up between his fore-finger and thumb what appeared to be a small stone. "Ha! friend, you're in luck. That's a small nugget," replied McLeod, examining the lump of gold. "It's worth ten dollars at least. I have worked often two or three weeks at a time without coming on such a chunk as that." "Ye don't mane it! eh! Och! give it me. Hooray!" and the Irishman, seizing the little lump with trembling eagerness, rushed off, shouting and yelling, towards the camp to make his good fortune known to Bill Jones, leaving the pan of black sand unheeded. This Ned took up, and tried his hand at the work of washing. When done, the residue was found to be exceedingly rich, so he and the captain proceeded without loss of time to test their separate claims. Soon after, their obliging friend, the miner, returned to his own claim further down the valley, leaving them hard at work. That night, when the bright stars twinkled down upon the camp at Little Creek, our gold-hunters, wet and tired, but hearty and hopeful, assembled round the fire in front of their little tent among the oak-trees. The entire party was assembled there, and they were gazing earnestly, as might be expected of hungry men, into the frying-pan. But they did not gaze at _supper_. No, that night the first thing they fried was a mixture of black sand and gold. In fact, they were drying and blowing the result of their first day's work at the diggings, and their friend the Scotch miner was there to instruct them in the various processes of their new profession, and to weigh the gold for them, in his little pair of scales, when it should be finally cleared of all grosser substances. As each panful was dried and blown, the gold was weighed, and put into a large white breakfast cup, the bottom of which was soon heaped up with shining particles, varying in size from the smallest visible speck, to little lumps like grains of corn. "Bravo!" exclaimed McLeod, as he weighed the last pan, and added the gold to that already in the cup. "I congratulate you, gentlemen, on your success. The day's work is equal to one hundred and eighty dollars--about thirty dollars per man. Few men are so lucky their first day, I assure you, unless, as has been the case once or twice they should hit upon a nugget or two." "That being the case, we shall have supper," cried Ned Sinton; "and while we are about it, do you go, Larry, to mine host of the hotel, and pay for the dinner for which he gave us credit. I don't wish to remain an hour in debt, if I can avoid it." "Mister McLeod," slowly said Bill Jones--who, during the whole operation of drying and weighing the gold, had remained seated on a log, looking on with an expression of imbecile astonishment, and without uttering a word--"Mister McLeod, if I may make bold to ax, how much is one hundred and eighty dollars?" Bill's calculating powers were of the weakest possible character. "About thirty-six pounds sterling," replied McLeod. Bill's eyes were wide open before, but the extent to which he opened them on hearing this was quite alarming, and suggested the idea that they would never close again. The same incapacity to calculate figures rendered him unable to grasp correlative facts. He knew that thirty-six pounds in one day was a more enormous and sudden accumulation of wealth than had ever entered into his nautical mind to conceive of. But to connect this with the fact that a voyage and journey of many months had brought him there; that a similar journey and voyage would be required to reconduct him home; and that in the meantime he would have to pay perhaps five pounds sterling for a flannel shirt, and probably four pounds or more for a pair of boots, and everything else in proportion, was to his limited intellectual capacity a simple impossibility. He contented himself with remarking, in reference to these things, that "w'en things in gin'ral wos more nor ord'nar'ly oncommon, an' w'en incomprehensibles was blowin' a reg'lar hurricane astarn, so that a man couldn't hold on to the belayin'-pins he'd bin used to, without their breakin' short off an' lettin' him go spin into the lee-scuppers,--why wot then? a wise man's course wos to take in all sail, an' scud before it under bare poles." Next day all the miners in the colony were up and at work by dawn. Ned and his friends, you may be sure, were not last to leave their beds and commence digging in their separate claims, which they resolved to work out by means of pan-washing, until they made a little ready cash, after which they purposed constructing two rockers, and washing out the gold more systematically and profitably. They commenced by removing the surface-soil to the depth of about three feet, a work of no small labour, until the subsoil, or "pay-dirt," was reached. Of this they dug out a small quantity, and washed it; put the produce of black sand and gold into leathern bags, and then, digging out another panful, washed it as before. Thus they laboured till noon, when they rested for an hour and dined. Then they worked on again until night and exhaustion compelled them to desist; when they returned to camp, dried and blew away the sand, weighed the gold, which was put carefully into a general purse--named by Larry the "R'yal Bank o' Calyforny"--after which they supped, and retired to rest. The gold was found at various depths, the "dirt" on the bed-rock being the richest, as gold naturally, in consequence of its weight, sinks through all other substances, until arrested in its downward career by the solid rock. Of course, the labour was severe to men unaccustomed to the peculiar and constant stooping posture they were compelled to adopt, and on the second morning more than one of the party felt as if he had been seized with lumbago, but this wore off in the course of a day or two. The result of the second day was about equal to that of the first; the result of the third a good deal better, and Bill, who was fortunate enough to discover a small nugget, returned to camp with a self-satisfied swagger that indicated elation, though his visage expressed nothing but stolidity, slightly tinged with surprise. On the fourth day the cradles were made, and a very large portion of their gains thereby swept away in consequence of the unconscionable prices charged for every article used in their construction. However, this mattered little, Maxton said, as the increased profits of their labour would soon repay the outlay. And he was right. On the fifth day their returns were more than trebled, and that evening the directors of the "R'yal Bank o' Calyforny" found themselves in possession of capital amounting to one thousand one hundred and fifty dollars, or, as Tom Collins carefully explained to Bill, about 230 pounds. On the sixth day, however, which was Saturday, Larry O'Neil, who was permitted to work with the pan in the meantime, instead of assisting with the cradles, came up to dinner with a less hearty aspect than usual, and at suppertime he returned with a terribly lugubrious visage and a totally empty bag. In fact his claim had become suddenly unproductive. "Look at that," he cried, swaggering recklessly into camp, and throwing down his bag; "I haven't got a rap; faix the bag's as empty as my intarior." "What! have you worked out your claim already!" inquired Maxton. "Troth have I, and almost worked out me own body too." "Well, Larry, don't lose heart," said Ned, as he dried the last panful of sand over the fire, "there are plenty more claims beside your present one. We, too, have not been as successful as before. I find the result is only fifty dollars amongst us all." "That's a sudden falling off," remarked Tom Collins; "I fear the `pay-dirt' is not deep near us, nevertheless it pays well enough to keep us going for some time to come. I shall mark off a new space on Monday." "By the way, Maxton," asked Ned, handing over the frying-pan to Collins, who soon filled it with a less valuable, but at that time not less needful commodity than gold-dust--namely, pork and beef--"how do the miners spend the Sabbath here? I suppose not much better than in the cities." "Here comes McLeod, who will be better able to answer than I am," replied Maxton. The Scot strode into the camp as he spoke, and, saluting the party, seated himself beside the fire. "I've come to tell you a piece of news, and to ask advice," he said; "but before doing so, I may tell you, in answer to your question, that the Sabbath here is devoted to drinking, gambling, and loafing about." "I am not surprised to hear it," said Captain Bunting; "but pray what's i' the wind? Any new diggin's discovered?" "A new digging certainly has been discovered," replied McLeod, with a peculiar smile, "but not precisely such a digging as one is wont to search for. The fact is, that in prospecting along the edge of the woods about a mile from this to-day, I came upon the body of a murdered man. It was covered with stones and branches of trees, which I removed, and I immediately recognised it to be that of a poor man who used to work not far from my own claim. I had missed him for more than a week past, but supposed that he had either gone to other diggings, or was away prospecting." "Poor fellow!" said Ned; "but how, in such a matter, can _we_ help you with advice?" "Well, you see I'm in difficult circumstances," rejoined the Scot, "for I feel certain that I could point out the murderer, yet I cannot _prove_ him to be such, and I want your advice as to what I should do." "Let it be known at once that you have discovered the murdered man at any rate," said Maxton. "That I have done already." "Who do you think was the murderer?" inquired Ned. "A man who used to live in the same tent with him at one time, but who quarrelled with him frequently, and at last went off in a rage. I know not what was the cause, but I heard him vow that he would be revenged. He was a great coarse fellow, more like a brute than a man, with a black beard, and the most forbidding aspect I think I ever saw." "Wot wos his name?" inquired Bill Jones, while the party looked at each other as if they knew of such a character. "Smith was the name he went by oftenest, but the diggers called him Black Jim sometimes." "Ha! Smith--black beard--forbidding aspect! It strikes me that I too have seen the man," said Ned Sinton, who related to McLeod the visit paid to them in their camp by the surly stranger. While he was speaking, Larry O'Neil sat pondering something in his mind. "Mister McLeod," said he, when Ned concluded, "will ye shew me the body o' this man? faix, I'm of opinion I can prove the murder; but, first of all, how is the black villain to be diskivered?" "No difficulty about that. He is even now in the colony. I saw him in a gambling-house half-an-hour since. My fear is that, now the murder's out, he'll bolt before we can secure him." "It's little trouble we'd have in preventin' that," suggested Larry. "The consequences might be more serious, however, than you imagine. Suppose you were to seize and accuse him, and fail to prove the murder, the jury would acquit him, and the first thing he would do, on being set free, would be to shoot you, for which act the morality of the miners would rather applaud him than otherwise. It is only on cold-blooded, unprovoked murder and theft that Judge Lynch is severe. It is a recognised rule here, that if a man, in a row, should merely make a _motion_ with his hand towards his pistol, his opponent is entitled to shoot him first if he can. The consequence is, that _bloody_ quarrels are very rare." "Niver a taste do I care," cried Larry; "they may hang me tshoo times over, but I'll prove the murder, an' nab the murderin' blackguard too." "Have a care," said Ned; "you'll get yourself into a scrape." "Make sure you are right before you act," added Maxton. Larry O'Neil paid no attention to these warnings. "Are ye ready to go, Mister McLeod?" said he, impatiently. "Quite," replied the other. "Then come along." And the two left the camp together, armed with their rifles, knives, revolvers, and a shovel. It was a dark night. Heavy clouds obscured the face of the sky, through which only one or two stars struggled faintly, and rendered darkness visible. The two men passed rapidly along the little footpath that led from the colony to the more open country beyond. This gained, they turned abruptly to the right, and, entering a narrow defile, proceeded at a more cautious pace into the gloomy recesses of the mountains. "Have a care, Larry O'Neil," whispered the Scotchman, as they advanced; "the road is not so safe here, owing to a number of pits which have been made by diggers after gold--they lie close to the edge of the path, and are pretty deep." "All right; I'm lookin' out," replied Larry, groping his way after his comrade, at the base of a steep precipice. "Here is the place," said McLeod, stopping and pushing aside the bushes which lined the path. "Keep close to me--there is no road." "Are ye sure o' the spot?" inquired Larry, in an undertone, while a feeling of awe crept over him at the thought of being within a few yards of a murdered man in such a dark, wild place. "Quite sure. I have marked the trees. See there!" He pointed to a white spot on the stem of a tree, where a chip had been cut off, and close to which was a mound of earth and stones. This mound the two men proceeded to break up, and in less than ten minutes they disentombed the body from its shallow grave, and commenced to examine the fatal wound. It was in an advanced state of decomposition, and they hurried the process by the light of a bright solitary star, whose flickering rays pierced through the overspreading branches and fell upon the ghastly countenance of the murdered man. While thus occupied, they were startled by the sound of breaking twigs, as if some one were slowly approaching; whispering voices were also heard. "It must be hereabouts," said a voice in a low tone; "he pointed out the place." "Ho!" cried McLeod, who, with Larry, had seized and cocked his rifle, "is that you, Webster?" "Halloo! McLeod, where are you?" In another moment a party of miners broke through the underwood, talking loudly, but they dropped their voices to a whisper on beholding the dead body. "Whist, boys," said Larry, holding up his hand. "We've jist got hold o' the bullet. It's flattened the least thing, but the size is easy to see. There's a wound over the heart, too, made with a knife; now that's wot I want to get at the bottom of, but I don't like to use me own knife to cut down." As none of the others felt disposed to lend their knives for such a purpose, they looked at each other in silence. "Mayhap," said the rough-looking miner who had been hailed by McLeod as Webster--"mayhap the knife o' the corpse is lyin' about." The suggestion was a happy one. After a few minutes' search the rusty knife of the murdered man was discovered, and with this Larry succeeded in extracting from the wound over the heart of the body a piece of steel, which had evidently been broken off the point of the knife, with which the poor wretch had been slain. Larry held it up with a look of triumph. "I'll soon shew ye who's the murderer now, boys, av ye'll help me to fill up the grave." This was speedily accomplished; then the miners, hurrying in silence from the spot, proceeded to the chief hotel of the place, in the gambling-saloon of which they found the man Smith, _alias_ Black Jim, surrounded by gamblers, and sitting on a corner of the monte table watching the game. Larry went up to him at once, and, seizing him by the collar, exclaimed--"I've got ye, have I, ye murderer, ye black villain! Come along wid ye, and git yer desarts--call a coort, boys, an' sot up Judge Lynch." Instantly the saloon was in an uproar. Smith turned pale as death for a moment, but the blood returned with violence to his brazen forehead; he seized Larry by the throat, and a deadly struggle would speedily have taken place between the two powerful men had not Ned Sinton entered at the moment, and, grasping Smith's arms in his Herculean gripe, rendered him helpless. "What, comrades," cried Black Jim, with an oath, and looking fiercely round, "will ye see a messmate treated like this? I'm no murderer, an' I defy any one to prove it." There was a move among the miners, and a voice was heard to speak of rescuing the prisoner. "Men," cried Ned, still holding Smith, and looking round upon the crowd, "men--" "I guess there are no men here," interrupted a Yankee; "we're all _gentlemen_." "Being a man does not incapacitate one from being a gentleman," said Ned, sharply, with a look of scorn at the speaker, who deemed it advisable to keep silence. After a moment's pause, he continued--"If this _gentleman_ has done no evil, I and my friends will be answerable to him for what we have done; but my comrade, Larry O'Neil, denounces him as a murderer; and says he can prove it. Surely the law of the mines and fair play demand that he should be tried!" "Hear! hear! well said. Git up a bonfire, and let's have it out," cried several voices, approvingly. The miners rushed out, dragging Black Jim along with them to an open level space in front of the hotel, where stood a solitary oak-tree, from one of whose sturdy arms several offenders against the laws of the gold-mines had, at various times, swung in expiation of their crimes. Here an immense fire was kindled, and hither nearly all the miners of the neighbourhood assembled. Black Jim was placed under the branch, from which depended part of the rope that had hanged the last criminal. His rifle, pistols, and knife, were taken from him, amid protestations of innocence, and imprecations on the heads of his accusers. Then a speech was made by an orator who was much admired at the place, but whose coarse language would scarcely have claimed admiration in any civilised community. After this Larry O'Neil stepped forward with McLeod, and the latter described all he knew of the former life of the culprit, and his conduct towards the murdered man. When he had finished, Larry produced the bullet, which was compared with the rifle and the bullets in Smith's pouch, and pronounced similar to the latter. At this, several of the miners cried out, "Guilty, guilty; string him up at once!" "There are other rifles with the same bore," said Smith. "I used to think Judge Lynch was just, but he's no better I find than the land-sharks elsewhere. Hang me if you like, but if ye do, instead o' gittin' rid o' one murderer, ye'll fill the Little Creek with murderers from end to end. My blood will be on _your_ heads." "Save yer breath," said Larry, drawing Smith's knife from its scabbard. "See here, boys, sure two dovetails niver fitted closer than this bit o' steel fits the pint o' Black Jim's knife. Them men standin' beside me can swear they saw me take it out o' the breast o' the morthered man, an' yerselves know that this is the murderer's knife." Almost before Larry had concluded, Smith, who felt that his doom was sealed, exerted all his strength, burst from the men who held him, and darted like an arrow towards that part of the living circle which seemed weakest. Most of the miners shrank back--only one man ventured to oppose the fugitive; but he was driven down with such violence, that he lay stunned on the sward, while Smith sprang like a goat up the steep face of the adjacent precipice. A dozen rifles instantly poured forth their contents, and the rocks rang with the leaden hail; but the aim had been hurried, and the light shed by the fire at that distance was uncertain. The murderer, next moment, stood on the verge of the precipice, from which he wrenched a mass of rock, and, shouting defiance, hurled it back, with a fearful imprecation, at his enemies. The rock fell into the midst of them, and fractured the skull of a young man, who fell with a groan to the earth. Smith, who paused a moment to witness the result of his throw, uttered a yell of exultation, and darted into the mountains, whither, for hours after, he was hotly pursued by the enraged miners. But one by one they returned to the Creek exhausted, and telling the same tale--"Black Jim had made his escape." CHAPTER TWELVE. SABBATH AT THE DIGGINGS--LARRY O'NEIL TAKES TO WANDERING, AND MEETS WITH ADVENTURES--AN IRISH YANKEE DISCOVERED--TERRIBLE CALAMITIES BEFALL TRAVELLERS ON THE OVERLAND ROUTE. There is no country in our fallen world, however debased and morally barren, in which there does not exist a few green spots where human tenderness and sympathy are found to grow. The atmosphere of the gold-regions of California was, indeed, clouded to a fearful extent with the soul-destroying vapours of worldliness, selfishness, and ungodliness, which the terrors of Lynch law alone restrained from breaking forth in all their devastating strength. And this is not to be wondered at, for Europe and America naturally poured the flood of their worst inhabitants over the land, in eager search for that gold, the _love of which_, we are told in Sacred Writ, "is the root of all evil." True, there were many hundreds of estimable men who, failing, from adverse circumstances, to make a livelihood in their native lands, sought to better their fortunes in the far west; but, in too many cases, the gold-fever which raged there soon smote them down; and men who once regarded gold as the means to an end, came at last to esteem gold to be the end, and used every means, fair and foul, to obtain it. Others there were, whose constitutions were proof against the national disease; whose hearts deemed _love_ to be the highest bliss of man, and doing good his greatest happiness. But stilling and destructive though the air of the gold-mines was, there were a few hardy plants of moral goodness which defied it--and some of these bloomed in the colony of Little Creek. The Sabbath morning dawned on Ned Sinton and his friends--the first Sabbath since they had begun to dig for gold. On that day the miners rested from their work. Shovel and pick lay quiet in the innumerable pits that had been dug throughout the valley; no cradle was rocked, no pan of golden earth was washed. Even reckless men had come to know from experience, that the Almighty in His goodness had created the Sabbath for the special benefit of man's _body_ as well as his soul, and that they wrought better during the six days of the week when they rested on the seventh. Unfortunately they believed only what _experience_ taught them; they kept the Sabbath according to the letter, not according to the spirit; and although they did not work, they did not refrain from "thinking their own thoughts and finding their own pleasure," on God's holy day. Early in the morning they began to wander idly about from hut to hut, visited frequently the grog-shops, and devoted themselves to gambling, which occupation materially marred even the physical rest they might otherwise have enjoyed. "Comrades," said Ned Sinton, as the party sat inside their tent, round the napkin on which breakfast was spread, "it is long since we have made any difference between Saturday and Sunday, and I think it would be good for us all if we were to begin now. Since quitting San Francisco, the necessity of pushing forward on our journey has prevented our doing so hitherto. How far we were right in regarding rapid travelling as being _necessary_, I won't stop to inquire; but I think it would be well if we should do a little more than merely rest from work on the Sabbath. I propose that, besides doing this, we should read a chapter of the Bible together as a family, morning and evening on Sundays. What say you?" There was a pause. It was evident that conflicting feelings were at work among the party. "Perhaps you're right," said Maxton; "I confess that I have troubled myself very little about religion since I came out here, but my conscience has often reproached me for it." "Don't you think, messmates," said Captain Bunting, lighting his pipe, "that if it gets wind the whole colony will be laughin' at us?" "Sure they may laugh," said Larry O'Neil, "an' after that they may cry, av it'll do them good. Wot's the differ to us?" "I don't agree with you, Ned," said Tom Collins, somewhat testily; "for my part I like to see men straightforward, all fair and above-board, as the captain would say. Hypocrisy is an abominable vice, whether it is well meaning or ill meaning, and I don't see the use of pretending to be religious when we are not." "Tom," replied Ned, in an earnest voice, "don't talk lightly of serious things. I don't _pretend_ to be religious, but I do _desire_ to be so: and I think it would be good for all of us to read a portion of God's Word on His own day, both for the purpose of obeying and honouring Him, and of getting our minds filled, for a short time at least, with other thoughts than those of gold-hunting. In doing this there is no hypocrisy." "Well, well," rejoined Tom, "I'll not object if the rest are agreed." "Agreed," was the unanimous reply. So Ned rose, and, opening his portmanteau, drew forth the little Bible that had been presented to him by old Mr Shirley on the day of his departure from home. From that day forward, every Sabbath morning and evening, Ned Sinton read a portion of the Word of God to his companions, as long as they were together; and each of the party afterwards, at different times, confessed that, from the time the reading of the Bible was begun, he felt happier than he did before. After breakfast they broke up, and went out to stroll for an hour or two upon the wooded slopes of the mountains. Ned and Tom Collins went off by themselves, the others, with the exception of Larry, walked out together. That morning Larry O'Neil felt less sociable than was his wont, so he sallied forth alone. For some time he sauntered about with his hands in his pockets, his black pipe in his mouth, a thick oak cudgel, of his own making, under his arm, and his hat set jauntily on one side of his head. He went along with an easy swagger, and looked particularly reckless, but no man ever belied his looks more thoroughly. The swagger was unintentional, and the recklessness did not exist. On the contrary, the reading of the Bible had brought back to his mind a flood of home memories, which forced more than one tear from his susceptible heart into his light-blue eye, as he wandered in memory over the green hills of Erin. But the scenes that passed before him as he roamed about among the huts and tents of the miners soon drew his thoughts to subjects less agreeable to contemplate. On week-days the village, if we may thus designate the scattered groups of huts and tents, was comparatively quiet, but on Sundays it became a scene of riot and confusion. Not only was it filled with its own idle population of diggers, but miners from all the country round, within a circuit of eight or ten miles, flocked into it for the purpose of buying provisions for the week, as well as for the purpose of gambling and drinking, this being the only day in all the week, in which they indulged in what they termed "a spree." Consequently the gamblers and store-keepers did more business on Sunday than on any other day. The place was crowded with men in their rough, though picturesque, bandit-like costumes, rambling about from store to store, drinking and inviting friends to drink, or losing in the gaming-saloons all the earnings of a week of hard, steady toil--toil more severe than is that of navvies or coal-heavers. There seemed to be an irresistible attraction in these gambling-houses. Some men seemed unable to withstand the temptation, and they seldom escaped being fleeced. Yet they returned, week after week, to waste in these dens of iniquity the golden treasure gathered with so much labour during their six working days. Larry O'Neil looked through the doorway of one of the gambling-houses as he passed, and saw men standing and sitting round the tables, watching with eager faces the progress of the play, while ever and anon one of them would reel out, more than half-drunk with excitement and brandy. Passing on through the crowded part of the village, which looked as if a fair were being held there, he entered the narrow footpath that led towards the deeper recesses at the head of the valley. O'Neil had not yet, since his arrival, found time to wander far from his own tent. It was therefore with a feeling of great delight that he left the scene of riot behind him, and, turning into a bypath that led up one of the narrow ravines, opening into the larger valley, strolled several miles into deep solitudes that were in harmony with his feelings. The sun streamed through the entrance to this ravine, bathing with a flood of light crags and caves and bush-encompassed hollows, that at other times were shrouded in gloom. As the Irishman stood gazing in awe and admiration at the wild, beautiful scene, beyond which were seen the snowy peaks of the Sierra Nevada, he observed a small solitary tent pitched on a level patch of earth at the brow of a low cliff. Curiosity prompted him to advance and ascertain what unsociable creature dwelt in it. A few minutes sufficed to bring him close upon it, and he was about to step forward, when the sound of a female voice arrested him. It was soft and low, and the accents fell upon his ear with the power of an old familiar song. Being at the back of the tent, he could not see who spoke, but, from the monotonous regularity of the tone, he knew that the woman was reading. He passed noiselessly round to the front, and peeping over the tops of bushes, obtained a view of the interior. The reader was a young woman, whose face, which was partially concealed by a mass of light-brown hair as she bent over her book, seemed emaciated and pale. Looking up just as Larry's eye fell upon her, she turned towards a man whose gaunt, attenuated form lay motionless on a pile of brushwood beside her, and said, tenderly: "Are ye tired, Patrick, dear, or would you like me to go on?" Larry's heart gave his ribs such a thump at that moment that he felt surprised the girl did not hear it. But he could not approach; he was rooted to the earth as firmly, though not as permanently, as the bush behind which he stood. An Irish voice, and an Irish girl, heard and seen so unexpectedly, quite took away his breath. The sick man made some reply which was not audible, and the girl, shutting the book, looked up for a few moments, as if in silent prayer, then she clasped her hands upon her knees, and laying her head upon them, remained for some time motionless. The hands were painfully thin, as was her whole frame. The face was what might have been pretty at one time, although it was haggard enough now, but the expression was peculiarly sorrowful. In a few minutes she looked up again, and spread the ragged blanket more carefully over the shoulders of the sick man, and Larry, feeling that he was at that time in the questionable position of an eavesdropper, left his place of concealment, and stood before the tent. The sick man saw him instantly, and, raising himself slightly, exclaimed, "Who goes there? Sure I can't git lave to die in pace!" The familiar tones of a countryman's voice fell pleasantly on Larry's ear as he sprang into the tent, and, seizing the sick man's hand, cried, "A blissin' on the mouth that said that same. O Pat, darlint! I'm glad to mate with ye. What's the matter with ye? Tell me now, an' don't be lookin' as if ye'd seen a ghost." "Kape back," said the girl, pushing Larry aside, with a half-pleased, half-angry expression. "Don't ye see that ye've a'most made him faint? He's too wake intirely to be--" "Ah! then, cushla, forgive me; I wint and forgot meself. Blissin's on yer pale face! sure yer Irish too." Before the girl could reply to this speech, which was uttered in a tone of the deepest sympathy, the sick man recovered sufficiently to say-- "Sit down, friend. How comed ye to larn me name? I guess I never saw ye before." "Sure, didn't I hear yer wife say it as I come for'ard to the tint," answered Larry, somewhat staggered at the un-Irish word "guess." "He is my brother," remarked the girl. "Troth, ye've got a dash o' the Yankee brogue," said Larry, with a puzzled look; "did ye not come from the owld country?" The sick man seemed too much exhausted to reply, so the girl said-- "Our father and mother were Irish, and left their own country to sittle in America. We have never seen Ireland, my brother nor I, but we think of it as almost our own land. Havin' been brought up in the woods, and seein' a'most no one but father and mother for days an' weeks at a time, we've got a good deal o' the Irish tone." "Ah! thin, ye have reason to be thankful for that same," remarked Larry, who was a little disappointed that his new friends were not altogether Irish; but, after a few minutes' consideration, he came to the conclusion, that people whose father and mother were natives of the Emerald Isle could no more be Americans, simply because they happened to be born in America, than they could be fish if they chanced to be born at sea. Having settled this point to his satisfaction, he proceeded to question the girl as to their past history and the cause of their present sad condition, and gradually obtained from her the information that their father and mother were dead, and that, having heard of the mines of California, her brother had sold off his farm in the backwoods, and proceeded by the overland route to the new land of gold, in company with many other western hunters and farmers. They reached it, after the most inconceivable sufferings, in the beginning of winter, and took up their abode at Little Creek. The rush of emigration from the western states to California, by the overland route, that took place at this time, was attended with the most appalling sufferings and loss of life. Men sold off their snug farms, packed their heavy waggons with the necessaries for a journey, with their wives and little ones, over a wilderness more than two thousand miles in extent, and set off by scores over the prairies towards the Ultima Thule of the far west. The first part of their journey was prosperous enough, but the weight of their waggons rendered the pace slow, and it was late in the season ere they reached the great barrier of the Rocky Mountains. But severe although the sufferings of those first emigrants were, they were as nothing compared with the dire calamities that befell those who started from home later in the season. All along the route the herbage was cropped bare by those who had gone before; their oxen broke down; burning sandy deserts presented themselves when the wretched travellers were well-nigh exhausted; and when at length they succeeded in reaching the great mountain-chain, its dark passes were filled with the ice and snow of early winter. Hundreds of men, women, and children, fell down and died on the burning plain, or clambered up the rugged heights to pillow their dying heads at last on wreaths of snow. To add to the unheard-of miseries of these poor people, scurvy in its worst forms attacked them; and the air of many of their camping places was heavy with the stench arising from the dead bodies of men and animals that had perished by the way. "It was late in the season," said Kate Morgan, as Larry's new friend was named, "when me brother Patrick an' I set off with our waggon and oxen, an' my little sister Nelly, who was just able to run about, with her curly yellow hair streamin' over her purty shoulders, an' her laughin' blue eyes, almost spakin' when they looked at ye." The poor girl spoke with deep pathos as she mentioned Nelly's name, while Larry O'Neil sat with his hands clasped, gazing at her with an expression of the deepest commiseration. "We got pretty well on at first," she continued, after a pause, "because our waggon was lighter than most o' the others; but it was near winter before we got to the mountains, an' then our troubles begood. First of all, one o' the oxen fell, and broke its leg. Then darlin' Nelly fell sick, and Patrick had to carry her on his back up the mountains, for I had got so weak meself that I wasn't fit to take her up. All the way over I was troubled with one o' the emigrants that kep' us company-- there was thirty o' us altogether--he was a very bad man, and none o' us liked him. He took a fancy to me, an' asked me to be his wife so often that I had to make Patrick order him to kape away from us altogether. He wint off in a black rage, swearin' he'd be revenged,--an' oh!" continued Kate, wringing her hands, "he kept his word. One day there was a dispute between our leaders which way we should go, for we had got to two passes in the mountains; so one party went one way, and we went another. Through the night, my--my lover came into our camp to wish me good-bye, he said, for the last time, as he was goin' with the other party. After he was gone, I missed Nelly, and went out to seek for her among the tents o' my neighbours, but she was nowhere to be found. At once I guessed he had taken her away, for well did he know I would sooner have lost my life than my own darlin' Nell." Again the girl paused a few moments; then she resumed, in a low voice-- "We never saw him or Nelly again. It is said the whole party perished, an' I believe it, for they were far spent, and the road they took, I've been towld, is worse than the one we took. It was dead winter when we arrived, and Patrick and me came to live here. We made a good deal at first by diggin', but we both fell sick o' the ague, and we've been scarce able to kape us alive till now. But it won't last long. Dear Patrick is broken down entirely, as ye see, and I haven't strength a'most to go down to the diggin's for food. I haven't been there for a month, for it's four miles away, as I dare say ye know. We'll both be at rest soon." "Ah! now, don't say that again, avic," cried Larry, smiting his thigh with energy; "ye'll be nothin' o' the sort, that ye won't; sure yer brother Pat is slaipin' now like an infant, he is, an' I'll go down meself to the stores and git ye medicines an' a doctor, an' what not. Cheer up, now--" Larry's enthusiastic efforts to console his new friend were interrupted by the sick man, who awoke at the moment, and whispered the word "food." His sister rose, and taking up a small tin pan that simmered on the fire in front of the tent, poured some of its contents into a dish. "What is it ye give him?" inquired Larry, taking the dish from the girl's hands and putting it to his lips. He instantly spat out the mouthful, for it was soup made of rancid pork, without vegetables of any kind. "'Tis all I've got left," said the girl. "Even if I was able to go down for more, he wouldn't let me; but I couldn't, for I've tried more than once, and near died on the road. Besides, I haven't a grain o' goold in the tent." "O morther! Tare an' ages!" cried Larry, staring first at the girl and then at her brother, while he slapped his thighs and twisted his fingers together as if he wished to wrench them out of joint. "Howld on, faix I'll do it. Don't give it him, plaze; howld on, _do_!" Larry O'Neil turned round as he spoke, seized his cudgel, sprang right over the bushes in front of the tent, and in two minutes more was seen far down the ravine, spurning the ground beneath him as if life and death depended on the race. CHAPTER THIRTEEN. KINDNESS TO STRANGERS IN DISTRESS--REMARKS IN REFERENCE TO EARLY RISING--DIGGINGS WAX UNPRODUCTIVE--NED TAKES A RAMBLE, AND HAS A SMALL ADVENTURE--PLANS FORMED AND PARTLY DEVELOPED--REMARKABLE HUMAN CREATURES DISCOVERED, AND STILL MORE REMARKABLE CONVERSE HELD WITH THEM. "I'll throuble ye for two pounds of flour," cried Larry O'Neil, dashing into one of the stores, which was thronged with purchasers, whom he thrust aside rather unceremoniously. "You'll have to take your turn, stranger, I calculate," answered the store-keeper, somewhat sharply. "Ah thin, avic, plaze do attind to me at wance; for sure I've run four miles to git stuff for a dyin' family--won't ye now?" The earnest manner in which Larry made this appeal was received with a laugh by the bystanders, and a recommendation to the store-keeper to give him what he wanted. "What's the price?" inquired Larry, as the man measured it out. "Two dollars a pound," answered the man. "Musha! I've seed it chaiper." "I guess so have I; but provisions are gittin' up, for nothin' has come from Sacramento for a fortnight." "Tay an' sugar'll be as bad, no doubt!" "Wuss, they are; for there's next to none at all, I opine, in this here location." "Faix, I'll have a pound o' both, av they wos two dollars the half-ounce. Have ye got raisins an' sago?" "Yes." "Give me a pound o' that, aich." These articles having been delivered and paid for, Larry continued-- "Ye'll have brandy, av coorse?" "I guess I have; plenty at twenty dollars a bottle." "Och, morther, it'll brake the bank intirely; but it's little I care. Hand me wan bottle, plaze." The bottle of brandy was added to his store, and then the Irishman, shouldering his bundle of good things, left the shop, and directed his steps once more towards the ravine in which dwelt Kate Morgan and her brother Pat. It was late when the Irishman returned from his mission of kindness, and he found the fire nearly out, the tent closed, and all his comrades sound asleep, so, gently lifting the curtain that covered the entrance, he crept quietly in, lay down beside Bill Jones, whose nasal organ was performing a trombone solo, and in five minutes was sound asleep. It seemed to him as if he had barely closed his eyes, when he was roused by his comrades making preparations to resume work; nevertheless, he had rested several hours, and the grey hue of early day that streamed in through the opening of the tent warned him that he must recommence the effort to realise his golden dreams. The pursuit of gold, however engrossing it may be, does not prevent men from desiring to lie still in the morning, or abate one jot of the misery of their condition when they are rudely roused by _early_ comrades, and told that "it's time to get up." Larry O'Neil, Tom Collins, and Maxton groaned, on receiving this information from Ned, turned, and made as if they meant to go to sleep. But they meant nothing of the sort; it was merely a silent testimony to the fact of their thorough independence--an expressive way of shewing that they scorned to rise at the bidding of any man, and that they would not get up till it pleased themselves to do so. That this was the case became evident from their groaning again, two minutes afterwards, and turning round on their backs. Then they stretched themselves, and, sitting up, stared at each other like owls. A moment after, Maxton yawned vociferously, and fell back again quite flat, an act which was instantly imitated by the other two. Such is the force of bad example. By this time the captain and Jones had left the tent, and Ned Sinton was buckling on his belt. "Now, then, get up, and don't be lazy," cried the latter, as he stepped out, dragging all the blankets off the trio as he took his departure, an act which disclosed the fact that trousers and flannel shirts were the sleeping garments of Maxton and Tom, and that Larry had gone to bed in his boots. The three sprang up immediately, and, after performing their toilets, sallied forth to the banks of the stream, where the whole population of the place was already hard at work. Having worked out their claims, which proved to be pretty good, they commenced new diggings close beside the old ones, but these turned out complete failures, excepting that selected by Captain Bunting, which was as rich as the first. The gold deposits were in many places very irregular in their distribution, and it frequently happened that one man took out thirty or forty dollars a day from his claim, while another man, working within a few yards of him, was, to use a mining phrase, unable "to raise the colour;" that is, to find gold enough to repay his labour. This uncertainty disgusted many of the impatient gold-hunters, and not a few returned home, saying that the finding of gold in California was a mere lottery, who, if they had exercised a little patience and observation, would soon have come to know the localities in which gold was most likely to be found. There is no doubt whatever, that the whole country is impregnated more or less with the precious material. The quartz veins in the mountains are full of it; and although the largest quantities are usually obtained in the beds of streams and on their banks, gold is to be found, in smaller quantities, even on the tops of the hills. Hitherto the miners at Little Creek had found the diggings on the banks of the stream sufficiently remunerative; but the discovery of several lumps of gold in its bed, induced many of them to search for it in the shallow water, and they were successful. One old sea-captain was met by Bill Jones with a nugget the size of a goose-egg in each hand, and another man found a single lump of almost pure gold that weighed fourteen pounds. These discoveries induced Ned Sinton to think of adopting a plan which had been in his thoughts for some time past; so one day he took up his rifle, intending to wander up the valley, for the double purpose of thinking out his ideas, and seeing how the diggers higher up got on. As he sauntered slowly along, he came to a solitary place where no miners were at work, in consequence of the rugged nature of the banks of the stream rendering the labour severe. Here, on a projecting cliff; which overhung a deep, dark pool or eddy, he observed the tall form of a naked man, whose brown skin bespoke him the native of a southern clime. While Ned looked at him, wondering what he could be about, the man suddenly bent forward, clasped his hands above his head, and dived into the pool. Ned ran to the margin immediately, and stood for nearly a minute observing the dark indistinct form of the savage as he groped along the bottom. Suddenly he rose, and made for the shore with a nugget of gold in his hand. He seemed a little disconcerted on observing Ned, who addressed him in English, French, and Spanish, but without eliciting any reply, save a grunt. This, however, did not surprise our hero, who recognised the man to be a Sandwich Islander whom he had met before in the village, and whose powers of diving were well-known to the miners. He ascertained by signs, however, that there was much gold at the bottom of the stream, which, doubtless, the diver could not detach from the rocks during the short period of his immersion, so he hastened back to the tent, determined to promulgate his plan to his comrades. It was noon when he arrived, and the miners were straggling from all parts of the diggings to the huts, tents, and restaurants. "Ha! Maxton, glad I've found you alone," cried Ned, seating himself on an empty box before the fire, over which the former was engaged in culinary operations. "I have been thinking over a plan for turning the course of the stream, and so getting at a portion of its bed." "Now that's odd," observed Maxton, "I have been thinking of the very same thing all morning." "Indeed! wits jump, they say. I fancied that I had the honour of first hitting on the plan." "_First_ hitting on it!" rejoined Maxton, smiling. "My dear fellow, it has not only been hit upon, but hit off, many months ago, with considerable success in some parts of the diggings. The only thing that prevents it being generally practised is, that men require to work in companies, for the preliminary labour is severe, and miners seem to prefer working singly, or in twos and threes, as long as there is good `pay-dirt' on the banks." "Well, then, the difficulty does not affect us, because we are already a pretty strong company, although our vaquero has left us, and I have seen a place this morning which, I think, will do admirably to begin upon; it is a deep pool, a few miles up the stream, under--" "I know it," interrupted Maxton, putting a large slice of pork into the frying-pan, which hissed delightfully in the ears of hungry men. "I know the place well, but there is a much better spot not a quarter of a mile higher up, where a Chinaman, named Ah-wow, lives; it will be more suitable, you'll find, when I shew it you." "We'll go and have a look at it after dinner," observed Ned; "meanwhile, here are our comrades, let us hear what they have to say about the proposal." As he spoke, Collins, Jones, Larry, and the captain advanced in single file, and with disconsolate looks, that told of hard toil and little reward. "Well, what have you got, comrades?" "Nothin'," answered Bill Jones, drawing forth his comforter. Bill's comforter was black and short, and had a bowl, and was at all times redolent of tobacco. "Niver a speck," cried Larry O'Neil, setting to with energy to assist in preparing dinner. "Well, friends, I've a plan to propose to you, so let us take the edge off our appetites, and I'll explain." Ned sat down tailor-fashion on the ground with his companions round him, and, while they devoted themselves ravenously and silently to tea, flour-cake, salt-pork, and beans, he explained to them the details of his plan, which explanation, (if it was not the dinner), had the effect of raising their spirits greatly. Instead, therefore, of repairing to their profitless claims after dinner, they went in a body up the stream to visit the Chinaman's diggings. Captain Bunting alone remained behind, as his claim was turning out a first-rate one. "Sure, there's a human!" cried Larry, as they turned a projecting point, about an hour and a half later, and came in sight of Ah-wow's "lo-cation," as the Yankees termed it. "It may be a human," remarked Ned, laughing, "but it's the most inhuman one I ever saw. I think yonder fellow must be performing a surgical operation on the Chinaman's head." Ah-wow was seated on a stone in front of his own log-hut, with his arms resting on his knees, and an expression of supreme felicity on his yellow face, while a countryman, in what appeared a night-gown, and an immense straw hat, dressed his tail for him. Lest uninformed readers should suppose that Ah-wow belonged to the monkey-tribe, we may mention that the Chinaman's head was shaved quite bald all round, with the exception of a _tail_ of hair, about two feet long, and upwards of an inch thick, which jutted from the top of his _caput_, and hung down his back. This tail he was in the act of getting dressed when our party of miners broke in upon the privacy of his dressing-room. Ah-wow had a nose which was very flat and remarkably broad, with the nostrils pointing straight to the front. He also had a mouth which was extremely large, frightfully thick-lipped, and quite the reverse of pretty. He had two eyes, also, not placed, like the eyes of ordinary men, _across_ his face, on either side of his nose, but set in an angular manner on his visage, so that the outer corners pointed a good deal upwards, and the inner corners pointed a good deal downwards-- towards the point of his nose, or, rather, towards that vacant space in front of his nostrils which would have been the point of his nose if that member had had a point at all. Ah-wow also had cheek bones which were uncommonly high, and a forehead which was preposterously low, and a body which was rather squat, and a _tout ensemble_ which was desperately ugly. Like his hairdresser, he wore a coat somewhat resembling a night-shirt, with a belt round it, and his feet were thrust into yellow slippers. These last, when he went to dig for gold, he exchanged for heavy boots. When Ned and his friends walked up and stood in a grinning row before him, Ah-wow opened his little eyes to the uttermost, (which wasn't much), and said, "How!" If he had affixed "d'ye do" to it, the sentence would have been complete and intelligible. His companion attempted to vary the style of address by exclaiming, "Ho!" "Can you speak English?" inquired Ned, advancing. A shake of the head, and a consequent waggle of the tail was the reply. "Or French?" (Shake and waggle.) "Maybe ye can do Irish?" suggested Larry. The shake and waggle were more vigorous than before but Ah-wow rose, and, drawing on his boots, made signs to his visitors to follow him, which they did, through the bushes, round the base of a steep precipice. A short walk brought them to an open space quite close to the banks of the stream, which at that place was broken by sundry miniature waterfalls and cascades, whose puny turmoil fell like woodland music on the ear. Here was another log-hut of minute dimensions and ruinous aspect, in front of which sat another Chinaman, eating his dinner. Him Ah-wow addressed as Ko-sing. After a brief conversation, Ko-sing turned to the strangers, and said-- "Ho! Kin speek English, me can. What you want?" "We want to look at your diggings," answered Ned. "We are going to turn the river here, if we can; and if you and your companions choose to join us, we will give you good wages." "Kin speek, but not fery well kin on'erstan'. Work, work you say, an' pay we?" "Yes, that's it; you work for us, and we'll pay you." "How moche?" inquired the cautious Celestial. "Five dollars a day," replied Ned. The Chinaman put on a broad grin, and offered to shake hands, which offer was accepted, not only by Ned, but by the whole party; and the contract was thus settled on the spot, to the satisfaction of all parties. After this they spent some time in examining the bed of the stream, and having fixed upon a spot on which to commence operations, they prepared, about sunset, to return for their tent and mining tools, intending to make a moonlight flitting in order to avoid being questioned by over-curious neighbours. All their horses and mules, except Ned's charger, having been sold a few days before to a Yankee who was returning to Sacramento, they expected to get off without much noise, with their goods and chattels on their backs. Before starting on their return, while the rest of the party were crowding round and questioning Ko-sing, Bill Jones--whose mind since he arrived in California seemed to be capable of only one sensation, that of surprise--went up to Ah-wow, and glancing round, in order to make sure that he was not observed, laid his hand on his shoulder, and looked inquiringly into the Chinaman's face. The Chinaman returned the compliment with interest, throwing into his sallow countenance an expression of, if possible, blanker astonishment. "O-wow!" said Bill, with solemn gravity, and pausing, as if to give him time to prepare for what was coming. "O-wow! wot do you dress your pig-tail with?" "Ho!" replied the Chinaman. "Ho!" echoed Bill; "now, that's curious. I thought as how you did it with grease, for it looks like it. Tell me now, how long did it take afore it growed that long?" He lifted the end of the tail as he spoke. "How!" ejaculated the Chinaman. "Ay, _how_ long?" repeated Bill. We regret that we cannot give Ah-wow's answer to this question, seeing that it was never given, in consequence of Bill being suddenly called away by Ned Sinton, as he and his friends turned to go. "Come, Bill, let's be off." "Ay, ay, sir," answered Bill, turning from the Chinaman and following his comrades with solemn stolidity, or, if you prefer the expression, with stolid solemnity. "Don't linger, Larry," shouted Tom Collins. "Ah! thin, it's cruel to tear me away. Good-night to ye, Bow-wow, we'll be back before mornin', ye purty creature." With this affectionate farewell, Larry ran after his friends and followed them down the banks of the tumbling stream towards the `R'yal Bank o' Calyforny,' which was destined that night, for a time at least, to close its doors. CHAPTER FOURTEEN. THE NEW DIGGINGS--BRIGHT PROSPECTS--GREAT RESULTS SPRING FROM GREAT EXERTIONS, EVEN IN CALIFORNIA--CAPTAIN BUNTING IS SEIZED WITH A GREAT PASSION FOR SOLITARY RAMBLING, AND HAS TWO DESPERATE ENCOUNTERS; ONE WITH A MAN, THE OTHER WITH A REAR. The part of the Little Creek diggings to which the gold-hunters transported their camp, was a wild, secluded spot, not much visited by the miners, partly on account of its gloomy appearance, and partly in consequence of a belief that the Celestials located there were getting little or no gold. In this supposition they were correct. Ah-wow and Ko-sing being inveterately lazy, contented themselves with digging just enough gold to enable them to purchase a sufficiency of the necessaries of life. But the region was extremely rich, as our adventurers found out very soon after their arrival. One of the ravines, in particular, gave indications of being full of gold, and several panfuls of earth that were washed out shewed so promising a return, that the captain and Larry were anxious to begin at once. They were overruled, however, by the others, who wished to make trial of the bed of the stream. Six days of severe labour were undergone by the whole party ere their task was accomplished, during which period they did not make an ounce of gold, while, at the same time, their little store was rapidly melting away. Nevertheless, they worked heartily, knowing that a few days of successful digging would amply replenish their coffers. At grey dawn they set to work; some, with trousers tucked up, paddling about in the water all day, carrying mud and stones, while others felled trees and cut them into logs wherewith to form the dam required to turn the stream from its course. This was a matter of no small difficulty. A new bed had to be cut to the extent of eight or ten yards, but for a long time the free and jovial little mountain stream scorned to make such a pitiful twist in its course, preferring to burst its way headlong through the almost completed barricade, by which it was pent-up. Twice did it accomplish this feat, and twice, in so doing, did it sweep Captain Bunting off his legs and roll him along bodily, in a turmoil of mud and stones and dirty water, roaring, as it gushed forth, as if in savage triumph. On the second occasion, Bill Jones shared the captain's ducking, and all who chanced to be working about the dam at the time were completely drenched. But, however much their bodies might be moistened, no untoward accident could damp the ardour of their spirits. They resumed work again; repaired the breach, and, finally, turned the obstinate stream out of the course which, probably, it had occupied since creation. It rushed hissing, as if spitefully, along its new bed for a few yards, and then darted, at a right angle, back into its former channel, along which it leaped exultingly as before. But the object for which all this trouble had been undertaken was attained. About eight yards of the old bed of the torrent were laid bare, and the water was drained away, whereat each of the party exhibited his satisfaction after his own peculiar manner--Larry O'Neil, as usual, giving vent to his joy in a hearty cheer. The result was even more successful than had been anticipated. During the next few days the party conversed little; their whole energies being devoted to eating, sleeping, and digging. The bed of the stream was filled with stones, among which they picked up numerous nuggets of various sizes--from a pea to a walnut--some being almost pure gold, while others were, more or less, mixed with quartz. A large quantity of the heavy black sand was also found at the bottom of a hole, which once had been an eddy--it literally sparkled with gold-dust, and afforded a rich return for the labour previously expended in order to bring it to light. The produce of the first two days' work was no less than fourteen pounds weight of gold! The third day was the Sabbath, and they rested from their work. It is, however, impossible for those who have never been in similar circumstances to conceive how difficult it was for our party of gold-hunters to refrain from resuming work as usual on that morning. Some of them had never been trained to love or keep the Sabbath, and would have certainly gone to work had not Ned and the captain remonstrated. All were under great excitement in consequence of their valuable discovery, and anxious to know whether the run of luck was likely to continue, and not one of the party escaped the strong temptation to break the Sabbath-day, except, indeed, the Chinamen, who were too easy-going and lazy to care whether they worked or rested. But the inestimable advantage of good early training told at this time on Ned Sinton. It is questionable whether his principles were strong enough to have carried him through the temptation, but Ned had been _trained_ to reverence the Lord's-day from his earliest years, and he looked upon working on the Sabbath with a feeling of dread which he could not have easily shaken off, even had he tried. The promise, in his case, was fulfilled--"Train up a child in the way he should go, and he will not depart from it when he is old;" and though no mother's voice of warning was heard in that wild region of the earth, and no guardian's hand was there to beckon back the straggler from the paths of rectitude, yet he was not "let alone;" the arm of the Lord was around him, and His voice whispered, in tones that could not be misunderstood, "Remember the Sabbath-day, to keep it holy." We have already said, that the Sabbath at the mines was a day of rest as far as mere digging went, but this was simply for the sake of resting the wearied frame, not from a desire to glorify God. Had any of the reckless miners who filled the gambling-houses been anxious to work during Sunday on a prolific claim, he would not have hesitated because of God's command. The repose to their overworked muscles, and the feeling that they had been preserved from committing a great sin, enabled the party to commence work on Monday with a degree of cheerfulness and vigour that told favourably on their profits that night, and in the course of a few days they dug out gold to the extent of nearly two thousand pounds sterling. "We're goin' to get rich, no doubt of it," said the captain one morning to Ned, as the latter was preparing to resume work in the creek; "but I'll tell you what it is, I'm tired o' salt beef and pork, and my old hull is gettin' rheumatic with paddling about barefoot in the water, so I mean to go off for a day's shootin' in the mountains." "Very good, captain," replied Ned; "but I fear you'll have to go by yourself, for we must work out this claim as fast as we can, seeing that the miners further down won't be long of scenting out our discovery." Ned's words were prophetic. In less than half-an-hour after they were uttered a long-visaged Yankee, in a straw hat, nankeen trousers, and fisherman's boots, came to the spot where they were at work, and seated himself on the trunk of a tree hard by to watch their proceedings. "Guess you've got som'thin'," he said, as Larry, after groping in the mud for a little, picked up a lump of white quartz with a piece of gold the size of a marble embedded in the side of it. "Ah! but ye're good for sore eyes," cried Larry, examining the nugget carefully. "I say, stranger," inquired the Yankee, "d'ye git many bits like that in this location?" The Irishman regarded his question with an expressive leer. "Arrah! now, ye won't tell?" he said, in a hoarse whisper; "sure it'll be the death o' me av ye do. There's _no end_ o' them things here--as many as ye like to pick; it's only the day before to-morrow that I turned up a nugget of pure goold the size of me head; and the capting got hold o' wan that's only half dug out yet, an' wot's seen o' 't is as big as the head o' a five-gallon cask--all pure goold." The Yankee was not to be put off the scent by such a facetious piece of information. He continued to smoke in silence, sauntered about with his hands in his nankeen pockets, watched the proceedings of the party, inspected the dirt cast ashore, and, finally, dug out and washed a panful of earth from the banks of the stream, after which he threw away the stump of his cigar, and went off whistling. Three hours later he returned with a party of friends, laden with tents, provisions, and mining tools, and they all took up their residence within twenty yards of our adventurers, and commenced to turn the course of the river just below them. Larry and Jones were at first so angry that they seriously meditated committing an assault upon the intruders, despite the remonstrances of Tom Collins and Maxton, who assured them that the new-comers had a perfect right to the ground they occupied, and that any attempt to interrupt them by violence would certainly be brought under the notice of Judge Lynch, whose favourite punishments, they well knew, were whipping and hanging. Meanwhile Captain Bunting had proceeded a considerable way on his solitary hunting expedition into the mountains, bent upon replenishing the larder with fresh provisions. He was armed with his favourite blunderbuss, a pocket-compass, and a couple of ship-biscuits. As he advanced towards the head of the valley, the scenery became more and more gloomy and rugged, but the captain liked this. Having spent the greater part of his life at sea, he experienced new and delightful sensations in viewing the mountain-peaks and ravines, by which he was now surrounded; and, although of a sociable turn of mind, he had no objection for once to be left to ramble alone, and give full vent to the feelings of romance and enthusiastic admiration, with which his nautical bosom had been filled since landing in California. Towards noon, the captain reached the entrance to a ravine, or gorge, which opened upon the larger valley, into which it discharged a little stream from its dark bosom. There was an air of deep solitude and rugged majesty about this ravine that induced the wanderer to pause before entering it. Just then, certain sensations reminded him of the two biscuits in his pocket, so he sat down on a rock and prepared to dine. We say prepared to dine, advisedly, for Captain Bunting had a pretty correct notion of what comfort meant, and how it was to be attained. He had come out for the day to enjoy himself and although his meal was frugal, he did not, on that account, eat it in an off-hand easy way, while sauntering along, as many would have done. By no means. He brushed the surface of the rock on which he sat quite clean, and, laying the two biscuits on it, looked first at one and then at the other complacently, while he slowly, and with great care, cut his tobacco into delicate shreds, and filled his pipe. Then he rose, and taking the tin prospecting-pan from his belt, went and filled it at the clear rivulet which murmured at his feet, and placed it beside the biscuits on the rock. This done, he completed the filling of his pipe, and cast a look of benignity at the sun, which at that moment happened in his course to pass an opening between two lofty peaks, which permitted him to throw a cloth of gold over the captain's table. Captain Bunting's mind now became imbued with those aspirations after knowledge, which would have induced him, had he been at sea, to inquire, "How's her head?" so he pulled out his pocket-compass, and having ascertained that his nose, when turned towards the sun, pointed exactly "south-south-west, and by south," he began dinner. Thereafter he lit his pipe, and, reclining on the green turf beside the rock, with his head resting on his left hand, and wreaths of smoke encircling his visage, he--he enjoyed himself. To elaborate a description, reader, often weakens it--we cannot say more than that he enjoyed himself-- emphatically. Had Captain Bunting known who was looking at him in that solitary place, he would not have enjoyed himself quite so much, nor would he have smoked his pipe so comfortably. On the summit of the precipice at his back stood, or rather sat, one of the natives of the country, in the shape of a grizzly-bear. Bruin had observed the captain from the time he appeared at the entrance of the ravine, and had watched him with a curious expression of stupid interest during all his subsequent movements. He did not attempt to interrupt him in his meal, however, on two grounds--first, because the nature of the grizzly-bear, if not molested, induces him to let others alone; and secondly, because the precipice, on the top of which he sat, although conveniently close for the purposes of observation, was too high for a safe jump. Thus it happened that Captain Bunting finished his meal in peace, and went on his way up the wild ravine, without being aware of the presence of so dangerous a spectator. He had not proceeded far, when his attention was arrested by the figure of a man seated on a ledge of rock that over hung a yawning gulf into which the little stream plunged. So still did the figure remain, with the head drooping on the chest, as if in deep contemplation, that it might have been mistaken for a statue, cut out of the rock on which it sat. A deep shadow was cast over it by the neighbouring mountain-peaks, yet, as the white sheet of a waterfall formed the background, it was distinctly visible. The captain advanced towards it with some curiosity, and it was not until he was within a hundred yards that a movement at length proved it to be a living human being. The stranger rose hastily, and advanced to meet a woman, who at the same moment issued from an opening in the brushwood near him. The meeting was evidently disagreeable to the woman, although, from the manner of it, and the place, it did not seem to be accidental; she pushed the man away several times, but their words were inaudible to the captain, who began to feel all the discomfort of being an unintentional observer. Uncertainty as to what he should do induced him to remain for a few moments inactive, and he had half made up his mind to endeavour to retreat unobserved, when the man suddenly struck down the female, who fell with a faint cry to the earth. In another minute the captain was at the side of the dastardly fellow, whom he seized by the neck with the left hand, while with the right he administered a hearty blow to his ribs. The man turned round fiercely, and grappled with his assailant; and then Captain Bunting became aware that his antagonist was no other than Smith, _alias_ Black Jim, the murderer. Smith, although a strong man, was no match for the captain, who soon overpowered him. "Ha! you villain, have I got you?" cried he, as he almost throttled the man. "Get up now, an' come along peaceably. If you don't, I'll knock your brains out with the butt of my gun." He permitted Black Jim to rise as he spoke, but held him fast by the collar, having previously taken from him his knife and rifle. Black Jim did not open his lips, but the scowl on his visage shewed that feelings of deadly hatred burned in his bosom. Meanwhile, the girl had recovered, and now approached. "Ah! plase, sir," she said, "let him off. Shure I don't mind the blow; it's done me no harm--won't ye, now?" "Let him off!" exclaimed the captain, violently; "no, my good girl; if he has not murdered you, he has at any rate murdered one human being that I know of, and if I can, I'll bring him to justice." Kate, (for it was she), started at this reply, and looked earnestly at the man, who hung his head, and, for the first time, shewed symptoms of a softer feeling. "Ah! it's true, I see, an' all hope is gone. If he'd commit a murder, he'd tell a lie too. I thought he spoke truth when he said Nelly was alive, but--" The girl turned as she spoke, and left the spot hurriedly, while the captain took out his pocket-handkerchief, and began to fasten the arms of his prisoner behind him. But Black Jim was not to be secured without a struggle. Despair lent him energy and power. Darting forward, he endeavoured to throw his captor down, and partially succeeded; but Captain Bunting's spirit was fully roused, and, like most powerful men whose dispositions are habitually mild and peaceful, he was in a blaze of uncontrollable passion. For some time Black Jim writhed like a serpent in the strong grasp of his antagonist, and once or twice it seemed as if he would succeed in freeing himself, but the captain's hands had been trained for years to grasp and hold on with vice-like tenacity, and no efforts could disengage them. The two men swayed to and fro in their efforts, no sound escaping them, save an occasional gasp for breath as they put forth renewed energy in the deadly struggle. At last Black Jim began to give way. He was forced down on one knee, then he fell heavily on his side, and the captain placed his knee on his chest. Just then a peculiar hiss was heard behind them, and the captain, looking back, observed that a third party had come upon the scene. The grizzly-bear, which has been described as watching Captain Bunting at dinner, had left its former position on the brow of the precipice, and, whether from motives of curiosity, or by accident, we will not presume to say, had followed the captain's track. It now stood regarding the two men with an uncommonly ferocious aspect. Its indignation may, perhaps, be accounted for by the fact that they stood in the only path by which it could advance--a precipice on one side and a thicket on the other rendering the passage difficult or impossible. Grizzlies are noted for their objection to turn out of their way for man or beast, so the combatants no sooner beheld the ferocious-looking animal than they sprang up, seized their weapons, and fired together at their common enemy. Bruin shook his head, uttered a savage growl, and charged. It seemed as if Black Jim had missed altogether--not to be wondered at considering the circumstances--and the mixture of shot and slugs from the blunderbuss was little more hurtful than a shower of hail to the thick-skinned monarch of these western hills. Be this as it may, the two men were compelled to turn and flee for their lives. Black Jim, being the nimbler of the two, was soon out of sight among the rocks of the precipices, and, we may remark in passing, he did not again make his appearance. Inwardly thanking the bear for its timely appearance, he ran at top speed into the mountains, and hid himself among those wild lonely recesses that are visited but rarely by man or beast. Captain Bunting endeavoured to save himself by darting up the face of the precipice on his left, but the foot-hold was bad, and the bear proved about as nimble as himself, compelling him to leap down again and make for the nearest tree. In doing so, he tripped over a fallen branch, and fell with stunning violence to the ground. He rose, however, instantly, and grasping the lower limb of a small oak, drew himself with some difficulty up among the branches. The bear came thundering on, and reached the tree a few seconds later. It made several abortive efforts to ascend, and then, sitting down at the foot, it looked up, grinning and growling horribly in disappointed rage. The captain had dropped the blunderbuss in his fall, and now, with deep regret, and not a little anxiety, found himself unarmed and a prisoner. True, his long knife was still in its place, but he was too well aware of the strength and ferocity of the grizzly-bear--from hearsay, and now from ocular demonstration--to entertain the idea of acting on the offensive with such a weapon. The sun sank behind the mountain-peaks, and the shades of night began to fall upon the landscape, and still did Captain Bunting and the bear sit--the one at the top, and the other at the foot of the oak-tree-- looking at each other. As darkness came on, the form of the bear became indistinct and shadowy; and the captain's eyes waxed heavy, from constant staring and fatigue, so that at length bruin seemed, to the alarmed fancy of the tree'd mariner, to be twice the size of an elephant. At last the darkness became so deep that its form mingled with the shadows on the ground, and for some time the uncertainty as to its actual presence kept the prisoner wakeful; but soon his eyes began to close, despite his utmost efforts to keep them open; and for two hours he endured an agonising struggle with sleep, compared to which his previous struggle with Black Jim was mere child's-play. He tried every possible position among the branches, in the hope of finding one in which he might indulge in sleep without the risk of falling, but no such position was to be found; the limbs of the tree were too small and too far apart. At last, however, he did find a spot to lie down on, and, with a sigh of relief, lay back to indulge in repose. Alas! the spot was a myth--he merely dreamed it; the next moment he dropt, like a huge over-ripe pear, to the ground. Fortunately a bush broke the violence of his fall, and, springing up with a cry of consternation, he rushed towards the tree, expecting each instant to feel the terrible hug of his ursine enemy. The very marrow in his back-bone seemed to shrink, for he fancied that he actually felt the dreaded claws sinking into his flesh. In his haste he missed the branch, and fell violently forward, scratching himself terribly among the bushes. Again he rose, and a cold perspiration broke out upon him as he uttered an involuntary howl of terror, and once more leaped up at the limb of the oak, which he could just barely see. He caught it; despair nerved him, and in another moment he was safe, and panting violently among the branches. We need scarcely say that this little episode gave his feelings such a tremendous shock that his tendency to sleep was thoroughly banished; but another and a better result flowed from it,--the involuntary hubbub created by his yells and crashing falls reached listening and not far-distant ears. During their evening meal that day, Ned Sinton and his comrades had speculated pretty freely, and somewhat jocularly, on the probable result of the captain's hunting expedition--expressing opinions regarding the powers of the blunderbuss, which it was a shame, Larry O'Neil said, "to spake behind its back;" but as night drew on, they conversed more seriously, and when darkness had fairly set in they became anxious. "It's quite clear that something's wrong," cried Ned Sinton, entering the tent hastily, "we must up and search for him. The captain's not the man to lose his way with a compass in his pocket and so many landmarks round him." All the party rose at once, and began to buckle on belts and arm, while eagerly suggesting plans of search. "Who can make a torch?" inquired Ned. "Here's one ready made to hand," cried Maxton, seizing a huge pine-knot and lighting it. "Some one must stay behind to look after our things. The new-comers who camped beside us to-day are not used to mining life, and don't sufficiently know the terrors of Lynch law. Do you stop, Maxton. Now then, the rest of you, come along." Ned issued from the tent as he spoke, and walked at a rapid pace along the track leading up the valley, followed closely by Tom Collins, Larry O'Neil, and Bill Jones--all of whom were armed with rifles, revolvers, and bowie-knives. For a long time they walked on in silence, guided by the faint light of the stars, until they came to the flat rock which had formed the captain's dinner-table. Here they called a halt, in order to discuss the probability of their lost comrade having gone up the ravine. The question was soon settled by Larry, who discovered a few crumbs of the biscuit lying on the rock, and footprints leading up the ravine; for the captain, worthy man, had stepped recklessly into the little stream when he went to fill his pannikin, and his wet feet left a distinct track behind him for some distance. "He can't have gone far up such a wild place as this," said Tom Collins, while they moved cautiously along. "Kindle the torch, Ned, it will light us on our way, and be a guide to the captain if he's within sight." "It will enlighten enemies, too, if any are within range," replied Ned, hesitating. "Oh, no fear," rejoined Tom, "our greatest enemy is darkness; here, Jones, hand me your match-box." In a few seconds the torch flared forth, casting a broad glare of light on their path, as they advanced, examining the foot of precipices. "Give a shout, Larry," said Ned. Larry obeyed, and all listened intently, but, save the echo from the wild cliffs, no reply was heard. Had the captain been wide-awake at the time, he would, doubtless, have heard the friendly shout, but his ears were dull from prolonged watching. It was thought needless to repeat the cry, so the party resumed their search with anxious forebodings in their hearts, though their lips were silent. They had not proceeded far, however, when the noise occasioned by the captain's fall from the tree, as already described, struck upon their ears. "Och! what's that?" exclaimed Larry, with a look of mingled surprise and superstitious fear. For a minute the party seemed transformed into statues, as each listened intently to the mysterious sounds. "They come from the other side of the point ahead," remarked Ned, in a whisper. "Light another torch, Larry, and come on--quick!" Ned led the way at a run, holding one of the torches high above his head, and in a few minutes passed round the point above referred to. The glare of his torch immediately swept far ahead, and struck with gladsome beam on the now wakeful eye of the captain, who instantly greeted it with one of his own peculiarly powerful and eminently nautical roars. "Hooroo!" yelled Larry, in reply, dashing forward at full speed. "Here we are all right, capting, comin' to the rescue; don't give in, capting; pitch into the blackguards--" "Look out for the grizzly-bear," roared the captain, as his friends advanced at a run, waving their torches encouragingly. The whole party came to a dead halt on this unexpected caution, and each cocked his piece as they looked, first into the gloom beyond, and then at each other, in surprise and perplexity. "Halloo! captain, where are you?" shouted Ned. "And where's the bear!" added Tom Collins. "Right in front o' you," replied the captain, "about fifty yards on. The bear's at the bottom o' the tree, and I'm a-top of it. Come on, and fire together; but aim _low_, d'ye hear?" "Ay, ay, sir," replied Bill Jones, as if he were answering a command on shipboard, while he advanced boldly in the direction indicated. The others were abreast of him instantly, Ned and Larry holding the torches high in their left hands as they approached, step by step, with rifles ready for instant use. "Have a care," cried the captain; "I see him. He seems to be crouchin' to make a rush." This caused another halt; but as no rush was made, the party continued to advance very slowly. "Oh! av ye would only shew yerself," said Larry, in a suppressed tone of exasperation at being kept so long in nervous expectation. "I see him," cried Ned, taking aim. The rest of the party cried "Where!" aimed in the same direction, and the whole fired a volley, the result of which was, that Captain Bunting fell a second time to the ground, crashing through the branches with a terrible noise, and alighting heavily at the foot of the tree. To the surprise of all, he instantly jumped up, and seizing Ned and Tom as they came up, shook them warmly by the hand. "Och! are ye not shot, capting?" exclaimed Larry. "Not a bit; not even hurt," answered the captain, laughing. The fact was, that Captain Bunting, in his anxiety to escape being accidentally shot by his comrades, had climbed to the utmost possible height among the tender top branches of the oak. When the volley was fired, he lost his balance, fell through the tree, the under branches of which happily broke his fall, and finally alighted on the back of the grizzly-bear itself, which lay extended, and quite dead, on the ground. "Faix we've polished him off for wance," cried Larry, in the excess of his triumph, as he stood looking at the fallen bear. "Faix we've done nothing of the sort," retorted Tom Collins, who was examining the carcase. "It's been dead for hours, and is quite cold. Every bullet has missed, too, for the shot that settled him is on the side next the ground. So much for hasty shooting. Had bruin been alive when we fired, I'm inclined to think that some of us would not be alive now." "Now, that's wot I wos sure of," remarked Bill Jones. "Wot I says is this--w'en yer goin' aloft to reef to'sails, don't be in a hurry. It's o' no manner o' use tryin' to shove on the wind. If ye've got a thing to do, do it slow--slow an' sure. If ye haven't got a thing to do, in coorse ye can't do it, but if ye have, don't be in a hurry--I says." Bill Jones's maxim is undoubtedly a good one. Not a scratch had the bear received from any one of the party. The bullet of Black Jim had laid him low. Although hurriedly aimed, it had reached the animal's heart, and all the time that Captain Bunting was struggling to overcome his irresistible tendency to sleep, poor bruin was lying a helpless and lifeless body at the foot of the oak-tree. CHAPTER FIFTEEN. AH-WOW SAVED FROM AN UNTIMELY FATE--LYNCH LAW ENFORCED--NED SINTON RESOLVES TO RENOUNCE GOLD-DIGGING FOR A TIME, AND TOM COLLINS SECONDS HIM. Ah-wow sat on the stump of an oak-tree, looking, to use a familiar, though incorrect expression, very blue indeed. And no wonder, for Ah-wow was going to be hanged. Perhaps, courteous reader, you think we are joking, but we assure you we are not. Ah-wow had just been found guilty, or pronounced guilty--which, at the diggings, meant the same thing--of stealing two thousand dollars' worth of gold-dust, and was about to expiate his crime on the branch of a tree. There could be no doubt of his guilt; so said the enlightened jury who tried him; so said the half-tipsy judge who condemned him; and so said the amiable populace which had assembled to witness his execution. It cannot be denied that appearances went very much against Ah-wow--so much so, that Maxton, and even Captain Bunting, entertained suspicions as to his innocence, though they pleaded hard for his pardon. The gold had been discovered hid near the Chinaman's tent, and the bag containing it was recognised and sworn to by at least a dozen of the diggers as that belonging to the man from whom the gold had been stolen. The only point that puzzled the jury was the strong assertions of Captain Bunting, Maxton, and Collins, that, to their certain belief, the poor Celestial had dug beside them each day, and slept beside them each night for three weeks past, at a distance of three miles from the spot where the robbery took place. But the jury were determined to hang somebody, so they shut their ears to all and sundry, save and except to those who cried out, "String the riptile up--sarves him right!" Ko-sing also sat on the tree-stump, endeavouring to comfort Ah-wow by stroking his pig-tail and howling occasionally in an undertone. It seemed indeed that the poor man's career was drawing to a close, for two men advanced, and, seizing his pinioned arms, led him under the fatal limb; but a short respite occurred in consequence of a commotion in the outskirts of the crowd, where two men were seen forcing a passage towards the centre. Ned Sinton and Larry O'Neil had been away in the mountains prospecting at the time when Ah-wow was captured and led to the settlement, near the first residence of our adventurers, to stand his trial. The others accompanied the condemned man, in order, if possible, to save him, leaving Jones behind to guard their property, and acquaint Ned with the state of affairs on his return. Our hero knew too well the rapid course of Lynch law to hesitate. He started at once with Larry down the stream, to save, if possible, the life of his servant, for whom he felt a curious sort of patronising affection, and who he was sure must be innocent. He arrived just in time. "Howld on, boys," cried Larry, flourishing his felt hat as they pushed through the crowd. "Stay, friends," cried Ned, gaining the centre of the circle at last; "don't act hastily. This man is my servant." "_That_ don't make him an honest man, I guess," said a cynical bystander. "Perhaps not," retorted Ned; "but it binds me in honour to clear him, if I can." "Hear, hear," said several voices; "get up on the stump an' fire away, stranger." Ned obeyed. "Gentlemen," he began, "I can swear, in the first place, that the Chinaman has not been a quarter of a mile from my tent for three weeks past, so that he could not have stolen the gold--" "How then came it beside his tent?" inquired a voice. "I'll tell you, if you will listen. This morning early I started on a prospecting ramble up the stream, and not long after I set out I caught a glance of that villain Black Jim, who, you know, has been supposed for some time back to have been lurking in the neighbourhood. He ran off the moment he caught sight of me, and although I followed him at full speed for a considerable distance, he succeeded in escaping. However, I noticed the print of his footsteps, in a muddy place over which he passed, and observed that his right boot had no heel. On returning home this afternoon, and hearing what had happened, I went to the spot where the bag of gold had been discovered, and there, sure enough, I found footprints, one of which shewed that the wearer's right boot had _no heel_. Now, gentlemen, it don't need much speaking to make so clear a matter clearer, I leave you to judge whether this robbery has been committed by the Chinaman or not." Ned's speech was received with various cries; some of which shewed that the diggers were not satisfied with his explanation, and Ah-wow's fate still trembled in the balance, when the owner of the bag of gold stepped forward and admitted that he had observed similar foot-marks in the neighbourhood of his tent just after the robbery was committed, and said that he believed the Chinaman was innocent. This set the matter at rest. Ah-wow was cast loose and congratulated by several of the bystanders on his escape, but there seemed a pretty general feeling amongst many of the others that they had been unjustly deprived of their prey, and there is no saying what might have happened had not another culprit appeared on the scene to divert their attention. The man who was led forward had all the marks of a thorough desperado about him. From his language it was impossible to judge what country had the honour of giving him birth, but it was suspected that his last residence had been Botany Bay. Had this man's innocence been ever so clearly proved he could not have escaped from such judges in their then disappointed state of mind; but his guilt was unquestionable. He had been caught in the act of stealing from a monte table. The sum was not very large, however, so it was thought a little too severe to hang him; but he was condemned to have his head shaved, his ears cut off, and to receive a hundred lashes. The sentence was executed promptly, notwithstanding the earnest remonstrances of a few of the better-disposed among the crowd: and Ned, seeing that he could do nothing to mitigate the punishment of the poor wretch, left the spot with his comrades and the rescued Chinaman. That night, as they all sat round their camp-fire, eating supper with a degree of zest known only to those who labour at severe and out-of-door occupation all day, Ned Sinton astonished his companions not a little, by stating his intention to leave them for the purpose of making a tour through the country. "Make a tour!" exclaimed Maxton, in surprise. "An' lave all the goold!" cried Larry O'Neil, pausing in his mastication of a tough lump of bear-steak. "Why, boy," said Captain Bunting, laying down his knife, and looking at Ned in amazement, "what's put that in your head, eh?" "Being somewhat tired of grubbing in the mud has put it into my head," replied Ned, smiling. "The fact is, comrades, that I feel disposed for a ramble, and I _don't_ feel bent on making a fortune. You may, perhaps, be surprised to hear such a statement, but--" "Not at all--by no means," interrupted Bill Jones; "I'm surprised at nothin' in this here country. If I seed a first-rate man-o'-war comin' up the valley at fifteen knots, with stun'-sails alow and aloft, stem on, against the wind, an' carryin' all before it, like nothin', I wouldn't be surprised, not a bit, so I wouldn't!" "Well, perhaps not," resumed Ned; "but, surprised or not, my statement is true. I don't care about making my `pile' in a hurry. Life was not given to us to spend it in making or digging gold; and, being quite satisfied, in the meantime, with the five or six hundred pounds of profits that fall to my share, I am resolved to make over my unfinished claim to the firm, and set out on my travels through the country. I shall buckle on my bowie-knife and revolver, and go where fancy leads me, as long as my funds last; when they are exhausted, I will return, and set to work again. Now, who will go with me?" "Are you in earnest?" asked Tom Collins. "In earnest! ay, that am I; never was more so in my life. Why, I feel quite ashamed of myself. Here have I been living for weeks in one of the most romantic and beautiful parts of this world, without taking more notice of it, almost, than if it did not exist. Do you think that with youth and health, and a desire to see everything that is beautiful in creation, I'm going to stand all day and every day up to the knees in dirty water, scraping up little particles of gold? Not I! I mean to travel as long as I have a dollar in my pocket; when that is empty, I'll work." Ned spoke in a half-jesting tone, but there is no doubt that he gave utterance to the real feelings of his heart. He felt none of that eager thirst for gold which burned, like a fever, in the souls of hundreds and thousands of the men who poured at that time in a continuous and ever-increasing stream into California. Gold he valued merely as a means of accomplishing present ends; he had no idea of laying it up for the future; married men, he thought, might, perhaps, with propriety, amass money for the benefit of their families, but _he_ wasn't a married man, and didn't mean to be one, so he felt in duty bound to spend all the gold he dug out of the earth. We do not pretend to enter into a disquisition as to the correctness or incorrectness of Ned's opinions; we merely state them, leaving our reader to exercise his own reasoning powers on the subject, if so disposed. For a few seconds after Ned's last speech, no sound escaped the lips of his comrades, save those resulting from the process of mastication. At last, Tom Collins threw down his knife, and slapped his thigh energetically, as he exclaimed, "I'll go with you, Ned! I've made up my mind. I'm tired of digging, too; and I'm game for a ramble into the heart of the Rocky Mountains, if you like." "Bravo! Tom," cried Captain Bunting, slapping his companion on the shoulder--"well and bravely spoken; but you're a goose for all that, and so, saving his presence, is Commodore Ned Sinton. Why, you'll just waste two months or so in profitless wandering, and return beggars to the Little Creek to begin the work all over again. Take my advice, lads--the advice of an old salt, who knows a thing or two--and remain where you are till we have worked out all the gold hereabouts. After that you may talk of shifting." "You're a very sour old salt to endeavour to damp our spirits in that way at the outset, but it won't do; my mind is made up, and I'm glad to find that there is at least one of the party who is strong enough to break these golden chains." "Faix I comed here for goold, an' I stop here for the same raison," remarked Larry, scraping the last morsels from the bottom of the kettle with an iron spoon; "I've thravelled more nor enough in me day, so I can affoord to stop at home now." "Get out, you renegade! do you call this home?" cried Ned. "'Tis all that's of it at present, anyhow." "When shall we start?" inquired Tom Collins. "To-morrow. We have few preparations to make, and the sooner we go the better; for when the rainy season sets in, our journeying will be stopped perforce. I have a plan in my mind which I shall detail to you after we retire to rest. Meanwhile I'll go and improve my bed, which has been so uncomfortable for some nights past that my very bones are aching." Ned rose, took up an axe, and, going into the bush in rear of the tent, cut down a young pine-tree, the tender shoots and branches of which he stripped off, and strewed thickly on the ground on which he was wont to sleep; over these he spread two thick blankets, and on this simple but springy and comfortable couch he and Tom Coffins lay down side by side to talk over their future plans, while their comrades snored around them. Daylight found them still talking; so, pausing by mutual consent, they snatched an hour's repose before commencing the needful preparations for their contemplated journey. CHAPTER SIXTEEN. NED AND TOM TAKE TO WANDERING--PHILOSOPHICAL SPECULATIONS--A STARTLING APPARITION--THE DIGGER INDIANS--WATER BOILED IN A BASKET--THE GLOOMY PASS--THE ATTACK BY ROBBERS--THE FIGHT--A SURPRISE--THE ENCAMPMENT. Change is one of the laws of nature. We refer not to small-change, reader, but to physical, material change. Everything is given to change; men, and things, and place, and circumstances, all change, more or less, as time rolls on in its endless course. Following, then, this inevitable law of nature, we, too, will change the scene, and convey our reader deeper in among the plains and mountains of the far, "far west." It is a beautiful evening in July. The hot season has not yet succeeded in burning up all nature into a dry russet-brown. The whole face of the country is green and fresh after a recent shower, which has left myriads of diamond-drops trembling from the point of every leaf and blade. A wide valley, of a noble park-like appearance, is spread out before us, with scattered groups of trees all over it, blue mountain-ranges in the far distance circling round it, and a bright stream winding down its emerald breast. On the hill-sides the wild-flowers grow so thickly that they form a soft, thick couch to lie upon, immense trees, chiefly pines and cedars, rise here and there like giants above their fellows. Oaks, too, are numerous, and the scene in many places is covered with mansanita underwood, a graceful and beautiful shrub. The trees and shrubbery, however, are not so thickly planted as to intercept the view, and the ground undulates so much that occasionally we overtop them, and obtain a glimpse of the wide vale before us. Over the whole landscape there is a golden sunny haze, that enriches while it softens every object, and the balmy atmosphere is laden with the sweet perfume called forth by the passing shower. One might fancy Eden to have been somewhat similar to this, and here, as there, the presence of the Lord might be recognised in a higher degree than in most other parts of this earth, for, in this almost untrodden wilderness, His pre-eminently beautiful works have not yet to any great extent been marred by the hand of man. Far away towards the north, two horsemen may be seen wending their way through the country at a slow, ambling pace, as if they would fain prolong their ride in such a lovely vale. The one is Ned Sinton, the other Tom Collins. It had cost these worthies a week of steady riding, to reach the spot on which we now find them, during which time they had passed through great varieties of scenery, had seen many specimens of digging-life, and had experienced not a few vicissitudes; but their griefs were few and slight compared with their enjoyments, and, at the moment we overtake them, they were riding they knew not and they cared not whither! Sufficient for them to know that the wilds before them were illimitable; that their steeds were of the best and fleetest Mexican breed; that their purses were well-lined with dollars and gold-dust; that they were armed with rifles, pistols, knives, and ammunition, to the teeth; and that the land was swarming with game. "'Tis a perfect paradise!" exclaimed Tom Collins, as they reined up on the brow of a hill to gaze at the magnificent prospect before them. "Strange," murmured Ned, half soliloquising, "that, although so wild and uncultivated, it should remind me so forcibly of home. Yonder bend in the stream, and the scenery round it, is so like to the spot where I was born, and where I spent my earliest years, that I can almost fancy the old house will come into view at the next turn." "It does indeed remind one of the cultivated parks of England," replied Tom; "but almost all my early associations are connected with cities. I have seen little of uncontaminated nature all my life, except the blue sky through chimney tops, and even that was seen through a medium of smoke." "Do you know," remarked Ned, as they resumed their journey at a slow pace, "it has always seemed to me that cities are unnatural monstrosities, and that there should be no such things!" "Indeed," replied Tom, laughing; "how, then, would you have men to live?" "In the country, of course, in cottages and detached houses. I would sow London, Liverpool, Manchester, etcetera, broadcast over the land, so that there would be no spot in Britain in which there were not clusters of human dwellings, each with its little garden around it, and yet no spot on which a _city_ could be found." "Hum, rather awkward for the transaction of business, I fear," suggested Tom. "Not a bit; our distances would be greater, but we could overcome that difficulty by using horses more than we do--and railroads." "And how would you manage with huge manufactories?" inquired Tom. "I've not been able to solve that difficulty yet," replied Ned, smiling; "but my not being able to point out how things may be put right, does not, in the least degree, alter the fact that, as they are at present, they are wrong." "Most true, my sagacious friend," said Tom; "but, pray, how do you prove the fact that things _are_ wrong?" "I prove it thus:--You admit, I suppose, that the air of all large cities is unhealthy, as compared with that of the country, and that men and women who dwell in cities are neither so robust nor so healthy as those who dwell in country places?" "I'm not sure that I do admit it," answered Tom. "Surely you don't deny that people of the cities deem it a necessary of life to get off to the country at least once a year, in order to recruit, and that they invariably return better in health than when they left?" "True; but that is the result of change." "Ay," added Ned, "the result of change from worse to better." "Well, I admit it for the sake of argument." "Well, then, if the building of cities necessarily and inevitably creates a condition of atmosphere which is, to some extent, no matter how slight, prejudicial to health, those who build them and dwell in them are knowingly damaging the life which has been given them to be cherished and taken care of." "Ned," said Tom, quietly, "you're a goose!" "Tom," retorted Ned, "I know it; but, in the sense in which you apply the term, all men are geese. They are divided into two classes--namely, geese who are such because they can't and won't listen to reason, and geese who are such because they take the trouble to talk philosophically to the former; but to return from this digression, what think you of the argument?" Tom replied by reining up his steed, pointing to an object in front, and inquiring, "What think you of _that_?" The object referred to was a man, but, in appearance at least, he was not many degrees removed from the monkey. He was a black, squat, hideous-looking native, and his whole costume, besides the little strip of cloth usually worn by natives round the loins, consisted of a black silk hat and a pair of Wellington boots! Dear reader, do not suppose that I am trying to impose upon your good-natured credulity. What I state is a _fact_, however unlikely it may appear in your eyes. The natives of this part of the country are called digger Indians, not with reference to gold-digging, but from the fact of their digging subterranean dwellings, in which they pass the winter, and also from the fact that they grub in the earth a good deal for roots, on which they partly subsist. They are degraded, miserable creatures, and altogether uncivilised, besides being diminutive in stature. Soon after the first flood of gold-hunters swept over their lands these poor creatures learned the value of gold, but they were too lazy to work diligently for it. They contented themselves with washing out enough to purchase a few articles of luxury, in the shape of cast-off apparel, from the white men. When stores began to be erected here and there throughout the country, they visited them to purchase fresh provisions and articles of dress, of which latter they soon became passionately fond. But the digger Indians were not particular as to style or fashion-- glitter and gay colour were the chief elements of attraction. Sometimes a naked savage might be seen going about with a second-hand dress-coat put on the wrong way, and buttoned up the back. Another would content himself with a red silk handkerchief tied round his head or shoulders. A third would thrust his spindle-shanks through the arms of a sleeved vest, and button the body round his loins; while a fourth, like the one now under consideration, would parade about in a hat and boots. The poor digger had drawn the right boot on the left foot, and the left boot on the right--a matter of little moment, however, as they were immensely too large for him, as was also the hat, which only remained on his brows by being placed very much back on the head. He was a most singular being, and Ned and Tom, after the first glance of astonishment, were so un-mannered as to laugh at him until they almost fell off their horses. The digger was by no means disconcerted. He evidently was accustomed to the free and easy manners of white men, and while they rolled in their saddles, he stood quietly beside them, grinning hideously from ear to ear. "Truly, a rare specimen of humanity," cried Ned, when he recovered his composure. "Where did _you_ come from, old boy?" The digger shook his head, and uttered some unintelligible words. "It's of no use speaking to him; he don't understand English," said Tom Collins, with a somewhat puzzled expression. The two friends made several attempts to ask him, by signs, where he lived, but they utterly failed. Their first efforts had the effect of making the man laugh, but their second attempts, being more energetic and extravagant, frightened him so that he manifested a disposition to run away. This disposition they purposely encouraged until he fairly took to his heels, and, by following him, they at last came upon the village in which his tribe resided. Here they found an immense assemblage of men, and women, and children, whose appearance denoted dirtiness, laziness, and poverty. They were almost all in a state bordering on nudity, but a few of them wore miscellaneous portions of European apparel. The hair of the men was long, except on the forehead, where it was cut square, just above the eyebrows. The children wore no clothes at all. The infants were carried on stiff cradles, similar to those used by North American Indians. They all resided in tents, made of brushwood and sticks, and hundreds of mangy, half-starved curs dwelt along with them. The hero of the hat and boots was soon propitiated by the gift of a few inches of tobacco, and Ned Sinton and Tom Collins were quickly on intimate terms with the whole tribe. It is difficult to resist the tendency to laugh when a human being stands before you in a ludicrously-meagre costume, making hideous grimaces with his features, and remarkable contortions with his limbs, in the vain efforts to make himself understood by one who does not speak his language! Ned's powers of endurance were tested in this way by the chief of the tribe, an elderly man with a beard so sparse that each stumpy hair might have been easily counted. This individual was clad in the rough, ragged blue coat usually worn by Irish labourers of the poorest class. It was donned with the tails in front; and two brass buttons, the last survivors of a once glittering double row, fastened it across the back of its savage owner. "What _can_ he mean?" said Ned, at the close of a series of pantomimic speeches, in which the Indian vainly endeavoured to get him to understand something having reference to the mountains beyond, for he pointed repeatedly towards them. "It seems to me that he would have us understand," said Tom, "that the road lies before us, and the sooner we take ourselves off the better." Ned shook his head. "I don't think that likely; he seems rather to wish us to remain; more than once he has pointed to his tent, and beckoned us to enter." "Perhaps the old fellow wants us to become members of his tribe," suggested Tom. "Evidently he cannot lead his braves on the war-path as he was wont to do, and he wishes to make you chief in his room. What think you? Shall we remain? The blue coat would suit you admirably." During this colloquy the old savage looked from one speaker to another with great eagerness, as if trying to comprehend what they said, then, renewing his gesticulations, he succeeded at last in convincing the travellers that he wished them not to pursue their journey any further, in the direction in which they were going. This was a request with which they did not, however, feel disposed to comply; but seeing that he was particularly anxious that they should accept of his hospitality, they dismounted, and, fastening their horses to a tree close beside the opening of the chief's hut, they entered. The inside of this curious bee-hive of a dwelling was dirty and dark, besides being half-full of smoke, created by the pipe of a squaw--the old man's wife--who regaled herself there with the soothing weed. There were several dogs there also, and two particularly small infants in wooden cradles, who were tied up like mummies, and did nothing but stare right before them into space. "What's that?" inquired Tom, pointing to a basketful of smoking water. "It looks like a basket," replied Ned. "It _is_ a basket," remarked Tom, examining the article in question, "and, as I live, superb soup in it." "Tom," said Ned Sinton, solemnly, "have a care; if it is soup, depend upon it, dogs or rats form the basis of its composition." "Ned," said Tom, with equal solemnity, "eat, and ask no questions." Tom followed his own advice by accepting a dish of soup, with a large lump of meat in it, which was at that moment offered to him by the old chief who also urged Ned Sinton to partake; but he declined, and, lighting his pipe, proceeded to enjoy a smoke, at the same time handing the old man a plug of tobacco, which he accepted promptly, and began to use forthwith. While thus engaged, they had an opportunity of observing how the squaw boiled water in a basket. Laying aside her pipe, she hauled out a goody-sized and very neatly-made basket of wicker-work, so closely woven by her own ingenious hands, that it was perfectly water-tight; this she three-quarters filled, and then put into it red-hot stones, which she brought in from a fire kindled outside. The stones were thrown in in succession, till the temperature was raised to the boiling point, and afterwards a little dead animal was put into the basket. The sight of this caused Tom Collins to terminate his meal somewhat abruptly, and induced Ned to advise him to try a little more. "No, thank you," replied Tom, lighting his pipe hastily, and taking up a bow and several arrows, which he appeared to regard with more than usual interest. The bow was beautifully made;--rather short, and tipped with horn. The arrows were formed of two distinct pieces of wood spliced together, and were shod with flint; they were feathered in the usual way. All the articles manufactured by these natives were neatly done, and evinced considerable skill in the use of their few and simple tools. After resting half-an-hour, the two friends rose to depart, and again the old Indian manifested much anxiety to prevail on them to remain; but resisting all his entreaties, they mounted their horses and rode away, carrying with them the good wishes of the community, by the courtesy of their manners, and a somewhat liberal distribution of tobacco at parting. The country through which they passed became wilder at every step, for each hour brought them visibly nearer the mountain-range, and towards night-fall they entered one of the smaller passes or ravines that divided the lower range of hills at which they first arrived. Here a rugged precipice, from which projected pendent rocks and scrubby trees, rose abruptly on the right of the road, and a dense thicket of underwood, mingled with huge masses of fallen rock, lay on their left. We use the word road advisedly, for the broad highway of the flowering plains, over which the horsemen had just passed, narrowed at this spot as it entered the ravine, and was a pretty-well-defined path, over which parties of diggers and wandering Indians occasionally passed. "Does not this wild spot remind you of the nursery tales we used to read?" said Ned, as they entered the somewhat gloomy defile, "which used to begin, `Once upon a time--'" "Hist, Ned, is that a grizzly?" Both riders drew up abruptly, and grasped their rifles. "I hear nothing," whispered Ned. "It must have been imagination," said Tom, throwing his rifle carelessly over his left arm, as they again advanced. The gloom of the locality, which was deepened by the rapidly-gathering shades of night, quieted their spirits, and induced them to ride on in silence. About fifty yards further on, the rustling in the bushes was again heard, and both travellers pulled up and listened intently. "Pshaw!" cried Ned, at last, urging his horse forward, and throwing his piece on his shoulder, "we are starting at the rustling of the night wind; come, come, Tom, don't let us indulge superstitious feelings--" At that moment there was a crash in the bushes on both sides of them, and their horses reared wildly, as four men rushed upon them. Before their steeds became manageable, they were each seized by a leg, and hurled from their saddles. In the fall, their rifles were thrown out of their grasp into the bushes; but this mattered little, for in a close struggle pistols are better weapons. Seizing their revolvers, Ned and Tom instantly sprang up, and fired at their assailants, but without effect, both being so much shaken by their fall. The robbers returned the fire, also without effect. In the scuffle, Ned was separated from his friend, and only knew that he maintained the fight manfully, from the occasional shots that were fired near him. His whole attention, however, had to be concentrated on the two stalwart ruffians with whom he was engaged. Five or six shots were fired at a few yards' distance, quick as lightning, yet, strange to say, all missed. Then the taller of the two opposed to Ned, hurled his revolver full in his face, and rushed at him. The pistol struck Ned on the chest, and almost felled him, but he retained his position, and met the highwayman with a well-directed blow of his fist right between the eyes. Both went down, under the impetus of the rush, and the second robber immediately sprang upon Ned, and seized him by the throat. But he little knew the strength of the man with whom he had to deal. Our hero caught him in the iron grasp of his right hand, while, with his left, he hurled aside the almost inanimate form of his first assailant; then, throwing the other on his back, he placed his knee on his chest, and drew his bowie-knife. Even in the terrible passion of mortal combat, Ned shuddered at the thought of slaying a helpless opponent. He threw the knife aside, and struck the man violently with his fist on the forehead, and then sprang up to rescue Tom who, although he had succeeded at the outset in felling one of the robbers with the butt of his pistol, was still engaged in doubtful strife with a man of great size and power. When Ned came up, the two were down on their knees, each grasping the other's wrist in order to prevent their bowie-knives from being used. Their struggles were terrible; for each knew that the first who freed his right hand would instantly take the other's life. Ned settled the matter, however, by again using his fist, which he applied so promptly to the back of the robber's neck, that he dropped as if he had been shot. "Thank you--God bless you, Ned," gasped Tom, as soon as he recovered breath; "you have saved my life, for certainly I could not have held out a minute longer. The villain has all but broken my right arm." "Never mind," cried Ned, stooping down, and turning the stunned robber over on his face, "give me a hand, boy; we must not let the fellows recover and find themselves free to begin the work over again. Take that fellow's neckcloth and tie his hands behind his back." Tom obeyed at once, and in a few minutes the four highwaymen were bound hand and foot, and laid at the side of the road. "Now," said Ned, "we must push on to the nearest settlement hot-haste, and bring a party out to escort--Halloo! Tom, are you wounded?" "Not badly--a mere cut on the head." "Why, your face is all covered with blood!" "It's only in consequence of my wiping it with a bloody handkerchief, then; but you can examine, and satisfy yourself." "The wound is but slight, I see," rejoined Ned, after a brief manipulation of Tom's skull; "now, then, let us away." "We'll have to catch our horses first, and that won't be an easy matter." Tom was right. It cost them half-an-hour to secure them and recover their rifles and other arms, which had been scattered over the field of battle. On returning to the spot where the robbers lay, they found them all partially recovered, and struggling violently to free themselves. Three of them failed even to slacken their bonds, but the fourth, the powerful man who had nearly overcome Tom Collins, had well-nigh freed his hands when his captors came up. "Lie quiet," said Ned, in a low tone, "if you don't want the butt of my rifle on your skull." The man lay down instantly. "Tom, go and cut a stake six feet long, and I'll watch these fellows till you come back." The stake was soon brought and lashed to the robber's back in such a manner that he was rendered utterly powerless. The others were secured in a similar manner, and then the two travellers rode forward at a gallop. For nearly an hour they continued to advance without speaking or drawing rein. At the end of that time, while sweeping round the jutting base of a precipitous rock, they almost ran into a band of horsemen who were trotting briskly towards them. Both parties halted, and threw forward their rifles, or drew their revolvers for instant use, gazing at each other the while in silent surprise at the suddenness of their meeting. "Give in, ye villains," at last shouted a stern voice, "or we'll blow ye out o' the saddle. You've no chance; down your arms, I say." "Not until I know what right _you_ have to command us," replied Ned, somewhat nettled at the overbearing tone of his opponent. "We are peaceable travellers, desiring to hurt no one; but if we were not, surely so large a party need not be afraid. We don't intend to run away, still less do we intend to dispute your passage." The strangers lowered their fire-arms, as if half-ashamed at being surprised into a state of alarm by two men. "Who said we were `afraid,' young man?" continued the first speaker, riding up with his comrades, and eyeing the travellers narrowly. "Where have you come from, and how comes it that your clothes are torn, and your faces covered with blood?" The party of horsemen edged forward, as he spoke, in such a manner as to surround the two friends, but Ned, although he observed the movement, was unconcerned, as, from the looks of the party, he felt certain they were good men and true. "You are a close interrogator for a stranger," he replied. "Perhaps you will inform me where _you_ have come from, and what is your errand in these lonesome places at this hour of the night?" "I'll tell ye wot it is, stranger," answered another of the party--a big, insolent sort of fellow--"we're out after a band o' scoundrels that have infested them parts for a long time, an' it strikes me you know more about them than we do." "Perhaps you are right," answered Ned. "Mayhap they're not _very_, far off from where we're standin'," continued the man, laying his hand on Tom Collins's shoulder. Tom gave him a look that induced him to remove the hand. "Right again," rejoined Ned, with a smile. "I know where the villains are, and I'll lead you to them in an hour, if you choose to follow me." The men looked at each other in surprise. "You'll not object to some o' us ridin' before, an' some behind ye!" said the second speaker, "jist by way o' preventin' yer hosses from runnin' away; they looks a little skeary." "By no means," answered Ned, "lead on; but keep off the edge of the track till I call a halt." "Why so, stranger?" "Never mind, but do as I bid you." The tone in which this was said effectually silenced the man, and during the ride no further questions were asked. About a quarter-of-an-hour afterwards the moon rose, and they advanced at such a rapid pace that in a short time they were close upon the spot where the battle had taken place. Just before reaching it Ned called a halt, and directed the party to dismount and follow him on foot. Although a good deal surprised, they obeyed without question; for our hero possessed, in an eminent degree, the power of constituting himself a leader among those with whom he chanced to come into contact. Fastening his horse to a tree, Ned led the men forward a hundred yards. "Are these the men you search for!" he inquired. "They are, sir," exclaimed one of the party, in surprise, as he stooped to examine the features of the robbers, who lay where they had been left. "Halloo!" exclaimed Tom Collins, "I say, the biggest fellow's gone! Didn't we lay him hereabouts?" "Eh! dear me, yes; why, this is the very spot, I do believe--" All further remarks were checked at that moment by the sound of horses' hoofs approaching, and, almost before any one could turn round, a horseman came thundering down the pass at full gallop. Uttering a savage laugh of derision, he discharged his pistol full into the centre of the knot of men as he passed, and, in another moment, was out of sight. Several of the onlookers had presence of mind enough to draw their pistols and fire at the retreating figure, but apparently without effect. "It's him!" cried Tom Collins; "and he's mounted on your horse, Ned." "After him, lads!" shouted Ned, as he ran back towards the place where the horses were fastened. "Whose is the best horse?" "Hold on, stranger," said one of the men, as he ran up to Ned, "ye may save yer wind. None o' the horses can overtake your one, I guess. I was lookin' at him as we came along. It would only be losin' time for nothin', an' he's miles ahead by this time." Ned Sinton felt that the man's remarks were too true, so he returned to the spot where the remaining robbers lay, and found that the miners had cut their fastenings, and were busily engaged in rebinding their hands behind them, preparatory to carrying them back to their settlement. It was discovered that the lashings of one of the men had been partly severed with a knife, and, as he could not have done it himself, it was plain that the robber who had escaped must have done it, and that the opportune arrival of the party had prevented him from accomplishing his purpose. How the man had broken his own bonds was a mystery that could not now be solved, but it was conjectured they must have been too weak, and that he had burst them by main strength. Another discovery was now made, namely, that one of the three robbers secured was no other than Black Jim himself; the darkness of the night had prevented Ned and Tom from making this discovery during the fight. In less time than we have taken to describe it, the robbers were secured, and each was mounted behind one of his captors. "Ain't you goin' with us?" inquired one of the men, observing that Ned Sinton stood leaning on his rifle, as if he meant to remain behind. "No," answered Ned; "my companion and I have travelled far to-day, besides fighting a somewhat tough battle; we mean to camp here for the night, and shall proceed to your settlement to-morrow." The men endeavoured to dissuade them from their purpose, but they were both fatigued, and persisted in their determination. The impression they had made, however, on their new friends was so favourable, that one of their number, a Yankee, offered the loan of his horse to Ned, an offer which the latter accepted thankfully, promising to return it safe and sound early on the following day. Five minutes later the sound of the retreating hoofs died away, and the travellers stood silently side by side in the gloomy ravine. For a few minutes neither spoke; then Ned heaved a sigh, and, looking in his companion's face with a serio-comically-sad expression, said: "It may not, perhaps, have occurred to you, Tom, but are you aware that we are a couple of beggars?" "If you use the term in its slang sense, and mean to insinuate that we are a couple of unfortunate beggars, I agree with you." "Well, I've no objection," rejoined Ned, "to your taking my words in that sense; but I mean to say that, over and above that, we are real, veritable, _bona fide_ beggars, inasmuch as we have not a sixpence in the world." Tom Collins's visage grew exceedingly long. "Our united purse," pursued Ned, "hung, as you are aware, at my saddle-bow, and yon unmitigated villain who appropriated my good steed, is now in possession of all our hard-earned gold!" Tom's countenance became preternaturally grave, but he did not venture to speak. "Now," continued Ned, forcing a smile, "there is nothing for it but to make for the nearest diggings, commence work again, and postpone our travels to a future and more convenient season. We may laugh at it as we please, my dear fellow, but there's no denying that we are in what the Yankees would call an `oncommon fix.'" Ned's remark as to "laughing at it," was altogether uncalled for and inappropriate, for his own smile might have been more correctly termed a grin, and nothing was further from Tom Collins's thoughts at that moment than laughing. "Are the victuals gone too?" inquired Ned, hastily. Both turned their eyes towards Tom Collins's horse, which grazed hard by, and both heaved a sigh of relief on observing that the saddle-bags were safe. This was a small drop of comfort in their otherwise bitter cup, and they made the most of it. Each, as if by a common impulse, pretending that he cared very little about the matter, and assuming that the other stood in need of being cheered and comforted, went about the preparations for encamping with a degree of reckless joviality that insensibly raised their spirits, not only up to but considerably above the natural level; and when at last they had spread out their viands, and lighted their fire and their pipes, they were, according to Tom's assertion, "happy as kings." The choosing of a spot to encamp on formed the subject of an amicable dispute. "I recommend the level turf under this oak," said Ned, pointing to a huge old tree, whose gnarled limbs covered a wide space of level sward. "It's too low," objected Tom, (Tom could always object--a quality which, while it acted like an agreeable dash of cayenne thrown into the conversation of some of his friends, proved to be sparks applied to gunpowder in that of others;) "it's too low, and, doubtless, moist. I think that yonder pine, with its spreading branches and sweet-smelling cones, and carpet of moss below, is a much more fitting spot." "Now, who is to decide the question if I don't give in, Tom? For I assume, of course, that you will never give in." At that moment an accident occurred which decided the question for them. It frequently happens that some of the huge, heavy branches of the oaks in America become so thoroughly dried and brittle by the intense heat of summer, that they snap off without a moment's warning, often when there is not a breath of air sufficient to stir a leaf. This propensity is so well-known to Californian travellers that they are somewhat careful in selecting their camping ground, yet, despite all their care, an occasional life is lost by the falling of such branches. An event of this kind occurred at the present time. The words had barely passed Ned's lips, when a large limb of the oak beside which they stood snapt off with a loud report, and fell with a crash to the ground. "That settles it," said Tom, somewhat seriously, as he led his horse towards the pine-tree, and proceeded to spread his blanket beneath its branches. In a few minutes the bright flame of their camp-fire threw a lurid glare on the trees and projecting cliffs of the wild pass, while they cooked and ate their frugal meal of jerked beef and biscuit. They conversed little during the repast or after it, for drowsiness began to steal over them, and it was not long before they laid their heads, side by side, on their saddles, and murmuring "Good-night," forgot their troubles in the embrace of deep, refreshing slumber. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN. A CURIOUS AND VALUABLE DRAUGHT--LYNCH LAW APPLIED--BLACK JIM'S CONFESSION--NED BECOMES A PAINTER, AND FINDS THE PROFESSION PROFITABLE AS WELL AS AMUSING--THE FIRST PORTRAIT. Next morning the travellers were up and away by daybreak, and in the afternoon they came upon a solitary miner who was prospecting in a gulch near the road-side. This word gulch is applied to the peculiarly abrupt, short ravines, which are a characteristic feature in Californian more than in any other mountains. The weather was exceedingly hot, and the man took off his cap and wiped his streaming brow as he looked at the travellers who approached him. "Ha! you've got water there, I see," cried Tom Collins, leaping off his horse, seizing a cup which stood on the ground full of clear water, and draining it eagerly. "Stop!" cried the man, quickly. "Why!" inquired Tom, smacking his lips. The miner took the empty cup and gazed inquiringly into it. "Humph! you've drunk it, every grain." "Drop, you mean," suggested Tom, laughing at the man's expression; "of course I have, and why not? There's plenty more of the same tap here." "Oh, I wouldn't mind the water," replied the man, "if ye had only left the gold-dust behind, but you've finished that too." "You _don't_ mean it!" gasped Tom, while the questions flashed across his mind--Is gold-dust poison? And if not, is it digestible? "How--how much have I swallowed?" "Only about two dollars--it don't signify," answered the man, joining in the burst of laughter to which Ned and Tom gave way on this announcement. "I'm afraid we must owe you the sum, then," said Ned, recovering his composure, "for we have only one dollar left, having been robbed last night; but as we mean to work in this neighbourhood, I dare say you will trust us." The man agreed to this, and having directed the travellers to the settlement of Weaver Creek, resumed his work, while they proceeded on their way. Tom's digestion did not suffer in consequence of his golden draught, and we may here remark, for the benefit of the curious, that he never afterwards experienced any evil effects from it. We may further add, that he did not forget to discharge the debt. After half-an-hour's ride they came in sight of a few straggling diggers, from whom they learned that the settlement, or village, or town of Weaver Creek was about two miles further on, and in a quarter of an hour they reached it. The spot on which it stood was wild and romantic, embosomed among lofty wooded hills, whose sides were indented by many a rich ravine, and seamed by many a brawling water-course. Here digging was, as the miners have it, in full blast. Pick, and shovel, and cradle, and long-tom, and prospecting-pan--all were being plied with the utmost energy and with unwearied perseverance. The whole valley was cut up and converted into a net-work of holes and mud-heaps, and the mountain slopes were covered with the cabins, huts, and canvas tents of the miners. About the centre of the settlement, which was a very scattered one, stood a log-house or cabin, of somewhat larger dimensions than the generality of those around it. This was the grand hotel, restaurant, and gambling-house of the place, besides being the scene of the trials and executions that occasionally took place. Some such work was going forward when our travellers rode up, for the area in front of the hotel was covered with a large concourse of miners. "I suspect they are about to try the poor wretches who attacked us last night," said Ned, dismounting at the door of the house. He had scarcely spoken, when a couple of men ran towards them. "Here you are, strangers," they cried, "come along and bear witness agin' them blackguards; they're just about to be strung up. We'll look after your horses." The duty was a disagreeable one, but it could not be avoided, so Ned and Tom suffered themselves to be led into the centre of the ring where the three culprits were standing already pinioned, and with the ropes round their necks. For a short time silence was obtained while Ned stated the circumstances of the robbery, and also the facts regarding the murder of which Black Jim had been previously found guilty. Then there was a general shout of "String 'em up!" "Up wi' the varmints!" and such phrases; but a short respite was granted in consequence of Black Jim expressing a desire to speak with Ned Sinton. "What have you to say to me?" inquired Ned, in a low tone, as he walked close up to the wretched man, who, although his minutes on earth were numbered, looked as if he were absolutely indifferent to his fate. "I've only to say," answered the culprit, sternly, "that of all the people I leaves behind me in this world there's but one I wish I hadn't bin bad to, and that's Kate Morgan. You know something of her, though you've never seen her--I know that. Tell her I--no, tell her she'll find the gold I robbed her of at the foot o' the pine-tree behind the tent she's livin' in jist now. An' tell her that her little sister's not dead, though she don't believe me. I took the child to--" "Come, come, ha' done wi' yer whisperin'," cried several of the bystanders, who were becoming impatient of delay. "Have patience," said Ned, raising his hand. "The man is telling me something of importance." "I've done," growled Black Jim, scowling on the crowd with a look of hate; "I wish I hadn't said so much." The rope was tightened as he spoke, and Ned, turning abruptly on his heel, hurried away with his friend from the spot just as the three robbers were run up and suspended from the branch of the tree, beneath and around which the crowd stood. Entering the inn, and seating themselves in a retired corner of the crowded gambling-room, Ned and Tom proceeded to discuss their present prospects and future plans in a frame of mind that was by no means enviable. They were several hundreds of miles distant from the scene of their first home at the diggings, without a dollar in their pockets, and only a horse between them. With the exception of the clothes on their backs, and Ned's portfolio of drawing materials, which he always carried slung across his shoulder, they had nothing else in the world. Their first and most urgent necessity was supper, in order to procure which it behoved them to sell Tom's horse. This was easily done, as, on application to the landlord, they were directed to a trader who was on the point of setting out on an expedition to Sacramento city, and who readily purchased the horse for less than half its value. Being thus put in possession of funds sufficient at least for a few days, they sat down to supper with relieved minds, and afterwards went out to stroll about the settlement, and take a look at the various diggings. The miners here worked chiefly at the bars or sand-banks thrown up in various places by the river which coursed through their valley; but the labour was severe, and the return not sufficient to attract impatient and sanguine miners, although quite remunerative enough to those who wrought with steady perseverance. The district had been well worked, and many of the miners were out prospecting for new fields of labour. A few companies had been formed, and these, by united action and with the aid of long-toms, were well rewarded, but single diggers and pan-washers were beginning to become disheartened. "Our prospects are not bright," observed Tom, sitting down on a rock close to the hut of a Yankee who was delving busily in a hole hard by. "True," answered Ned, "in one sense they are not bright, but in another sense they are, for I never yet, in all my travels, beheld so beautiful and bright a prospect of land and water as we have from this spot. Just look at it, Tom; forget your golden dreams for a little, if you can, and look abroad upon the splendid face of nature." Ned's eye brightened as he spoke, for his love and admiration of the beauties and charms of nature amounted almost to a passion. Tom, also, was a sincere admirer of lovely, and especially of wild, scenery, although he did not express his feelings so enthusiastically. "Have you got your colours with you?" he inquired. "I have; and if you have patience enough to sit here for half-an-hour I'll sketch it. If not, take a stroll, and you'll find me here when you return." "I can admire nature for even longer than that period, but I cannot consent to watch a sketcher of nature even for five minutes, so I'll take a stroll." In a few minutes Ned, with book on knee and pencil in hand, was busily engaged in transferring the scene to paper, oblivious of gold, and prospects, and everything else, and utterly ignorant of the fact that the Yankee digger, having become curious as to what the stranger could be about, had quitted his hole, and now stood behind him quietly looking over his shoulder. The sketch was a very beautiful one, for, in addition to the varied character of the scenery and the noble background of the Sierra Nevada, which here presented some of its wildest and most fantastic outlines, the half-ruined hut of the Yankee, with the tools and other articles scattered around it, formed a picturesque foreground. We have elsewhere remarked that our hero was a good draughtsman. In particular, he had a fine eye for colour, and always, when possible, made coloured sketches during his travels in California. On the present occasion, the rich warm glow of sunset was admirably given, and the Yankee stood gazing at the work, transfixed with amazement and delight. Ned first became aware of his proximity by the somewhat startling exclamation, uttered close to his ear-- "Wall, stranger, you _air_ a screamer, that's a fact!" "I presume you mean that for a compliment," said Ned, looking up with a smile at the tall, wiry, sun-burnt, red-flannel-shirted, straw-hatted creature that leaned on his pick-axe beside him. "No, I don't; I ain't used to butter nobody. I guess you've bin raised to that sort o' thing?" "No, I merely practise it as an amateur," answered Ned, resuming his work. "Now, that is cur'ous," continued the Yankee; "an' I'm kinder sorry to hear't, for if ye was purfessional I'd give ye an order." Ned almost laughed outright at this remark, but he checked himself as the idea flashed across him that he might perhaps make his pencil useful in present circumstances. "I'm not professional as yet," he said, gravely; "but I have no objection to become so if art is encouraged in these diggings." "I guess it will be, if you shew yer work. Now, what'll ye ax for that bit!" This was a home question, and a poser, for Ned had not the least idea of what sum he ought to ask for his work, and at the same time he had a strong antipathy to that species of haggling, which is usually prefaced by the seller, with the reply, "What'll ye give?" There was no other means, however, of ascertaining the market-value of his sketch, so he put the objectionable question. "I'll give ye twenty dollars, slick off." "Very good," replied Ned, "it shall be yours in ten minutes." "An' I say, stranger," continued the Yankee, while Ned put the finishing touches to his work, "will ye do the inside o' my hut for the same money?" "I will," replied Ned. The Yankee paused for a few seconds, and then added-- "I'd like to git myself throwd into the bargain, but I guess ye'll ask more for that." "No, I won't; I'll do it for the same sum." "Thank'ee; that's all square. Ye see, I've got a mother in Ohio State, an' she'd give her ears for any scrap of a thing o' me or my new home; an' if ye'll git 'em both fixed off by the day arter to-morrow, I'll send 'em down to Sacramento by Sam Scott, the trader. I'll rig out and fix up the hut to-morrow mornin', so if ye come by breakfast-time I'll be ready." Ned promised to be there at the appointed hour, as he rose and handed him the sketch, which the man, having paid the stipulated sum, carried away to his hut with evident delight. "Halloo, I say," cried Ned. "Wall?" answered the Yankee, stopping with a look of concern, as if he feared the artist had repented of his bargain. "Mind you tell no one my prices, for, you see, I've not had time to consider about them yet." "All right; mum's the word," replied the man, vanishing into his little cabin just as Tom Collins returned from his ramble. "Halloo, Ned, what's that I hear about prices? I hope you're not offering to speculate in half-finished holes, or anything of that sort, eh?" "Sit down here, my boy, and I'll tell you all about it." Tom obeyed, and, with a half-surprised and more than half-amused expression, listened to his companion's narration of the scene that had just taken place, and of the plan which he had formed in his mind. This plan was carried out the following day. By daybreak Ned was up preparing his drawing materials; then he and Tom breakfasted at the _table d'hote_, after which the latter went to hunt for a suitable log-hut, in which to carry on their joint labours, while the former proceeded to fulfil his engagement. Their night's lodging and breakfast made a terribly large gap in their slender fortune, for prices at the time happened to be enormously high, in consequence of expected supplies failing to arrive at the usual time. The bill at the hotel was ten dollars a day per man; and provisions of all kinds were so dear, that the daily earnings of the miners barely sufficed to find them in the necessaries of life. It therefore behoved our friends to obtain a private dwelling and remunerative work as fast as possible. On reaching the little log-hut, Ned found the Yankee ready to receive him. He wore a clean new red-flannel shirt, with a blue silk kerchief round the throat; a broad-brimmed straw hat, corduroys, and fisherman's long boots. To judge from his gait, and the self-satisfied expression of his bronzed countenance, he was not a little proud of his personal appearance. While Ned arranged his paper and colours, and sharpened the point of his pencil, the Yankee kept up a running commentary on men and things in general, rocking himself on a rudely-constructed chair the while, and smoking his pipe. The hut was very small--not more than twelve feet by eight, and just high enough inside to permit of a six-foot man grazing the beams when he walked erect. But, although small, it was exceedingly comfortable. Its owner was his own architect and builder, being a jack-of-all-trades, and everything about the wooden edifice betokened the hand of a thorough workman, who cared not for appearance, but was sensitively alive to comfort. Comfort was stamped in unmistakeable characters on every article of furniture, and on every atom that entered into the composition of the Yankee's hut. The logs of which it was built were undressed; they were not even barked, but those edges of them that lay together were fitted and bevelled with such nicety that the keenest and most searching blast of north wind failed to discover an entrance, and was driven baffled and shrieking from the walls. The small fire-place and chimney, composed of mud and dry grass, were rude in appearance; but they were substantial, and well calculated for the work they had to perform. The seats, of which there were four--two chairs, a bench, and a stool--were of the plainest wood, and the simplest form; but they were solid as rocks, and no complaining creak, when heavy men sat down on them, betokened bad or broken constitutions. The little table--two feet by sixteen inches--was in all respects worthy of the chairs. At one end of the hut there was a bed-place, big enough for two; it was variously termed a crib, a shelf, a tumble-in, and a bunk. Its owner called it a "snoosery." This was a model of plainness and comfort. It was a mere shell about two and a half feet broad, projecting from the wall, to which it was attached on one side, the other side being supported by two wooden legs a foot high. A plank at the side, and another at the foot, in conjunction with the walls of the cottage, converted the shelf into an oblong box. But the mattress of this rude couch was formed of buffalo-skins, covered with thick, long luxurious hair; above which were spread two large green mackinaw blankets of the thickest description; and the canvas pillow-case was stuffed with the softest down, purchased from the wild-fowl of California with leaden coin, transmitted through the Yankee's unerring rifle. There was a fishing-rod in one corner, a rifle in another, a cupboard in a third; poles and spears, several unfinished axe-handles, and a small fishing-net lay upon the rafters overhead; while various miscellaneous articles of clothing, and implements for mining hung on pegs from the walls, or lay scattered about everywhere; but in the midst of apparent confusion comfort reigned supreme, for nothing was placed so as to come in one's way; everything was cleverly arranged, so as to _lie close_ and _fit in_; no article or implement was superfluous; no necessary of a miner's life was wanting; an air of thorough completeness invested the hut and everything about it; and in the midst of all sat the presiding genius of the place, with his long legs comfortably crossed, the tobacco wreaths circling round his lantern jaws, the broad-brimmed straw hat cocked jauntily on one side, his arms akimbo, and his rather languid black eyes gazing at Ned Sinton with an expression of comfortable self-satisfaction and assurance that was quite comforting to behold. "Wall, mister, if you're ready, I guess ye'd better fire away." "One second more and I shall commence," replied Ned; "I beg pardon, may I ask your name?" "Jefferson--Abel Jefferson to command," answered the Yankee, relighting the large clay pipe which he had just filled, and stuffing down the glowing tobacco with the end of his little finger as slowly and deliberately as though that member were a salamander. "What's yourn!" "Edward Sinton. Now, Mr Jefferson, in what position do you intend to sit?" "Jest as I'm settin' now." "Then you must sit still, at least for a few minutes at a time, because I cannot sketch you while you keep rocking so." "No! now that's a pity, for I never sits no other way when I'm to home; an' it would look more nat'ral an' raal like to the old 'ooman if I was drawd rockin'. However, fire away, and sing out when ye want me to stop. Mind ye, put in the whole o' me. None o' yer half-lengths. I never goes in for half-lengths. I always goes the whole length, an' a leetle shave more. See that ye don't forget the mole on the side o' my nose. My poor dear old mother wouldn't believe it was me if the mole warn't there as big as life, with the two hairs in the middle of it. An' I say, mister, mind that I hate flatterers, so don't flatter me no how." "It wouldn't be easy to do so," thought Ned, as he plied his pencil, but he did not deem it advisable to give expression to his thoughts. "Now, then, sit still for a moment," said Ned. The Yankee instantly let the front legs of his chair come to the ground with a bang, and gazed right before him with that intensely-grave, cataleptic stare that is wont to overspread the countenances of men when they are being photographed. Ned laughed inwardly, and proceeded with his work in silence. "I guess there's Sam at the door," said Abel Jefferson, blowing a cloud of smoke from his mouth that might have made a small cannon envious. The door flew open as he spoke, and Sam Scott, the trader, strode into the hut. He was a tall, raw-boned man, with a good-humoured but intensely impudent expression of countenance, and tanned to a rich dark brown by constant exposure to the weather in the prosecution of his arduous calling. "Halloo! stranger, what air _you_ up to!" inquired Sam, sitting down on the bench behind Ned, and looking over his shoulder. Ned might perhaps have replied to this question despite its unceremoniousness, had not the Yankee followed it up by spitting over his shoulder into the fire-place. As it was, he kept silence, and went on with his work. "Why I _do_ declare," continued Sam, "if you ain't _photogged_ here as small as life, mole an' all, like nothin'. I say, stranger, ain't you a Britisher?" Sam again followed up his question with a shot at the fire-place. "Yes," answered Ned, somewhat angrily, "and I am so much of a Britisher, that I positively object to your spitting past my ear." "No, you don't, do you? Now, that is cur'ous. I do believe if you Britishers had your own way, you'd not let us spit at all. What air you better than we, that you hold your heads so high, and give yourselves sich airs! that's what _I_ want to know." Ned's disgust having subsided, he replied-- "If we do hold our heads high, it is because we are straightforward, and not afraid to look any man in the face. As to giving ourselves airs, you mistake our natural reserve and dislike to obtrude ourselves upon strangers for pride; and in this respect, at least, if in no other, we are better than you--we don't spit all over each other's floors and close past each other's noses." "Wall, now, stranger, if you choose to be resarved, and we choose to be free-an'-easy, where's the differ? We've a right to have our own customs, and do as we please as well as you, I guess." "Hear, hear!" cried Abel Jefferson, commencing to rock himself again, and to smoke more violently than ever. "What say ye to that, mister?" "Only this," answered Ned, as he put the finishing touches to his sketch, "that whereas we claim only the right to do to and with ourselves what we please, you Yankees claim the right to do to and with _everybody, else_ what you please. I have no objection whatever to your spitting, but I do object to your spitting over my shoulder." "Do you?" said Sam Scott, in a slightly sarcastic tone, "an' suppose I don't stop firin' over your shoulder, what then?" "I'll make you," replied Ned, waxing indignant at the man's cool impudence. "How?" inquired Sam. Ned rose and shook back the flaxen curls from his flushed face, as he replied, "By opening the door and kicking you out of the hut." He repented of the hasty expression the moment it passed his lips, so he turned to Jefferson and handed him the drawing for inspection. Sam Scott remained seated. Whether he felt that Ned was thoroughly capable of putting his threat in execution or not we cannot tell, but he evinced no feeling of anger as he continued the conversation. "I guess if you did that, you'd have to fight me, and you'd find me pretty smart with the bowie-knife an' the revolver, either in the dark or in daylight." Sam here referred to the custom prevalent among the Yankees in some parts of the United States of duelling with bowie-knives or with pistols in a darkened room. "And suppose," answered Ned, with a smile--"suppose that I refused to fight, what then?" "Why, then, you'd be called a coward all over the diggin's, and you'd have to fight to clear your character." "And suppose I didn't care a straw for being called a coward, and wouldn't attempt to clear my character?" "Why, then, I guess, I'd have to kick you in public till you were obligated to fight." "But suppose still further," continued Ned, assuming the air of a philosopher discussing a profoundly-abstruse point in science--"suppose that, being the stronger man, I should prevent you from kicking me by knocking you down, what then?" "Why, then, I'd be compelled to snuff you out slick off?" Sam Scott smiled as he spoke, and touched the handle of his revolver. "Which means," said Ned, "that you would become a cold-blooded murderer." "So you Britishers call it." "And so Judge Lynch would call it, if I am not mistaken, which would insure your being snuffed out too, pretty effectually." "Wrong, you air, stranger," replied the trader; "Judge Lynch regards affairs of honour in a very different light, I guess. I don't think he'd scrag me for that." Further investigation of this interesting topic was interrupted by Abel Jefferson, who had been gazing in wrapt admiration at the picture for at least five minutes, pronouncing the work "fuss rate," emphatically. "It's jest what'll warm up the old 'ooman's heart, like a big fire in a winter day. Won't she screech when she claps her peepers on't, an' go yellin' round among the neighbours, shewin' the pictur' o' `her boy Abel,' an' his house at the gold diggin's?" The two friends commented pretty freely on the merits of the work, without the smallest consideration for the feelings of the artist. Fortunately they had nothing but good to say about it. Sam Scott, indeed, objected a little to the sketchy manner in which some of the subordinate accessories were touched in, and remarked that the two large hairs on the mole were almost invisible; but Jefferson persisted in maintaining that the work was "fuss rate," and faultless. The stipulated sum was paid; and Ned, bidding his new friends good-morning, returned to the inn, for the purpose of discussing dinner and plans with Tom Collins. CHAPTER EIGHTEEN. NED'S NEW PROFESSION PAYS ADMIRABLY--HE AND TOM WAX PHILOSOPHICAL--"PAT" COMES FOR A "LANDSCAPE" OF HIMSELF--LYNCH LAW AND THE DOCTORS--NED'S SITTERS--A YANKEE SWELL RECEIVES A GENTLE REBUFF. The ups and downs, and the outs and ins of life are, as every one is aware, exceedingly curious,--sometimes pleasant, often the reverse, and not infrequently abrupt. On the day of their arrival at the settlement, Ned and Tom were almost beggars; a dollar or two being all the cash they possessed, besides the gold-dust swallowed by the latter, which being, as Tom remarked, sunk money, was not available for present purposes. One week later, they were, as Abel Jefferson expressed it, "driving a roaring trade in pictur's," and in the receipt of fifty dollars, or 10 pounds a day! Goods and provisions of all kinds had been suddenly thrown into the settlement by speculators, so that living became comparatively cheap; several new and profitable diggings had been discovered, in consequence of which gold became plentiful; and the result of all was that Edward Sinton, esquire, portrait and landscape painter, had more orders than he could accept, at almost any price he chose to name. Men who every Saturday came into the settlement to throw away their hard-earned gains in the gambling-houses, or to purchase provisions for the campaign of the following week, were delighted to have an opportunity of procuring their portraits, and were willing to pay any sum for them, so that, had our hero been so disposed, he could have fleeced the miners to a considerable extent. But Ned was not so disposed, either by nature or necessity. He fixed what he considered fair remunerative prices for his work, according to the tariff of the diggings, and so arranged it that he made as much per day as he would have realised had he been the fortunate possessor of one of the best "claims" in the neighbourhood. Tom Collins, meanwhile, went out prospecting, and speedily discovered a spot of ground which, when wrought with the pan, turned him in twenty dollars a day. So that, in the course of a fortnight, our adventurers found themselves comparatively rich men. This was satisfactory, and Ned admitted as much one morning to Tom, as he sat on a three-legged stool in his studio--i.e. a dilapidated log-hut--preparing for a sitter, while the latter was busily engaged in concluding his morning repast of damper, pork, and beans. "There's no doubt about it, Tom," said he, pegging a sheet of drawing-paper to a flat board, "we are rapidly making our fortunes, my boy; but d'you know, I'm determined to postpone that desirable event, and take to rambling again." "There you go," said Tom, somewhat testily, as he lit a cigar, and lay down on his bed to enjoy it; "you are never content; I knew it wouldn't last; you're a rolling stone, and will end in being a beggar. Do you really mean to say that you intend to give up a lucrative profession and become a vagrant?--for such you will be, if you take to wandering about the country without any object in view." "Indeed, I do," answered Ned. "How often am I to tell you that I don't and _won't_ consider the making of money the chief good of this world? Doubtless, it is an uncommonly necessary thing, especially to those who have families to support; but I am firmly convinced that this life was meant to be enjoyed, and I mean to enjoy it accordingly." "I agree with you, Ned, heartily; but if every one enjoyed life as you propose to do, and took to rambling over the face of the earth, there would be no work done, and nothing could be had for love or money-- except what grew spontaneously; and that would be a joyful state of things, wouldn't it?" Tom Collins, indulging the belief that he had taken up an unassailable position, propelled from his lips a long thin cloud of smoke, and smiled through it at his friend. "Your style of reasoning is rather wild, to say the least of it," answered Ned, as he rubbed down his colours on the bottom of a broken plate. "In the first place, you assume that I propose to spend _all_ my life in rambling; and, in the second place, you found your argument on the absurd supposition that everybody else must find their sole enjoyment in the same occupation." "How I wish," sighed Tom Collins, smoking languidly, "that there was no such thing as reasoning. You would be a much more agreeable fellow, Ned, if you didn't argue." "It takes two to make an argument," remarked Ned. "Well, but couldn't you _converse_ without arguing?" "Certainly, if you would never contradict what I say, nor make an incorrect statement, nor draw a wrong conclusion, nor object to being contradicted when I think you are in the wrong." Tom sighed deeply, and drew comfort from his cigar. In a few minutes he resumed,--"Well, but what do you mean by enjoying life?" Ned Sinton pondered the question a few seconds, and then replied-- "I mean this:--the way to enjoy life is to do all the good you can, by working just enough to support yourself and your family, if you have one; to assist in spreading the gospel, and to enable you to help a friend in need; and to alleviate the condition of the poor, the sick, and the destitute. To work for more than this is to be greedy; to work for less is to be reprehensibly lazy. This amount of work being done, men ought to mingle with their fellow-creatures, and wander abroad as much as may be among the beautiful works of their Creator." "A very pretty theory, doubtless," replied Tom; "but, pray, in what manner will your proposed ramble advance the interests of religion, or enable you to do the extra ordinary amount of good you speak of?" "There you go again, Tom; you ask me the abstract question, `What do you mean by enjoying life?' and when I reply, you object to the answer as not being applicable to the present case. Of course, it is not. I did not intend it to be. The good I mean to do in my present ramble is chiefly, if not solely, to my own body and mind--" "Stop, my dear fellow," interrupted Tom, "don't become energetic! I accept your answer to the general question; but how many people, think you, can afford to put your theory in practice?" "Very, very few," replied Ned, earnestly; "but that does not affect the truth of my theory. Men _will_ toil night and day to accumulate gold, until their bodies and souls are incapable of enjoying the good things which gold can purchase, and they are infatuated enough to plume themselves on this account, as being diligent men of business; while others, alas! are compelled thus to toil in order to procure the bare necessaries of life; but these melancholy facts do not prove the principle of `grind-and-toil' to be a right one; much less do they constitute a reason for my refusing to enjoy life in the right way when I have the power." Tom made no reply, but the vigorous puffs from his cigar seemed to indicate that he pondered these things deeply. A few minutes afterwards, Ned's expected sitter entered. He was a tall burly Irishman, with a red-flannel shirt, open at the neck, a pair of huge long boots, and a wide-awake. "The top o' the mornin' to yees," said the man, pulling off his hat as he entered. "Good-morning, friend," said Ned, as Tom Collins rose, shouldered his pick and shovel, and left the hut. "You are punctual, and deserve credit for so good a quality. Pray, sit down." "Faix, then, I don't know what a `quality' is, but av it's a good thing I've no objection," replied the man, taking a seat on the edge of the bed which Tom had just vacated. "I wos wantin' to ax ye, sir, av ye could put in me pick and shovel in the lan'scape." "In the landscape, Pat!" exclaimed Ned, addressing his visitor by the generic name of the species; "I thought you wanted a portrait." "Troth, then, I don't know which it is ye call it; but I wants a pictur' o' meself all over, from the top o' me hat to the sole o' me boots. Isn't that a lan'scape?" "No, it's a portrait." "Then it's a porthraite I wants; an' if ye'll put in the pick and shovel, I'll give ye two dollars a pace for them." "I'll put them in, Pat, for nothing," replied Ned, smiling, as he commenced his sketch. "I suppose you intend to send this to some fair one in old Ireland?" Pat did not reply at once. "Sure," said he, slowly, "I niver thought of her in that way before, but maybe she was fair wance, though she's been a'most as black as bog-oak for half-a-cintury. It's for me grandmother I want it." "Your grandmother! that's curious, now; the last man I painted meant to send the likeness to his mother." "Not so cur'ous neither," replied the man, with some feeling; "it's my opinion, the further a man goes from the owld country, and the rougher he becomes wi' scrapin' up and down through the world, the more tinder his heart gits when he thinks o' his mother. Me own mother died whin I wos a bit spalpeen, an' I lived wi' me grandmother, bliss her heart, ever since,--at laste till I took to wanderin', which was tin years past." "So long! Pat, you must have wandered far in that time. Have you ever been away far into the interior of this country, among the mountains, in the course of your wanderings!" "Among the mountains, is it? Indeed I have, just; an' a most tree-mendous beautiful sight it is. Wos ye goin' there?" "I've been thinking about it. Is the shooting good?" "Shootin', ah! av ye'd bin wi' me an' Bill Simmons, two summers ago, ye'd have had more nor enough o' shootin'. The grizzlies are thick as paes, and the buffaloes swarm in the valleys like muskaitoes, not to mintion wolves, and beavers, and badgers, and deer, an' sich like--forby the red Injuns; we shot six o' them critters about the legs an' arms in self defence, an' they shot us too--they put an arrow dane through the pint o' Bill's nose, an' wan ripped up me left arm, it did." (Pat bared the brawny limb, and exhibited the wound as he spoke.) "Shootin', is it? faix there's the hoith o' shootin' there, an' no end o' sainery." The conversation was interrupted at this point by the door being burst violently open, and several men rushing into the hut. They grasped the Irishman by the arms, and attempted to drag him out, but Pat seized hold of the plank, on the edge of which he sat, and refused to move at first. "Come along, boy," cried one, boisterously; "we're goin' to lynch a doctor, an' we want you to swear to him." "Ay, an' to swear _at_ him too, if ye like; he's a rig'lar cheat; bin killin' us off by the dozen, as cool as ye like, and pretendin' to be an M.D. all the time." "There's more than wan," cried another man, seizing Pat again by the arm; "won't ye come, man?" "Och! av coorse I will; av it's to do any good to the public, I'm yer man. Hooray! for the people, an' down wi' the aristock-racy." This sentiment was received with a shout of delight, and several exclamations of "Bah!" as the party hurried in a body from the studio. Ned, having thus nothing to do, rose, and followed them towards the centre of the settlement, where a large crowd was collecting to try the unhappy doctors above referred to. There were six of them, all disreputable-looking rascals, who had set up for doctors, and had carried on a thriving business among the sick miners,--of whom there were many at that time,--until a genuine doctor arrived at the place, and discovered and exposed them. The miners were fortunately not bloodthirsty at this time, so the six self-dubbed M.D.s, instead of being hanged, were banished for ever from the settlement. Half-an-hour later the miners were busy in their respective claims, and Ned Sinton was again seated before his "lan'scape" of the Irishman. Just as he was completing the sketch, the door opened slowly, and a very remarkable man swaggered into the room, and spat on the centre of the floor. He was dressed in the extreme of the fashion then prevalent in the Eastern States. A superfine black coat, silk vest, superfine black trousers, patent-leather boots, kid gloves, and a black silk hat! A more unnatural apparition at the diggings could not well be imagined. Ned Sinton could hardly credit his eyes, but no rubbing of them would dispel the vision. There he stood, a regular Broadway swell, whose love of change had induced him to seek his fortune in the gold-regions of California, and whose vanity had induced him to retain his drawing-room costume. This man, besides being possessed of a superabundance of supercilious impudence, also possessed a set of digging tools, the handles of which were made of polished oak and walnut, with bright brass ferrules. With these he proposed to dig his fortune in a leisurely way; meanwhile, finding the weather rather hot, he had made up his mind to have his portrait done. Thrusting his hands into his pockets, this gentleman shut the door with his heel, turned his back to the fire-place--from the mere force of habit, for there was no fire--and again spat upon the floor, after which he said: "I say, stranger, what's your charge for a likeness?" "You will excuse me, sir," answered Ned, "if, before replying to that question, I beg of you not to spit on my floor." The Yankee uttered an exclamation of surprise, and asked, "Why not, stranger?" "Because I don't like it." "You wouldn't have me spit in my hat, would you?" inquired the dandy. "Certainly not." "Where then?" Ned pointed to a large wooden box which stood close to the fire-place, and said, "There--I have provided a box for the accommodation of those sitters who indulge in that disagreeable practice. If you can't avoid spitting, do it there." "Wall, now, you Britishers are strange critters. But you haven't told me your price for a portrait." "I fear that I cannot paint you at any price," replied Ned, without looking up from his paper, while Pat listened to the conversation with a comical leer on his broad countenance. "Why not, stranger?" asked the dandy, in surprise. "Because I'm giving up business, and don't wish to take any more orders." "Then I'll set here, I guess, an' look at ye while ye knock off that one," said the man, sitting down close to Ned's elbow, and again spitting on the floor. Whether he did so intentionally or not we cannot tell, probably not, but the effect upon Ned was so strong that he rose deliberately, opened the door, and pointed to the passage thus set free, without uttering a word. His look, however, was quite sufficient. The dandy rose abruptly, and walked out in silence, leaving Ned to shut the door quietly behind him and return to his work, while the Irishman rolled in convulsions of laughter on Tom Collins's bed. Ned's sitters, as we have hinted, were numerous and extremely various. Sometimes he was visited by sentimental and home-sick miners, and occasionally by dandy miners, such as we have described, but his chief customers were the rough, hearty men from "old England," "owld Ireland," and from the Western States; with all of whom he had many a pleasant and profitable hour's conversation, and from many of whom, especially the latter, he obtained valuable and interesting information in reference to the wild regions of the interior which he longed so much to see. CHAPTER NINETEEN. THE WILDERNESS AGAIN--A SPLENDID VALLEY--GIGANTIC TREES AND WATERFALLS-- TOM MEETS WITH AN ACCIDENT--BOTH MEET WITH MANY SURPRISES--MYSTERIES, CAVERNS, DOLEFUL SOUNDS, AND GRIZZLY-BEAR-CATCHERS. Mounted on gallant steeds, Ned and his friend again appear in the wilderness in the afternoon of a beautiful autumn day. They had ridden far that day. Dust covered their garments, and foam bespattered the chests of their horses, but the spirits of men and beasts were not yet subdued, for their muscles, by long practice, were inured to hardship. Many days had passed since they left the scene of their recent successful labours, and many a weary league had been traversed over the unknown regions of the interior. They were lost, in one sense of that term--charmingly, romantically lost--that is to say, neither Ned nor Tom had the most distant idea of where they were, or what they were coming to, but both of them carried pocket-compasses, and they knew that by appealing to these, and to the daily jotting of the route they had travelled, they could ascertain pretty closely the direction that was necessary to be pursued in order to strike the great San Joaquin river. Very different was the scenery through which they now rode from that of the northern diggings. The most stupendous and magnificent mountains in the world surrounded, on all sides, the valley through which they passed, giving to it an air of peaceful seclusion; yet it was not gloomy, for the level land was broad and fertile, and so varied in aspect that it seemed as though a beautiful world were enclosed by those mighty hills. Large tracts of the valley were covered with wild oats and rich grass, affording excellent pasturage for the deer that roamed about in large herds. Lakes of various sizes sustained thousands of wild-fowl on their calm breasts, and a noble river coursed down its entire length. Oaks, chestnuts, and cypresses grew in groups all over the landscape, and up on the hill-sides firs of gigantic size reared their straight stems high above the surrounding trees. But the point in the scenery which struck the travellers as being most peculiar was the precipitous character of the sides of many of the vast mountains and the flatness of their summits. Tom Collins, who was a good judge of heights, having travelled in several mountainous regions of the world, estimated the nearest precipices to be upwards of three thousand feet, without a break from top to bottom, but the ranges in the background towered far above these, and must have been at least double. "I never saw anything like this before, Tom," said Ned, in a suppressed voice. "I did not believe such sublime scenery existed," replied his companion. "I have travelled in Switzerland and Norway, but this surpasses both. Truly it was worth while to give up our gold-digging in order to see this." "Yet there are many," rejoined Ned, "who travel just far enough into California to reach the diggings, where they remain till their fortunes are made, or till their hopes are disappointed, and then return to England and write a book, perchance, in which they speak as authoritatively as if they had swept the whole region, north and south, east and west. Little wonder that we find such travellers contradicting each other flatly. One speaks of `California' as being the most splendid agricultural country in the world, and advises every one to emigrate at once; while another condemns it as an arid, unproductive region, fit only for the support of Indians and grizzly-bears;--the fact being, that both speak, (correctly enough, it may be), of the very small portion of California they have respectively visited. Why, the more I travel in this wonderful land the more I feel how very little I know about it; and had I returned to England without having seen this valley, I should have missed one of the most remarkable sights, not only in the country, but, I verily believe, in the world. If you ever return home, Tom, and are persuaded, `at the earnest request of numerous friends,' to write a book, _don't_ dogmatise as to _facts_; remember how limited your experience has been, and don't forget that _facts_ in one valley are not facts at all in another valley eight or ten miles off." "Perhaps," suggested Tom Collins, patting the arched neck of his steed--"perhaps the advice with which you have just favoured me might, with greater propriety, have proceeded from me to you; for, considering the copious variety of your sentiments on this and other subjects, and the fluency with which you utter them, it is likely that you will rush into print long before I timidly venture, with characteristic modesty, even to grasp the pen!" As Tom ceased speaking they came upon a forest of pine, or fir trees, in the midst of which towered a tree of such gigantic height, that its appearance caused them simultaneously to draw up, and gaze at it in silent wonder. "Can it be possible," said Ned, "that our eyes don't deceive us! Surely some peculiarity in the atmosphere gives that tree false proportions?" Without answering, Tom galloped towards the tree in question, closely followed by his friend. Instead of any delusive haze being cleared away, however, the tree grew larger as they approached, and when they halted about twenty yards from it, they felt that they were indeed in the presence of the monarch of the forest. The tree, which they measured, after viewing it in wondering admiration from all points of view, was ninety-three feet in circumference, and it could not have been less than three hundred and sixty feet high. They little knew that, many years afterwards, the bark of this giant tree, to the height of a hundred and sixteen feet, was to be removed to England, built up in its original form, and exhibited in the great Crystal Palace of Sydenham; yet so it was, and part of the "mother of the forest" may be seen there at this day. Towards evening the travellers drew near to the head of the valley. "We must be approaching a waterfall of no ordinary size," remarked Tom, as they rode through the dark shades of the forest, which were pretty extensive there. "I have heard its roar for some time," answered Ned, "but until we clear this belt of trees we shan't see it." Just then the roar of the fall burst upon them with such deafening violence, that they involuntarily started. It seemed as if a mighty torrent had burst its bounds and was about to sweep them away, along with the forest through which they rode. Pressing forward in eager haste, they soon found that their having doubled round a huge mountain barrier, which the trees had hitherto concealed from them, was the cause of the sudden increase in the roar of the fall, but they were still unable to see it, owing to the dense foliage that overshadowed them. As they galloped on, the thunder of falling waters became more deep and intense, until they reached an elevated spot, comparatively free from trees, which overlooked the valley, and revealed a sight such as is not equalled even by Niagara itself. A succession of wall-like mountains rose in two tiers before them literally into the clouds, for several of the lower clouds floated far below the highest peaks, and from the summit of the highest range a river, equal to the Thames at Richmond, dropt sheer down a fall of above two thousand feet. Here it met the summit of the lower mountain-range, on which it burst with a deep-toned, sullen, never-ceasing roar, comparable only to eternal thunder. A white cloud of spray received the falling river in its soft embrace, and sent it forth again--turbulent and foam bespeckled--towards its second leap, another thousand feet, into the plain below. The entire height of the fall was above three thousand feet. Its sublimity no language can convey. Its irresistible effect on the minds of the wanderers was to turn their thoughts to the almighty Creator of so awe-inspiring and wonderful a scene. Here they discovered another tree, which was so large that their thoughts were diverted even from the extraordinary cataract for a short time. Unlike the previous one, this monarch of the woods lay prostrate on the ground, but its diameter near the root was so great that they could not see over it though seated on horseback. It measured a hundred and twenty feet in circumference, and, when standing, must have been little, if at all, short of five hundred feet in height. Surrounded as they were by such noble and stupendous works of God, the travellers could not find words to express their feelings. Deep emotion has no articulate language. The heaving breast and the glowing eye alone indicate the fervour of the thoughts within. For a long time they sat gazing round them in silent wonder and admiration, then they dismounted to measure the great tree, and after that Ned sat down to sketch the fall, while his companion rode forward to select a spot for camping on. Tom had not proceeded far when he came upon the track of wheels in the grass, a sight which surprised him much, for into that remote region he had supposed few travellers ventured, even on horseback. The depth and breadth of the tracks, too, surprised him not a little. They were much deeper and broader than those caused by any species of cart he had yet seen or heard of in the country, and the width apart was so great, that he began to suspect he must have mistaken a curious freak of nature for the tracks of a gigantic vehicle. Following the track for some distance, he came to a muddy spot, where the footprints of men and horses became distinctly visible. A little further on he passed the mouth of what appeared to be a cavern, and, being of an inquisitive disposition, he dismounted and tied his horse to a tree, intending to examine the entrance. To enter a dark cave, in a wild, unknown region, with the din of a thundering cataract filling the ears, just after having discovered tracks of a mysterious nature in the neighbourhood, was so trying to Tom's nervous system, that he half resolved to give it up; but the exploration of a cavern has a fascination to some dispositions which every one cannot understand. Tom said "Pshaw!" to himself in an undertone, and boldly stepping into the dark portals of the cave, he disappeared. Meanwhile, Edward Sinton finished his sketch, and, supposing that Tom was waiting for him in advance, he mounted and galloped forward as fast as the nature of the ground would allow. Soon he came to the tracks before mentioned, and shortly after to the muddy spot with the footprints. Here he drew rein, and dismounted to examine the marks more closely. Our hero was as much perplexed as his friend had been at the unusually broad tracks of the vehicle which had passed that way. Leading his horse by the bridle, he advanced slowly until he came to the spot where Tom's horse stood fastened to a tree,--a sight which alarmed him greatly, for the place was not such as any one would have selected for an encampment, yet had any foul play befallen his friend, he knew well that the horse would not have been left quietly there. Sorely puzzled, and filled with anxious fears, he examined the spot carefully, and at last came upon the entrance to the cavern, before which he paused, uncertain what to do. The shadows of evening were fast falling on the scene, and he experienced a feeling of dread as he gazed into the profound gloom. He was convinced that Tom must be there; but the silence, and the length of time he had been absent, led him to fear that some accident had befallen his friend. "Ho! Tom!" he shouted, on entering, "are you there?" There was a rolling echo within, but no voice replied to the question. Again Ned shouted at the full pitch of his lungs, and this time he thought he heard a faint reply. Hurrying forward eagerly, as quickly as he dared, he repeated his shout, but the declivity of the entrance became so great that he lost his footing and well-nigh fell headlong down a steep incline. He succeeded, however, in regaining his hold, and clambered back to the entrance as quickly as possible. Here he caught up a pine-knot, struck a light and kindled it, and, with this torch held high above his head, advanced once more into the cavern. The voice of Tom Collins at this moment came loud and full from the interior,--"Take care, Ned, there's a sharp descent; I've tumbled down it, but I don't think I'm much hurt." "Cheer up, my boy," cried Ned, heartily; "I'll get you out in a minute." The next moment he stood beside his friend, who had risen from the rugged floor of the cave, and sat on a piece of rock, resting his head on his hand. "Are you badly hurt, my poor fellow?" said Ned, anxiously, going down on one knee and endeavouring to raise his friend's head. "I fear you are. Here, try a drop of this brandy. That's it. Why, you look better already. Come, now, let me examine you." The spirit revived Tom at once, and he replied cheerfully, as he submitted to inspection,--"All right, I was only stunned a little by the fall. Catch me exploring again without a light!" On examination, Ned found, to his great relief; that his friend's hurts were slight. He had been stunned by the severity of his fall, but no bones were broken, and only a few scratches received, so that, after another sip of brandy, he felt almost as well as ever. But he firmly resisted his companion's entreaty to leave the cavern. "No, my boy," said he, "after paying such a price as entrance fee, I'm not going to quit until I have explored the whole of this cave, so please go out for another pine-knot or two, and I'll wait for you." Seeing that he was determined, Ned obeyed, and soon returned with several fresh torches, two of which were ignited, and a bright light sent far and wide into the roof of the cave, which was at a great height above them. The walls were of curious, and in some places grotesque, forms. Immense stalactites hung from the roof, and these were of varied colours,--pale green, pink, and white,--while some of them looked like cascades, which sprang from the walls, and had been petrified ere they quite reached the ground. The roof was supported by natural pillars, and various arched openings led into similar chambers, some of which were larger and more curious than the outer one. "Do you know," said Ned Sinton, as they sat down on a rock in one of the inner chambers to rest, "this place recalls vividly to my remembrance a strange dream which I had just before leaving England." "Indeed!" said Tom; "I hope you're not a believer in dreams. Don't, I beseech you, take it into your head that it's going to be realised at this particular moment, whatever it was." "It would take a very strong amount of belief indeed to induce me to expect the realisation of _that_ dream. Shall I tell it you?" "Is it a very ghostly one?" inquired Tom. "No; not at all." "Then out with it." Ned immediately began the narration of the remarkable dream with which this story opens, and as he went on to tell of how the stout old gentleman snuffed gold-dust, and ultimately shot up to the roof of the cave, and became a golden stalactite, Tom Collins, whose risible tendencies were easily roused, roared with laughter, until the vaulted caverns echoed again. At the end of one of these explosions, the two friends were struck dumb by certain doleful and mysterious sounds which proceeded from the further end of the inmost chamber. In starting to his feet, Tom Collins let fall his torch, and in the convulsive clutch which he made to catch it, he struck the other torch out of Ned's hand, so that instantly both were left in the profoundest darkness, with their hearts beating like sledge-hammers against their ribs. To flee was their first and natural impulse; but to flee in the dark, over rough ground, and with very imperfect ideas as to the position of the cave's outlet, was dangerous. "What _is_ to be done?" ejaculated Tom Collins in a tone that indicated the perturbation of his heart too clearly. At that moment Ned remembered that he had a box of matches in the pocket of his hunting-coat; so, without answering, he drew it forth, struck a light, and re-ignited the torches. "Now, Tom," he said, "don't let us give way to unmanly fears. I have no belief whatever in ghosts or spirits, good or evil, being permitted to come in visible or audible form to frighten poor mortals. Every effect has a cause, and I'm determined to find out the cause of these strange sounds. They certainly proceed from animal lungs, whether from man or beast remains to be seen." "Go ahead, then, I'll follow," said Tom, whose courage had returned with the light, "I'm game for anything that I can see; but I confess to you that I can _not_ stand howls, and groans and darkness." Notwithstanding their utmost efforts they failed to discover the cause of the mysterious sounds, which seemed at times to be voices muttering, while at other times they swelled out into a loud cry. All that could be certainly ascertained was, that they proceeded from the roof of the innermost cavern, and that the centre of that roof was too high to be discerned by torch-light. "What shall we do now?" inquired Tom. "We shall go to the summit of the hill above this cave, and see what is to be seen there. Always look at both sides of a mystery if you would fathom it; come along." In a few minutes they stood in open air, and once more breathed freely. Mounting their horses, they ascended the steep slope of the hill above the cave, and, after some trouble, reached the summit. Here the first thing that met their gaze was a camp-fire, and near to it several men engaged in harnessing their horses to a large waggon or van. The frantic haste with which they performed the operation convinced Ned that he had discovered the cause of the mysterious voices, and that he and Tom had been the innocent cause of frightening the strangers nearly out of their wits. So engrossed were they with their work, that our travellers advanced within the circle of light of their fire before they were discovered. The man who first saw them uttered a yell, and the whole party turned round, seized their rifles, and, with terror depicted on their countenances, faced the intruders. "Who comes here?" shouted one. "Friends," answered Ned, laying down his rifle and advancing. Instantly the men threw down their arms and resumed the work of harnessing their horses. "If ye be friends," cried the one who spoke first, "give us a hand. I guess all the fiends in the bottomless pit are lo-cated jist below our feet." "Listen to me for one moment, gentlemen," cried Ned Sinton. "I think I can relieve your minds. What have you heard or seen?" At these words the men stopped, and looked inquiringly at their questioner. "Seen! stranger, we've seed nothin', but we've _hear'd_ a sight, we have, I calc'late. We hear'd the imps o' darkness talkin' as plain as I hear you. At first I thought it was somebody at the foot o' the hill, but all of a suddent the imps took to larfin' as if they'd split, jist under my feet, so I yelled out to my mate here to come an' yoke the beasts and git away as slick as we could. We wos jist about ready to slope when you appeared." Ned now explained to them the cause of their alarms, and on search being made, a hole was found, as he had anticipated, close at hand among the bushes, which communicated with the cavern below, and formed a channel for the conveyance of the so-called mysterious sounds. "And now," said Ned, "may I ask permission to pass the night with you?" "You're welcome, stranger," replied he who seemed to be the chief of the band--a tall, bearded American, named Croft, who seemed more like a bandit than an honest man. His comrades, too, six in number, appeared a wild and reckless set of fellows, with whom one would naturally desire to hold as little intercourse as possible; but most men at the Californian diggings had more or less the aspect of brigands, so Ned Sinton and his companion felt little concern as to their characters, although they did feel a little curious as to what had brought them to such a wild region. "If it is not taking too great a liberty," said Ned, after answering the thousand questions put to him in rapid succession by his Yankee host, "may I ask what has brought you to this out-of-the-way valley?" "Bear-catchin'," answered the man, shortly, as he addressed himself to a large venison steak, which a comrade had just cooked for him. "Bear-catching?" ejaculated Ned. "Ay, an' screamin' hard work it is too, I guess; but it pays well." "What do you do with them when caught?" inquired Tom Collins, in a somewhat sceptical tone. "Take 'em down to the cities, an' sells 'em to fight with wild bulls." At this answer our travellers stared at the man incredulously. "You're strangers here, I see," he resumed, "else you'd know that we have bull and bear fights. The grizzlies are chained by one leg and the bulls let loose at 'em. The bulls charge like all possessed, but they find it hard to do much damage to Caleb, whose hide is like a double-extra rhinoceros. The grizzlies ginerally git the best of it; an' if they was let loose, they'd chaw up the bulls in no time, they would. There's a great demand for 'em jist now, an' my trade is catchin' 'em alive here in the mountains." The big Yankee stretched out his long limbs and smoked his pipe with the complacent aspect of a man who felt proud of his profession. "Do you mean that you seven men catch fall-grown grizzly-bears alive and take them down to the settlements?" inquired Ned in amazement. "Sartinly I do," replied the bear-catcher; "an' why not, stranger?" "Because I should have thought it impossible." "Nothin''s impossible," replied the man, quietly. "But how do you manage it?" Instead of replying, the Yankee inquired if "the strangers" would stay over next forenoon with them. "With much pleasure," answered Ned, not a little amused at the invitation, as well as the man's _brusque_ manner. "Well, then," continued the bear-catcher, shaking the ashes out of his pipe, and putting it into his hat, "I'll let ye see how we do it in the mornin'. Good-night." So saying, he drew his blanket over his head and resigned himself to sleep, an example which was speedily followed by the whole party. CHAPTER TWENTY. GRIZZLY-BEAR-CATCHING IN THE MOUNTAINS--NED AND TOM DINE IN THE MIDST OF ROMANTIC SCENERY, AND HOLD SAGACIOUS CONVERSE--THE STRANGE DEVICES OF WOODPECKERS. Just as day began to peep on the following morning, the camp was roused by one of the bear-catchers, a Mexican, who had been away to visit the bear-trap during the night, and now came rushing in among the sleepers, shouting-- "Hoor-roo! boy, him cotch, him cotch! big as twinty mans! fact!" At first Ned thought the camp was attacked by savages, and he and Tom sprang to their feet and grasped their rifles, while they sought to rub their eyes open hastily. A glance at the other members of the camp, however, shewed that they were unnecessarily alarmed. Croft leisurely stretched his limbs, and then gathered himself slowly into a sitting posture, while the others arose with various degrees of reluctance. "Bin long in?" inquired Croft. "No, jist cotched," answered the Mexican, who sat down, lit his pipe, and smoked violently, to relieve his impatient feelings. "Big 'un?" inquired Croft, again. To this the Mexican answered by rolling his eyes and exclaiming "Hoh!" with a degree of vigour that left his hearers to imagine anything they pleased, and then settle it in their minds that the thing so imagined was out of all sight short of the mark. The excitement of the man at last fully roused the sleepy crew, and Croft sprang up with the agility of a cat. "Ho! boys," he cried, proceeding to buckle his garments round him, "up with you. Ketch the hosses, an' put to. Look alive, will you? grease your jints, _do_. Now, strangers, I'll shew you how we ketch a bar in this lo-cation; bring yer rules, for sometimes he breaks his trap, an' isn't there a spree jist!" We need scarcely remark, that the latter part of this speech was made to Sinton and his comrade, who were drawing the charges of their revolvers and reloading. "Is the trap far off?" inquired Ned. "Quarter of an hour, or so. Look sharp, lads." This exhortation was unnecessary, for the men had already caught three stout horses, all of which were attached to an enormous waggon or van, whose broad wheels accounted for the tracks discovered in the valley on the previous evening. "That's his cage," said the bear-catcher, replying to Ned's look of inquiry. "It's all lined with sheet-iron, and would hold an ontamed streak o' lightnin', it would. Now, then, drive ahead." The lumbering machine jolted slowly down the hill as he spoke, and while several of the party remained with the horses, Croft and our travellers, with the remainder, pushed on ahead. In less than twenty minutes, they came to a ravine filled with thick underwood, from the recesses of which came forth sounds of fierce ursine wrath that would have deterred most men from entering; but Croft knew his game was secure, and led the way confidently through the bushes, until he reached a spot on which stood what appeared to be a small log-cabin without door or window. Inside of this cabin an enormous grizzly-bear raged about furiously, thrusting his snout and claws through the interstices of the logs, and causing splinters to fly all round him, while he growled in tones of the deepest indignation. "Oh! ain't he a bit o' thunder?" cried Croft, as he walked round the trap, gazing in with glittering eyes at every opening between the logs. "How in the world did you get him in there?" asked Ned Sinton, as soon as his astonishment had abated sufficiently to loosen his tongue. "Easy enough," replied Croft. "If ye obsarve the top o' the trap, ye'll see the rope that suspended it from the limb o' that oak. Inside there was a bit o' beef, so fixed up, that when Mister Caleb laid hold of it, he pulled a sort o' trigger, an' down came the trap, shuttin' him in slick, as ye see." At this moment the powerful animal struggled so violently that he tilted his prison on one side, and well-nigh overturned it. "Look out, lads," shouted Croft, darting towards a tree, and cocking his rifle,--actions in which he was imitated by all the rest of the party, with surprising agility. "Don't fire till it turns over," he cried, sternly, on observing that two of the more timid members of his band were about to fire at the animal's legs, which appeared below the edge of the trap. Fortunately, the bear ceased its efforts just at that critical moment, and the trap fell heavily back to its original position. "By good luck!" shouted Croft; "an' here comes the cage. Range up on the left, boys, and out with the hosses, they won't stand this." The terrified animals were removed from the scene, trembling violently from head to foot, and the whole band, applying their shoulders to the wheels, slowly pushed the vehicle alongside of the trap until the sides of the two met. There was a strong door in the side of the trap, which was now removed by being pulled inwards, revealing to bruin an aperture which corresponded to another door opening into the iron-lined cage. There were stout iron bars ready to be shot home the instant he condescended to pass through this entrance; but Caleb, as Croft called him, shewed himself sadly destitute of an inquiring disposition. He knew that there was now a hole in his prison-wall, for he looked at it; he knew that a hole either conducted into a place or out of it, for life-long experience had taught him that; yet he refused to avail himself of the opportunity, and continued to rage round the trap, glaring between the logs at his foes outside. It is unreasonable to suppose that he was afraid to go into the hole because it was a _dark_ one, for he was well accustomed to such dark dens; besides, no one who looked at him could for a moment suppose that he was, or could be, afraid of anything at all. We must, therefore, put his conduct down to sheer obstinacy. The men poked him with sticks; shouted at him; roared in his face; threw water over him; and even tried the effect of a shot of powder at his flank; but all to no purpose, although their efforts were continued vigorously for full two hours. The bear would _not_ enter that hole on any account whatever. "Try another shot of powder at him," cried Croft, whose patience was now almost exhausted. The shot was fired at his flank, and was received with a ferocious growl, while the strong wood-work of the trap trembled under his efforts to escape. "Ain't it vexin'?" said Croft, sitting down on the stump of a tree and wiping the perspiration from his forehead. Ned Sinton and Tom, who had done their utmost to assist their new acquaintance, sat down beside him and admitted that it _was_ vexing. As if by one impulse, the whole party then sat down to rest, and at that moment, having, as it were, valiantly asserted his right of independent action, the bear turned slowly round and quietly scrambled through the hole. The men sprang up; the massive iron bars were shot into their sockets with a clang; and bruin was a prisoner for life. As neither Edward Sinton nor Tom Collins had any particular desire to become bear-catchers, they bade their new friends adieu that afternoon, and continued their journey. The road, as they advanced, became more and more steep and rugged, so that they could only proceed at a walk, and in many places experienced considerable difficulty, and ran no little risk, in passing along the faces of cliffs, where the precipices ascended hundreds of feet upwards like walls, on the one hand, and descended sheer down into an unfathomable abyss, on the other. But the exceeding grandeur of the scenery amply repaid their toils, and the deep roar of that mighty cataract ever sounded in their ears. At length they reached the head of the valley, and stood under the spray of the fall, which, expanding far above and around the seething caldron whence it sprang, drenched the surrounding country with perpetual showers. Here a gap or pass in the mountains was discovered, ascending on the left, and affording, apparently, an exit from the valley. Up this the travellers toiled until they cleared the spray of the falls, and then sat down beside a clump of trees to dry their garments in the sunshine and to cook their mid-day meal. "What a glorious thing it is, Tom, to wander thus unrestrained amid such scenes!" said Ned Sinton, as he busied himself roasting a piece of venison, which his rifle had procured but half-an-hour before. "How infinitely more delightful than travelling in the civilised world, where one is cheated at every turn, and watched and guarded as if robbery, or murder, or high treason were the only probable objects a traveller could have in view." "`Comparisons,' my dear fellow--you know the proverb," replied Tom Collins; "don't uphold California at the expense of the continent. Besides, there are many in this world who would rather a thousand times wander by the classic lake of Como, with its theatrical villas and its enchanting sunshine and perfume, or paddle up the castellated Rhine, than scramble here among wild rocks, and woods, and cataracts, with the chance of meeting an occasional savage or a grizzly-bear." "Go on, my boy," said Ned, with a touch of sarcasm in his tone, "you haven't read me half a lesson yet. Besides, the `many' you refer to, are there not hundreds, ay, thousands, whose chief enjoyment in travelling is derived from the historical associations called up by the sight of the ruined castles and temples of classic ground--whose delight it is to think that here Napoleon crossed the Alps, as Hannibal did before him, (and many a nobody has done after him), that there, within these mouldering ruins, the oracles of old gave forth their voice-- forgetting, perhaps, too easily, while they indulge in these reminiscences of the past, that the warrior's end was wholesale murder, and that the oracle spoke only to deceive poor ignorant human nature. Ha! I would not give one hearty dash into pure, uncontaminated nature for all the famous `tours' put together." Ned looked round him as he spoke, with a glow of enthusiasm that neither badinage nor philosophy could check. "Just look around thee," he continued; "open thine ears, Tom, to the music of yon cataract, and expand thy nostrils to the wild perfume of these pines." "I wouldn't, at this moment," quietly remarked Tom, "exchange for it the perfume of that venison steak, of which I pray thee to be more regardful, else thou'lt upset it into the fire." "Oh! Tom--incorrigible!" "Not at all, Ned. While you flatter yourself that you have all the enthusiastic study of nature to yourself, here have I succeeded, within the last few minutes, in solving a problem in natural history which has puzzled my brains for weeks past." "And, pray thee, what may that be, most sapient philosopher?" "Do you see yonder bird clinging to the stem of that tree, and pitching into it as if it were its most deadly foe?" "I do--a woodpecker it is." "Well," continued Tom, sitting down before his portion of the venison steak, "that bird has cleared up two points in natural history, which have, up till this time, been a mystery to me. The one was, why woodpeckers should spend their time in pecking the trees so incessantly; the other was, how it happened that several trees I have cut down could have had so many little holes bored in their trunks, and an acorn neatly inserted into each. Now that little bird has settled the question for me. I caught him in the act not ten minutes ago. He flew to that tree with an acorn in his beak, tried to insert it into a hole, which didn't fit, being too small; so he tried another, which did fit, poked the nut in, small end first, and tapped it scientifically home. Now, why did he do it? That's the question." "Because he wanted to, probably," remarked Ned; "and very likely he lays up a store of food for winter in this manner." "Very possibly. I shall make a note of this, for I'm determined to have it sifted to the bottom. Meanwhile, I'll trouble you for another junk of venison." It was many weeks afterwards ere Tom Collins succeeded in sifting this interesting point to the bottom; but perhaps the reader may not object to have the result of his inquiries noted at this point in our story. Many of the trees in California, on being stripped of their bark, are found to be perforated all over with holes about the size of a musket-ball. These are pierced by the woodpecker with such precision and regularity that one might believe they had been cut out by a ship-carpenter. The summer is spent by this busy little bird in making these holes and in filling them with acorns. One acorn goes to one hole, and the bird will not try to force the nut into a hole that is too small for it, but flutters round the tree until it finds one which fits it exactly. Thus one by one the holes are filled, and a store of food is laid up for winter use in a larder which secures it from the elements, and places it within reach of the depositor when the winter snows have buried all the acorns that lie upon the ground, and put them beyond the reach of woodpeckers. The birds never encroach on their store until the snow has covered the ground, then they begin to draw upon their bank; and it is a curious fact that the bills of these birds are always honoured, for their instinct enables them to detect the bad nuts with unerring certainty, so that their bank is always filled with good ones. This matter of selecting the good nuts is a mere chance with men, for often those shells which seem the soundest, are found to contain a grub instead of a nut. Even the sagacious Indian is an uncertain judge in this respect, but the woodpecker, provided by an all-wise Creator with an unerring instinct, never makes a mistake in selecting its store of food for winter. CHAPTER TWENTY ONE. CURIOUS TREES, AND STILL MORE CURIOUS PLAINS--AN INTERESTING DISCOVERY, FOLLOWED BY A SAD ONE--FATE OF TRAVELLERS IN THE MOUNTAINS--A SUDDEN ILLNESS--NED PROVES HIMSELF TO BE A FRIEND IN NEED AND IN DEED, AS WELL AS AN EXCELLENT DOCTOR, HUNTER, COOK, AND NURSE--DEER-SHOOTING BY FIRELIGHT. During the course of their wanderings among the mountains our hero and his companion met with many strange adventures and saw many strange sights, which, however, we cannot afford space to dwell upon here. Their knowledge in natural history, too, was wonderfully increased, for they were both observant men, and the school of nature is the best in which any one can study. Audubon, the hunter-naturalist of America, knew this well! and few men have added so much as he to the sum of human knowledge in his peculiar department, while fewer still have so wonderfully enriched the pages of romantic adventure in wild, unknown regions. In these wanderings, too, Ned and Tom learned to know experimentally that truth is indeed stranger than fiction, and that if the writers of fairy-tales had travelled more they would have saved their imaginations a deal of trouble, and produced more extraordinary works. The size of the trees they encountered was almost beyond belief, though none of them surpassed the giant of which an account has been already given. Among other curious trees they found _sugar-pines_ growing in abundance in one part of the country. This is, perhaps, the most graceful of all the pines. With a perfectly straight and cylindrical stem and smooth bark, it rears its proud crest high above other trees, and flings its giant limbs abroad, like a sentinel guarding the forest. The stem rises to about four-fifths of its height perfectly free of branches; above this point the branches spread out almost horizontally, drooping a little at the ends from the weight of the huge cones which they bear. These cones are about a foot-and-a-half long, and under each leaf lies a seed the size of a pea, which has an agreeably sweet taste, and is much esteemed by the Indians, who use it as an article of food. Another remarkable sight they saw was a plain, of some miles in extent, completely covered with shattered pieces of quartz, which shone with specks and veins of pure gold. Of course they had neither time nor inclination to attempt the laborious task of pulverising this quartz in order to obtain the precious metal; but Ned moralised a little as they galloped over the plain, spurning the gold beneath their horses' hoofs, as if it had been of no value whatever! They both puzzled themselves also to account for so strange an appearance; but the only solution that seemed to them at all admissible was, that a quartz vein had, at some early period of the world's history, been shattered by a volcanic eruption, and the plain thus strewn with gold. But from the contemplation of these and many other interesting sights and phenomena we must pass to an event which seriously affected the future plans of the travellers. One beautiful evening--such an evening as, from its deep quiet and unusual softness, leaves a lasting impression on the memory--the two horsemen found themselves slowly toiling up the steep acclivity of a mountain-ridge. Their advance was toilsome, for the way was rugged, and no track of any kind assisted them in their ascent. "I fear the poor horses will give in," said Ned, dismounting and looking back at his companion, who slowly followed him. "We are near the summit," answered Tom, "and they shall have a long rest there." As he spoke, they both dismounted and advanced on foot, leading their fatigued horses by the bridles. "Do you know," said Tom, with a sigh, "I feel more used up to-day than I have been since we started on this journey. I think we had better encamp and have a cup of tea; there is a little left yet, if I mistake not." "With all my heart, Tom; I, too, feel inclined to rest, and--" Ned paused, for at that moment they overtopped the highest edge of the ridge, and the view that burst upon them was well fitted to put to flight every previous train of thought. The ridge on which they stood rose several hundred feet above the level of the plain beyond, and commanded a view of unknown extent towards the far west. The richest possible sweep of country was spread out at their feet like a huge map, bathed in a glow of yellow sunshine. Lakes and streams, crags and rocks, sward, and swamp, and plain--undulating and abrupt, barren and verdant--all were there, and could be embraced in a single wide-sweeping glance. It seemed, to the entranced travellers, like the very garden of Eden. Water-fowl flew about in all directions, the whistling of their wings and their wild cries being mellowed by distance into pleasant music; and, far away on the right, where a clear lake mirrored each tree on its banks, as if the image were reality, a herd of deer were seen cooling their sides and limbs in the water, while, on the extreme horizon, a line of light indicated the shores of the vast Pacific Ocean. Ere the travellers could find words to express their feelings, a rock, with a piece of stick and a small rag attached to it, attracted their attention. "We are not the first who have set their feet here, it seems," said Ned, pointing to the signal. "Strange!" muttered Tom Collins, as they turned towards the rock; "that does not look like an Indian mark; yet I would have thought that white men had never stood here before, for the spot is far removed from any known diggings, and, as we know fail well, is not easily reached." On gaining the rock, they found that the rag was a shred of linen, without mark of any kind to tell who had placed it there. "It must have been the freak of some Indian hunter," said Ned, examining the rock on which the little flag-staff was raised. "Stay--no--here are some marks cut in the stone! Look here, Tom, can you decipher this? It looks like the letter D--DB." "DB?" cried Tom Collins, with a degree of energy that surprised his friend. "Let me see!" Tom carefully removed the moss, and cleared out the letters, which were unmistakeable. "Who can DB have been?" said Ned. Tom looked up with a flushed countenance and a glittering eye, as he exclaimed-- "Who? Who but Daniel Boone, Cooper's great hero--Hawk-eye, of the `Last of the Mohicans'--Deer-slayer--Leather-stocking! _He_ has been here before us--ay, brave spirit! Long before other hunters had dared to venture far into the territory of the scalping, torturing, yelling red-skin, this bold heart had pushed westward, fearless and alone, until his eagle eye rested on the great Pacific. It _must_ have been he. I have followed him, Ned, in spirit, throughout all his wild career, for I knew him to be a _real_ man, and no fiction; but little did I think that I should see a spot where his manly foot had rested, or live to discover his _farthest step_ in the `far west!'" Ned Sinton listened with interest to the words of his friend, but he did not interrupt him, for he respected the deep emotions that swelled his heart and beamed from his flashing eye. "We spoke, Ned, sometime ago, of historical associations," continued Tom,--"here are historical associations worth coming all this way to call up. Here are associations that touch _my_ heart more than all the deeds of ancient chivalry. Ah! Daniel Boone, little didst thou think when thy hawk's eye rested here, that in a few short years the land would be overrun by gold-diggers from all ends of the earth!" "But this flag," said Ned; "_he_ could never have placed that here. It would have been swept away by storms years ago." "You are right," said Tom, turning over the stones that supported the staff--"halloo! what have we here?" He pulled out a roll of oiled cloth as he spoke, and, on opening it, discovered a scrap of paper, on which were written, in pencil, the words, "_Help us!--for God's sake help us! We are perishing at the foot of the hill to the southward of this_." No name or date was attached to this strange paper, but the purport of it was sufficiently clear so, without wasting time in fruitless conjecture, the young men immediately sprang on their horses, and rode down the hill in the direction indicated. The route proved more rugged and steep than that by which they had ascended, and, for a considerable distance, they wound their way between the trunks of a closely-planted cypress grove; after passing which they emerged upon a rocky plain of small extent, at the further extremity of which a green oasis indicated the presence of a spring. Towards this they rode in silence. "Ah!" exclaimed Ned, in a tone of deep pity, as he reined up at the foot of an oak-tree, "too late!" They were indeed too late to succour the poor creatures who had placed the scrap of paper on the summit of that mountain-ridge, in the faint hope that friendly hands might discover it in time. Six dead forms lay at the foot of the oak, side by side, with their pale faces turned upwards, and the expression of extreme suffering still lingering on their shrunken features. It needed no living witness to tell their sad history. The skeletons of oxen, the broken cart, the scattered mining tools, and the empty provision casks, shewed clearly enough that they were emigrants who had left their homesteads in the States, and tried to reach the gold-regions of California by the terrible overland journey. They had lost their way among the dreary fastnesses of the mountains, travelled far from the right road to the mines, and perished at last of exhaustion and hunger on the very borders of the golden land. The grey-haired father of the family lay beside a young girl, with his arm clasped round her neck. Two younger men also lay near them, one lying as if, in dying, he had sought to afford support to the other. The bodies were still fresh, and a glance shewed that nearly all of them were of one family. "Alas! Ned, had we arrived a few days sooner we might have saved them," said Tom. "I think they must have been freed from their pains and sorrows here more than a week since," replied the other, fastening his horse to a tree, and proceeding to search the clothes of the unfortunates for letters or anything that might afford a clue to their identity. "We must stay here an hour or two, Tom, and bury them." No scrap of writing, however, was found--not even a book with a name on it--to tell who the strangers were. With hundreds of others, no doubt, they had left their homes, full of life and hope, to seek their fortunes in the land of gold; but the Director of man's steps had ordered it otherwise, and their golden dreams had ended with their lives in the unknown wilderness. The two friends covered the bodies with sand and stones, and, leaving them in their shallow grave, pursued their way; but they had not gone far when a few large drops of rain fell, and the sky became overcast with dark leaden clouds. "Ned," said Tom, anxiously, "I fear we shall be caught by the rainy season. It's awkward being so far from the settlements at such a time." "Oh, nonsense! surely you don't mind a wetting?" cried Ned; "we can push on in spite of rain." "Can we?" retorted Tom, with unwonted gravity. "It's clear that you've never seen the rainy season, else you would not speak of it so lightly." "Why, man, you seem to have lost pluck all of a sudden; come, cheer up; rain or no rain, I mean to have a good supper, and a good night's rest; and here is just the spot that will suit us." Ned Sinton leaped off his horse as he spoke, and, fastening him to a tree, loosened the saddle-girths, and set about preparing the encampment. Tom Collins assisted him; but neither the rallying of his comrade, nor his own efforts could enable the latter to shake off the depression of spirits, with which he was overpowered. That night the rain came down in torrents, and drenched the travellers to the skin, despite their most ingenious contrivances to keep it out. They spent the night in misery, and when morning broke Ned found that his companion was smitten down with ague. Even Ned's buoyant spirits were swamped for a time at this unlooked-for catastrophe; for the dangers of their position were not slight. It was clear that Tom would not be able to travel for many days, for his whole frame trembled, when the fits came on, with a violence that seemed to threaten dislocation to all his joints. Ned felt that both their lives, under God, depended on his keeping well, and being able to procure food for, and nurse, his friend. At the same time, he knew that the rainy season, if indeed it had not already begun, would soon set in, and perhaps render the country impassable. There was no use, however, in giving way to morbid fears, so Ned faced his difficulties manfully, and, remembering the promise which he had given his old uncle at parting from him in England, he began by offering up a short but earnest prayer at the side of his friend's couch. "Ned," said Tom, sadly, as his companion ceased, "I fear that you'll have to return alone." "Come, come, don't speak that way, Tom; it isn't right. God is able to help us here as well as in cities. I don't think you are so ill as you fancy--the sight of these poor emigrants has depressed you. Cheer up, my boy, and I'll let you see that you were right when you said I could turn my hand to anything. I'll be hunter, woodcutter, cook, and nurse all at once, and see if I don't make you all right in a day or two. You merely want rest, so keep quiet for a little till I make a sort of sheltered place to put you in." The sun broke through the clouds as he spoke and shed a warm beam down on poor Tom, who was more revived by the sight of the cheering orb of day than by the words of his companion. In half-an-hour Tom was wrapped in the driest portion of the driest blanket; his wet habiliments were hung up before a roaring fire to dry, and a rude bower of willows, covered with turf, was erected over his head to guard him from another attack of rain, should it come; but it didn't come. The sun shone cheerily all day, and Ned's preparations were completed before the next deluge came, so that when it descended on the following morning, comparatively little found its way to Tom's resting-place. It was scarcely a _resting-place_, however. Tom turned and groaned on his uneasy couch, and proved to be an uncommonly restive patient. He complained particularly when Ned left him for a few hours each day to procure fresh provisions; but he smiled and confessed himself unreasonable when Ned returned, as he always did, with a dozen wild ducks, or several geese or hares attached to his belt, or a fat deer on his shoulders. Game of all kinds was plentiful, the weather improved, the young hunter's rifle was good, and his aim was true, so that, but for the sickness of his friend, he would have considered the life he led a remarkably pleasant one. As day after day passed by, however, and Tom Collins grew no better, but rather worse, he began to be seriously alarmed about him. Tom himself took the gloomiest view of his case, and at last said plainly he believed he was dying. At first Ned sought to effect a cure by the simple force of kind treatment and care; but finding that this would not do, he bethought him of trying some experiments in the medicinal way. He chanced to have a box of pills with him, and tried one, although with much hesitation and fear, for he had got them from a miner who could not tell what they were composed of, but who assured him they were a sovereign remedy for the blues! Ned, it must be confessed, was rather a reckless doctor. He was anxious, at the time he procured the pills, to relieve a poor miner who seemed to be knocked up with hard work, but who insisted that he had a complication of ailments; so Ned bought the pills for twenty times their value, and gave a few to the man, advising him, at the same time, to rest and feed well, which he did, and the result was a complete cure. Our hero did not feel so certain, however, that they would succeed as well in the present case; but he resolved to try their virtues, for Tom was so prostrate that he could scarcely be induced to whisper a word. When the cold fit seized him he trembled so violently that his teeth rattled in his head; and when that passed off it was followed by a burning fever, which was even worse to bear. At first he was restive, and inclined to be peevish under his illness, the result, no doubt, of a naturally-robust constitution struggling unsuccessfully against the attacks of disease, but when he was completely overcome, his irascibility passed away, and he became patient, sweet-tempered, and gentle as a child. "Come, Tom, my boy," said Ned, one evening, advancing to the side of his companion's couch and sitting down beside him, while he held up the pill--"Open your mouth, and shut your eyes, as we used to say at school." "What is it?" asked the sick man, faintly. "Never you mind; patients have no business to know what their doctors prescribe. It's intended to cure ague, and that's enough for you to know. If it doesn't cure you it's not my fault, anyhow--open your mouth, sir!" Tom smiled sadly and obeyed; the pill was dropt in, a spoonful of water added to float it down, and it disappeared. But the pill had no effect whatever. Another was tried with like result--or rather with like absence of all result, and at last the box was finished without the sick man being a whit the better or the worse for them. This was disheartening; but Ned, having begun to dabble in medicines, felt an irresistible tendency to go on. Like the tiger who has once tasted blood, he could not now restrain himself. "I think you're a little better to-night, Tom," he said on the third evening after the administration of the first pill; "I'm making you a decoction of bark here that will certainly do you good." Tom shook his head, but said nothing. He evidently felt that a negative sign was an appropriate reply to the notion of his being better, or of any decoction whatever doing him good. However, Ned stirred the panful of bark and water vigorously, chatting all the while in a cheering tone, in order to keep up his friend's spirits, while the blaze of the camp-fire lit up his handsome face and bathed his broad chest and shoulders with a ruddy glow that rendered still more pallid the lustre of the pale stars overhead. "It's lucky the rain has kept off so long," he said, without looking up from the mysterious decoction over which he bent with the earnest gaze of an alchymist. "I do believe that has something to do with your being better, my boy--either that or the pills, or both." Ned totally ignored the fact that his friend did not admit that he was better. "And this stuff," he continued, "will set you up in a day or two. It's as good as quinine, any day; and you've no notion what wonderful cures that medicine effects. It took me a long time, too, to find the right tree. I wandered over two or three leagues of country before I came upon one. Luckily it was a fine sunny day, and I enjoyed it much. I wish you had been with me, Tom; but you'll be all right soon. I lay down, too, once or twice in the sunshine, and put my head in the long grass, and tried to fancy myself in a miniature forest. Did you ever try that, Tom!" Ned looked round as he spoke, but the sick man gave a languid smile, and shut his eyes, so he resumed his stirring of the pot and his rambling talk. "You've no idea, if you never tried it, how one can deceive one's-self in that way. I often did it at home, when I was a little boy. I used to go away with a companion into a grass-field, and, selecting a spot where the grass was long and tangled, and mixed with various kinds of weeds, we used to lie flat down with our faces as near to the ground as possible, and gaze through the grass-stems until we fancied the blades were trees, and the pebbles were large rocks, and the clods were mountains. Sometimes a huge beetle would crawl past, and we instantly thought of Saint George and the dragon, and, as the unwieldy monster came stumbling on through the forest, we actually became quite excited, and could scarcely believe that what we tried to imagine was not real. "We seldom spoke on these occasions, my companion and I," continued Ned, suspending the stirring of the decoction and filling his pipe, as he sat down close to the blazing logs; "speaking, we found, always broke the spell, so we agreed to keep perfect silence for as long a time as possible. You must try it, Tom, some day, for although it may seem to you a childish thing to do, there are many childish things which, when done in a philosophical spirit, are deeply interesting and profitable to men." Ned ceased talking for a few minutes while he ignited his pipe; when he spoke again his thoughts had wandered into a new channel. "I'm sorry we have no fresh meat to-day," he said, looking earnestly at his friend. "The remainder of that hare is not very savoury, but we must be content; I walked all the country round to-day, without getting within range of any living thing. There were plenty both of deer and birds, but they were so wild I could not get near them. It would matter little if you were well, Tom, but you require good food just now, my poor fellow. Do you feel better to-night?" Tom groaned, and said that he "felt easier," in a very uneasy voice, after which they both relapsed into silence, and no sound was heard save the crackling of the logs and the bubbling of the mysterious decoction in the pot. Suddenly Tom uttered a slight hiss,--that peculiar sound so familiar to backwoods ears, by which hunters indicate to each other that something unusual has been observed, and that they had better be on the alert. Ned Sinton's nerves were of that firm kind which can never be startled or taken by surprise. He did not spring to his feet, but, quick as thought, he stretched forth his long arm, and, seizing his rifle, cocked it, while he glanced at his friend's eye to see in what direction he was looking. Tom pointed eagerly with his thin hand straight across the fire. Ned turned in that direction, and at once saw the objects which had attracted his attention. Two bright gleaming balls shone in the dark background of the forest, like two lustrous Irish diamonds in a black field of bog-oak. He knew at once that they were the eyes of a deer, which, with a curiosity well-known as peculiar to many wild animals, had approached the fire to stare at it. Ned instantly threw forward his rifle; the light of the fire enabled him easily to align the sights on the glittering eyes; the deadly contents belched forth, and a heavy crash told that his aim had been true. "Bravo!" shouted Tom Collins, forgetting his ailments in the excitement of the moment, while Ned threw down his rifle, drew his hunting-knife, sprang over the fire, and disappeared in the surrounding gloom. In a few minutes he returned with a fine deer on his shoulders. "So ho! my boy," he cried, flinging the carcase down; "that was a lucky shot. We shall sup well to-night, thanks to curiosity, which is a most useful quality in beast as well as man. But what's wrong; you look pale, and, eh? you don't mean to say you're--laughing?" Tom was indeed pale, for the sudden excitement, in his exhausted condition had been too much for him; yet there did seem a peculiar expression about the corners of his mouth that might have been the remains of a laugh. "Ned," he said, faintly, "the--the decoction's all gone." Ned sprang up and ran to the fire, where, sure enough, he found the pan, over which he had bent so long with necromantic gaze, upset, and most of the precious liquid gone. "Ha!" he cried, catching up the pot, "not _all_ gone, lad, so your rejoicing was premature. There's quite enough left yet to physic you well; and it's in fit state to be taken, so open your mouth at once, and be a good boy." A little of the medicine, mixed in water, was administered, and Tom, making a wry face, fell back on his couch with a sigh. Immediately after he was seized with, perhaps, the severest shaking fit he had yet experienced, so that Ned could not help recalling the well-known caution, so frequently met with on medicine vials, "When taken, to be well shaken," despite the anxiety he felt for his friend. But soon after, the trembling fit passed away, and Tom sank into a quiet slumber,--the first real rest he had enjoyed for several days. Ned felt his pulse and his brow, looked long and earnestly into his face, nodded approvingly once or twice, and, having tucked the blankets gently in round the sick man, he proceeded to prepare supper. He removed just enough of the deer's skin to permit of a choice morsel being cut out; this he put into the pot, and made thereof a rich and savoury soup, which he tasted; and, if smacking one's lips and tasting it again twice, indicated anything, the soup was good. But Ned Sinton did not eat it. That was Tom's supper, and was put just near enough the fire to keep it warm. This being done, Ned cut out another choice morsel of deer's-meat, which he roasted and ate, as only those can eat who are well, and young, and robust, and in the heart of the wilderness. Then he filled his pipe, sat down close to Tom's couch, placed his back against a tree, crossed his arms on his breast, and smoked and watched the whole night long. He rose gently several times during the night, however, partly for the purpose of battling off his tendency to sleep, and partly for the purpose of replenishing the fire and keeping the soup warm. But Tom Collins took no supper that night. Ned longed very much to see him awake, but he didn't. Towards morning, Ned managed for some time to fight against sleep, by entering into a close and philosophical speculation, as to what was the precise hour at which that pot of soup could not properly be called supper, but would merge into breakfast. This question still remained unsettled in his mind when grey dawn lit up the peaks of the eastern hills, and he was still debating it, and nodding like a Chinese mandarin, and staring at intervals like a confused owl, when the sun shot over the tree-tops, and, alighting softly on the sleeper's face, aroused him. Tom awoke refreshed, ate his breakfast with relish, took his medicine without grumbling, smiled on his comrade, and squeezed his hand as he went to sleep again with a heavy sigh of comfort. From that hour he mended rapidly, and in a week after he was well enough to resume his journey. CHAPTER TWENTY TWO. POWERFUL EFFECTS OF GOLD ON THE ASPECT OF THINGS IN GENERAL--THE DOINGS AT LITTLE CREEK DIGGINGS--LARRY BECOMES SPECULATIVE, AND DIGS A HOLE WHICH NEARLY PROVES THE GRAVE OF MANY MINERS--CAPTAIN BUNTING TAKES A FEARFUL DIVE--AH-WOW IS SMITTEN TO THE EARTH--A MYSTERIOUS LETTER, AND A SPLENDID DISH. We must now beg our reader to turn with us to another scene. The appearance of Little Creek diggings altered considerably, and for the worse, after Ned Sinton and Tom Collins left. A rush of miners had taken place in consequence of the reports of the successful adventurers who returned to Sacramento for supplies, and, in the course of a few weeks, the whole valley was swarming with eager gold-hunters. The consequence of this was that laws of a somewhat stringent nature had to be made. The ground was measured off into lots of about ten feet square, and apportioned to the miners. Of course, in so large and rough a community, there was a good deal of crime, so that Judge Lynch's services were frequently called in; but upon the whole, considering the circumstances of the colony, there was much less than might have been expected. At the time of which we write, namely, several weeks after the events narrated in our last chapter, the whole colony was thrown into a state of excitement, in consequence of large quantities of gold having been discovered on the banks of the stream, in the ground on which the log-huts and tents were erected. The result of this discovery was, that the whole place was speedily riddled with pits and their concomitant mud-heaps, and, to walk about after night-fall, was a difficult as well as a dangerous amusement. Many of the miners pulled down their tents, and began to work upon the spots on which they previously stood. Others began to dig all round their wooden huts, until these rude domiciles threatened to become insular, and a few pulled their dwellings down in order to get at the gold beneath them. One man, as he sat on his door-step smoking his pipe after dinner, amused himself by poking the handle of an axe into the ground, and, unexpectedly, turned up a small nugget of gold worth several dollars. In ten minutes there was a pit before his door big enough to hold a sheep, and, before night, he realised about fifty dollars. Another, in the course of two days, dug out one hundred dollars behind his tent, and all were more or less fortunate. At this particular time, it happened that Captain Bunting had been seized with one of his irresistible and romantic wandering fits, and had gone off with the blunderbuss, to hunt in the mountains. Maxton, having heard of better diggings elsewhere, and not caring for the society of our adventurers when Ned and Tom were absent, had bid them good-bye, and gone off with his pick and shovel on his shoulder, and his prospecting-pan in his hand, no one knew whither. Bill Jones was down at Sacramento purchasing provisions, as the prices at the diggings were ruinous; and Ko-sing had removed with one of the other Chinamen to another part of the Creek. Thus it came to pass that Larry O'Neil and Ah-wow, the Chinaman, were left alone to work out the claims of the party. One fine day, Larry and his comrade were seated in the sunshine, concluding their mid-day meal, when a Yankee passed, and told them of the discoveries that had been made further down the settlement. "Good luck to ye!" said Larry, nodding facetiously to the man, as he put a tin mug to his lips, and drained its contents to the bottom. "Ha! it's the potheen I'm fond of; not but that I've seen better; faix I've seldom tasted worse, but there's a vartue in goold-diggin' that would make akifortis go down like milk--it would. Will ye try a drop?" Larry filled the pannikin as he spoke, and handed it to the Yankee, who, nothing loth, drained it, and returned it empty, with thanks. "They're diggin' goold out o' the cabin floors, are they?" said Larry, wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his shirt. "They air," answered the man. "One feller dug up three hundred dollars yesterday, from the very spot where he's bin snorin' on the last six months." "Ah! thin that's a purty little sum," said Larry, with a leer that shewed he didn't believe a word of it. "Does he expect more to-morrow, think ye?" "Don't know," said the man, half offended at the doubt thus cast on his veracity; "ye better go an' ax him. Good day, stranger;" and the Yankee strode away rapidly. Larry scratched his head; then he rubbed his nose, and then his chin, without, apparently, deriving any particular benefit from these actions. After that, he looked up at Ah-wow, who was seated cross-legged on the ground opposite to him, smoking, and asked him what was _his_ opinion. "Dun no," said the Chinaman, without moving a muscle of his stolid countenance. "Oh! ye're an entertainin' cratur, ye are; I'll just make a hole here where I sit, an' see what comes of it. Sure it's better nor doin' nothin'." Saying this, Larry refilled his empty pipe, stretched himself at full length on his side, rested his head on his left hand, and smoked complacently for three minutes; after which he took up the long sheath-knife, with which he had just cut up his supper, and began carelessly to turn over the sod. "Sure, there _is_ goold," he said, on observing several specks of the shining metal. As he dug deeper down, he struck upon a hard substance, which, on being turned up, proved to be a piece of quartz, the size of a hen's egg, in which rich lumps and veins of gold were embedded. "May I niver!" shouted the Irishman, starting up, and throwing away his pipe in his excitement, "av it isn't a nugget. Hooray! where's the pick!" Larry overturned the Chinaman, who sat in his way, darted into the tent for his pick and shovel, and in five minutes was a foot down into the earth. He came upon a solid rock, however, much to his chagrin, a few inches further down. "Faix I'll tell ye what I'll do," he said, as a new idea struck him, "I'll dig inside o' the tint. It 'll kape the sun an' the rain off." This remark was made half to himself and half to Ah-wow, who, having gathered himself up, and resumed his pipe, was regarding him with as much interest as he ever regarded anything. As Ah-wow made no objection, and did not appear inclined to volunteer an opinion, Larry entered the tent, cleared all the things away into one corner, and began to dig in the centre of it. It was fortunate that he adopted this plan: first, because the rainy season having now set in, the tent afforded him shelter; and secondly, because the soil under the tent turned out to be exceedingly rich--so much so, that in the course of the next few days he and the Chinaman dug out upwards of a thousand dollars. But the rains, which for some time past had given indubitable hints that they meant to pay a long visit to the settlement, at last came down like a waterspout, and flooded Larry and his comrade out of the hole. They cut a deep trench round the tent, however, to carry off the water, and continued their profitable labour unremittingly. The inside of the once comfortable tent now presented a very remarkable appearance. All the property of the party was thrust into the smallest possible corner, and Larry's bed was spread out above it; the remainder of the space was a yawning hole six feet deep, and a mound of earth about four feet high. This earth formed a sort of breast-work, over which Larry had to clamber night and morning in leaving and returning to his couch. The Chinaman slept in his own little tent hard by. There was another inconvenience attending this style of mining which Larry had not foreseen when he adopted it, and which caused the tent of our adventurers to become a sort of public nuisance. Larry had frequently to go down the stream for provisions, and Ah-wow being given to sleep when no one watched him, took advantage of those opportunities to retire to his own tent; the consequence was, that strangers who chanced to look in, in passing, frequently fell headlong into the hole ere they were aware of its existence, and on more than one occasion Larry returned and found a miner in the bottom of it with his neck well-nigh broken. To guard against this he hit upon the plan of putting up a cautionary ticket. He purchased a flat board and a pot of black paint, with which he wrote the words: "MIND YER FEET THARS A BIG HOL," and fixed it up over the entrance. The device answered very well in as far as those who could read were concerned, but as there were many who could not read at all, and who mistook the ticket for the sign of a shop or store, the accidents became rather more frequent than before. The Irishman at last grew desperate, and, taking Ah-wow by the pig-tail, vowed that if he deserted his post again, "he'd blow out all the brains he had--if he had any at all--an' if that wouldn't do, he'd cut him up into mince-meat, so he would." The Chinaman evidently thought him in earnest, for he fell on his knees, and promised, with tears in his eyes, that he would never do it again-- or words to that effect. One day Larry and Ah-wow were down in the hole labouring for gold as if it were life. It was a terribly rainy day--so bad, that it was almost impossible to keep the water out. Larry had clambered out of the hole, and was seated on the top of the mud-heap, resting himself and gazing down upon his companion, who slowly, but with the steady regularity of machinery, dug out the clay, and threw it on the heap, when a voice called from without-- "Is this Mr Edward Sinton's tent?" "It is that same," cried Larry, rising; "don't come in, or it'll be worse for ye." "Here's a letter for him, then, and twenty dollars to pay." "Musha! but it's chape postage," said Larry, lifting the curtain, and stepping out; "couldn't ye say thirty, now?" "Come, down with the cash, and none o' yer jaw," said the man, who was a surly fellow, and did not seem disposed to stand joking. "Oh! be all manes, yer honour," retorted Larry, with mock servility, as he counted out the money. "Av it wouldn't displase yer lordship, may I take the presumption to ax how the seal come to be broken?" "I know nothin' about it," answered the man, as he pocketed the money; "I found it on the road between this an' Sacramento, and, as I was passin' this way anyhow, I brought it on." "Ah, thin, it was a great kindness, intirely, to go so far out o' yer way, an' that for a stranger, too, an' for nothin'--or nixt thing to it!" said Larry, looking after the man as he walked away. "Well, now," he continued, re-entering the tent, and seating himself again on the top of the mud-heap, while he held the letter in his hand at arm's length, "this bates all! An' whot am I to do with it? Sure it's not right to break the seal o' another man's letter; but then it's broke a'ready, an' there can be no sin in raidin' it. Maybe," he continued, with a look of anxiety, "the poor lad's ill, or dead, an' he's wrote to say so. Sure, I would like to raid it--av I only know'd how; but me edication's bin forgot, bad luck to the schoolmasters; I can only make out big print--wan letter at a time." The poor man looked wistfully at the letter, feeling that it might possibly contain information of importance to all of them, and that delay in taking action might cause irreparable misfortune. While he meditated what had best be done, and scanned the letter in all directions, a footstep was heard outside, and the hearty voice of Captain Bunting shouted: "Ship ahoy! who's within, boys!" "Hooroo! capting," shouted Larry, jumping up with delight; "mind yer fut, capting, dear; don't come in." "Why not?" inquired the captain, as he lifted the curtain. "Sure, it's no use tellin' ye _now_!" said Larry, as Captain Bunting fell head-foremost into Ah-wow's arms, and drove that worthy creature-- as he himself would have said--"stern-foremost" into the mud and water at the bottom. The captain happened to have a haunch of venison on his shoulder, and the blunderbuss under his arm, so that the crash and the splash, as they all floundered in the mud, were too much for Larry, who sat down again on the mud-heap and roared with laughter. It is needless to go further into the details of this misadventure. Captain Bunting and the Chinaman were soon restored to the upper world, happily, unhurt; so, having changed their garments, they went into Ah-wow's tent to discuss the letter. "Let me see it, Larry," said the captain, sitting down on an empty pork cask. Larry handed him the missive, and he read as follows:-- "San Francisco. "Edward Sinton, Esquire, Little Creek Diggings. "My Dear Sir,--I have just time before the post closes, to say that I only learned a few days ago that you were at Little Creek, otherwise I should have written sooner, to say that--" Here the captain seemed puzzled. "Now, ain't that aggravatin'?" he said; "the seal has torn away the most important bit o' the letter. I wish I had the villains by the nose that opened it! Look here, Larry, can you guess what it was?" Larry took the letter, and, after scrutinising it with intense gravity and earnestness, returned it, with the remark, that it was "beyant him entirely." "That--that--" said the captain, again attempting to read, "that-- somethin'--great success; so you and Captain Bunting had better come down at once. "Believe me, my dear Sir, Yours faithfully, John Thomson." "Now," remarked the captain, with a look of chagrin, as he laid down the letter, folded his hands together, and gazed into Larry's grave visage, "nothin' half so tantalisin' as that has happened to me since the time when my good ship, the _Roving Bess_, was cast ashore at San Francisco." "It's purvokin'," replied Larry, "an' preplexin'." "It's most unfortunate, too," continued the captain, knitting up his visage, "that Sinton should be away just at this time, without rudder, chart, or compass, an' bound for no port that any one knows of. Why, the fellow may be deep in the heart o' the Rocky Mountains, for all I can tell. I might start off at once without him, but maybe that would be of no use. What can it be that old Thompson's so anxious about? Why didn't the old figur'-head use his pen more freely--his tongue goes fast enough to drive the engines of a seventy-four. What _is_ to be done?" Although Captain Bunting asked the question with thorough earnestness and much energy, looking first at Larry and then at Ah-wow, he received no reply. The former shook his head, and the latter stared at him with a steady, dead intensity, as if he wished to stare him through. After a few minutes' pause, Larry suddenly asked the captain if he was hungry, to which the latter replied that he was; whereupon the former suggested that it was worth while "cookin' the haunch o' ven'son," and offered to do it in a peculiar manner, that had been taught to him not long ago by a hunter, who had passed that way, and fallen into the hole in the tent and sprained his ankle, so that he, (Larry), was obliged to "kape him for a week, an' trate him to the best all the time." The proposal was agreed to, and Larry, seizing the haunch, which was still covered with the mud contracted in "the hole," proceeded to exhibit his powers as a cook. The rain, which had been coming down as if a second flood were about to deluge the earth, had ceased at this time, and the sun succeeded, for a few hours, in struggling through the murky clouds and pouring a flood of light and heat over hill and plain; the result of which was, that, along the whole length of Little Creek, there was an eruption of blankets, and shirts, and inexpressibles, and other garments, which stood much in need of being dried, and which, as they fluttered and flapped their many-coloured folds in the light breeze, gave the settlement the appearance--as Captain Bunting expressed it--of being "dressed from stem to stern." The steam that arose from these habiliments, and from the soaking earth, and from the drenched forest, covered the face of nature with a sort of luminous mist that was quite cheering, by contrast with the leaden gloom that had preceded it, and filled with a romantic glow the bosoms of such miners as had any romance left in their natures. Larry O'Neil was one of these, and he went about his work whistling violently. We will not take upon us to say how much of his romance was due to the haunch of venison. We would not, if called on to do it, undertake to say how much of the romance and enjoyment of a pic-nic party would evaporate, if it were suddenly announced that "the hamper" had been forgotten, or that it had fallen and the contents been smashed and mixed. We turn from such ungenerous and gross contemplations to the cooking of that haunch of venison, which, as it was done after a fashion never known to Soyer, and may be useful in after-years to readers of this chronicle, whose lot it may be, perchance, to stand in need of such knowledge, we shall carefully describe. It is not necessary to enlarge upon the preliminaries. We need hardly say that Larry washed off the mud, and that he passed flattering remarks upon his own abilities and prowess, and, in very irreverent tones and terms, addressed Ah-wow, who smoked his pipe and looked at him. All that, and a great deal more, we leave to our reader's well-known and vivid imagination. Suffice it that the venison was duly washed, and a huge fire, with much difficulty, kindled, and a number of large stones put into it to heat. This done, Larry cut off a lump of meat from the haunch--a good deal larger than his own head, which wasn't small--the skin with the hair on being cut off along with the meat. A considerable margin of flesh was then pared off from the lump, so as to leave an edging of hide all round, which might overlap the remainder, and enclose it, as it were, in a natural bag. At this stage of the process Larry paused, looked admiringly at his work, winked over the edge of it at Ah-wow, and went hastily into the tent, whence he issued with two little tin canisters,--one containing pepper, the other salt. "Why, you beat the French all to nothing!" remarked the captain, who sat on an upturned tea-box, smoking and watching the proceedings. "Ah! thin, don't spake, capting; it'll spile yer appetite," said Larry, sprinkling the seasoning into the bag and closing it up by means of a piece of cord. He then drew the red-hot stones and ashes from the fire, and, making a hot-bed thereof, placed the venison-dumpling--if we may be allowed the term--on the centre of it. Before the green hide was quite burned through, the dish was "cooked," as Yankees express it, "to a curiosity," and the tasting thereof would have evoked from an alderman a look, (he would have been past speaking!) of ecstasy, while a lady might have exclaimed, "Delicious!" or a schoolboy have said, "Hlpluhplp," [see note 1], or some such term which ought only to be used in reference to intellectual treats, and should never be applied to such low matters as meat and drink. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Note 1. Hlpluhplp. As the reader may have some difficulty in pronouncing the above word, we beg to inform him, (or her), that it is easily done, by simply drawing in the breath, and, at the same time, waggling the tongue between the lips. CHAPTER TWENTY THREE. THE RAINY SEASON, AND ITS EFFECTS--DISEASE AND MISERY AT LITTLE CREEK-- REAPPEARANCE OF OLD FRIENDS--AN EMIGRANT'S DEATH--AN UNEXPECTED ARRIVAL. Captain Bunting, after two days' serious consideration, made up his mind to go down alone to San Francisco, in order to clear up the mystery of the letter, and do all that he could personally in the absence of his friend. To resolve, however, was easy; to carry his resolution into effect was almost impracticable, in consequence of the inundated state of the country. It was now the middle of November, and the rainy season, which extends over six months of the year, was in full play. Language is scarcely capable of conveying, to those who have not seen it, an adequate idea of how it rained at this period of the year. It did not pour--there were no drops--it roared a cataract of never-ending ramrods, as thick as your finger, straight down from the black sky right through to the very vitals of the earth. It struck the tents like shot, and spirted through the tightest canvas in the form of Scotch-mist. It swept down cabin chimneys, and put out the fires; it roared through every crevice, and rent and seam of the hills in mad cataracts, and swelled up the Little Creek into a mighty surging river. All work was arrested; men sat in their tents on mud-heaps that melted from below them, or lay on logs that well-nigh floated away with them; but there was not so much grumbling as one might have expected. It was too tremendous to be merely annoying. It was sublimely ridiculous,--so men grinned, and bore it. But there were many poor miners there, alas! who could not regard that season in a light manner. There were dozens of young and middle-aged men whose constitutions, although good, perhaps, were not robust, and who ought never to have ventured to seek their fortunes in the gold-regions. Men who might have lived their full time, and have served their day and generation usefully in the civilised regions of the world, but who, despite the advice of friends, probably, and certainly despite the warnings of experienced travellers and authors, rushed eagerly to California to find, not a fortune, but a grave. Dysentery, scurvy in its worst and most loathsome type, ague, rheumatism, sciatica, consumption, and other diseases, were now rife at the diggings, cutting down many a youthful plant, and blasting many a golden dream. Doctors, too, became surprisingly numerous, but these disciples of Esculapius failed to effect cures, and as their diplomas, when sought for, were not forthcoming, they were ultimately banished _en masse_ by the indignant miners. One or two old hunters and trappers turned out in the end to be the most useful doctors, and effected a good many cures with the simple remedies they had become acquainted with among the red-men. What rendered things worse was that provisions became scarce, and, therefore, enormously dear. No fresh vegetables of any kind were to be had. Salt, greasy and rancid pork, bear's-meat, and venison, were all the poor people could procure, although many a man there would have given a thousand dollars--ay, all he possessed--for a single meal of fresh potatoes. The men smitten with scurvy had, therefore, no chance of recovering. The valley became a huge hospital, and the banks of the stream a cemetery. There were occasional lulls, however, in this dismal state of affairs. Sometimes the rain ceased; the sun burst forth in irresistible splendour, and the whole country began to steam like a caldron. A cart, too, succeeded now and then in struggling up with a load of fresh provisions; reviving a few sinking spirits for a time, and almost making the owner's fortune; but, at the best, it was a drearily calamitous season,--one which caused many a sick heart to hate the sight and name of gold, and many a digger to resolve to quit the land, and all its treasures, at the first opportunity. Doubtless, too, many deep and earnest thoughts of life, and its aims and ends, filled the minds of some men at that time. It is often in seasons of adversity that God shews to men how mistaken their views of happiness are, and how mad, as well as sinful, it is in them to search for joy and peace apart from, and without the slightest regard for, the Author of all felicity. Yes, there is reason to hope and believe that many seeds of eternal life were sown by the Saviour, and watered by the Holy Spirit, in that disastrous time of disease and death,--seed which, perhaps, is now blessing and fertilising many distant regions of the world. In one of the smallest and most wretched of the huts, at the entrance of the valley of Little Creek, lay a man, whose days on earth were evidently few. The hut stood apart from the others, in a lonely spot, as if it shrank from observation, and was seldom visited by the miners, who were too much concerned about their own misfortunes to care much for those of others. Here Kate Morgan sat by the couch of her dying brother, endeavouring to soothe his last hours by speaking to him in the most endearing terms, and reading passages from the Word of God, which lay open on her knee. But the dying man seemed to derive little comfort from what she said or read. His restless eye roamed anxiously round the wretched hut, while his breath came short and thick from between his pale lips. "Shall I read to ye, darlin'?" said the woman, bending over the couch to catch the faint whisper, which was all the poor man had strength to utter. Just then, ere he could reply, the clatter of hoofs was heard, and a bronzed, stalwart horseman was seen through the doorless entrance of the hut, approaching at a brisk trot. Both horse and man were of immense size, and they came on with that swinging, heavy tread, which gives the impression of irresistible weight and power. The rider drew up suddenly, and, leaping off his horse, cried, "Can I have a draught of water, my good woman?" as he fastened the bridle to a tree, and strode into the hut. Kate rose hurriedly, and held up her finger to impose silence, as she handed the stranger a can of water. But he had scarcely swallowed a mouthful when his eye fell on the sick man. Going gently forward to the couch, he sat down beside it, and, taking the invalid's wrist, felt his pulse. "Is he your husband?" inquired the stranger, in a subdued voice. "No, sir,--my brother." "Does he like to have the Bible read to him?" "Sometimes; but before his voice failed he was always cryin' out for the priest. He's a Catholic, sir, though I'm not wan meself and thinks he can't be saved unless he sees the priest." The stranger took up the Bible, and, turning towards the man, whose bright eyes were fixed earnestly upon him, read, in a low impressive voice, several of those passages in which a free salvation to the chief of sinners is offered through Jesus Christ. He did not utter a word of comment; but he read with deep solemnity, and paused ever and anon to look in the face of the sick man as he read the blessed words of comfort. The man was not in a state either to listen to arguments or to answer questions, so the stranger wisely avoided both, and gently quitted the hut after offering up a brief prayer, and repeating twice the words-- "Jesus says, `Him that cometh to _Me_, I will in no wise cast out.'" Kate followed him out, and thanked him earnestly for his kindness, while tears stood in her eyes. "Have you no friends or relations here but him!" inquired the stranger. "Not wan. There was wan man as came to see us often when we stayed in a lonesome glen further up the Creek, but we've not seen him since we came here. More be token he didn't know we were goin' to leave, and we wint off in a hurry, for my poor brother was impatient, and thought the change would do him good." "Take this, you will be the better of it." The stranger thrust a quantity of silver into Kate's hand, and sprang upon his horse. "I don't need it, thank 'ee," said Kate, hurriedly. "But you _may_ need it; at any rate, _he_ does. Stay, what was the name of the man who used to visit you?" "O'Neil, sir--Larry O'Neil." "Indeed! he is one of my mates. My name is Sinton--Edward Sinton; you shall hear from me again ere long." Ned put spurs to his horse as he spoke, and in another moment was out of sight. CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR. NED DECIDES ON VISITING SAN FRANCISCO--LARRY PAYS A VISIT, AND RECEIVES A SEVERE DISAPPOINTMENT--THE ROAD AND THE CITY--UNEXPECTED NEWS. Few joys in this life are altogether without alloy. The delight experienced by Larry O'Neil and Captain Bunting, when they heard the hearty tones of Ned Sinton's voice, and the satisfaction with which they beheld his face, when, in their anxiety to prevent his falling headlong into "the hole," they both sprang out of the tent and rushed into his arms, were somewhat damped on their observing that Tom Collins was not with him. But their anxieties were speedily relieved on learning that Tom was at Sacramento City, and, it was to be hoped, doing well. As Ned had eaten nothing on the day of his arrival since early morning, the first care of his friends was to cook some food for him; and Larry took special care to brew for him, as soon as possible, a stiff tumbler of hot brandy and water, which, as he was wet and weary, was particularly acceptable. While enjoying this over the fire in front of the tent, Ned related the adventures of himself and Tom Collins circumstantially; in the course of which narration he explained, what the reader does not yet know, how that, after Tom had recovered from his illness sufficiently to ride, he had conducted him by easy stages to the banks of the great San Joaquin river, down which they had proceeded by boat until they reached Sacramento. Here Ned saw him comfortably settled in the best room of the best hotel in the town, and then, purchasing the largest and strongest horse he could find, he set off, in spite of the rains, to let his comrades know that they were both safe, and, in Ned's case at least, sound. "And, now, with reference to that letter." "Ay, that letter," echoed the captain; "that's what I've bin wantin' you to come to. What can it mean?" "I am as ignorant of that as yourself," answered Ned; "if it had only been you who were mentioned in the letter, I could have supposed that your old ship had been relaunched and refitted, and had made a successful voyage to China during your absence; but, as I left no property of any kind in San Francisco, and had no speculations afloat, I cannot conceive what it can be." "Maybe," suggested Larry, "they've heard o' our remarkable talents up here in the diggin's, and they've been successful in gittin' us app'inted to respansible sitivations in the new government I've heared they're sottin' up down there. I wouldn't object to be prime minister meself av they'd only allow me enough clarks to do the work." "And did you say you were all ready for a start to-morrow, captain?" inquired Ned. "Quite. We've disposed of the claims and tools for fifteen hundred dollars, an' we sold Ah-wow along with the lot; that's to say, he remains a fixture at the same wage; and the little we meant to take with us is stowed away in our saddle-bags. Ye see, I couldn't foresee that you'd plump down on us in this fashion, and I felt that the letter was urgent, and ought to be acted on at once." "You did quite right," returned Ned. "What a pity I missed seeing Bill Jones at Sacramento; but the city has grown so much, and become so populous, in a few months, that two friends might spend a week in it, unknown to each other, without chancing to meet. And now as to the gold. Have you been successful since I left?" "Ay," broke in Larry, "that have we. It's a great country intirely for men whose bones and muscles are made o' iron. We've dug forty thousand dollars--eight thousand pounds--out o' that same hole in the tint; forby sprainin' the ankles, and well-nigh breakin' the legs, o' eight or tin miners. It's sorry I'll be to lave it. But, afther all, it's a sickly place, so I'm contint to go." "By the way, Larry, that reminds me I met a friend o' yours at the other end of the settlement." "I belave ye," answered Larry; "ivery man in the Creek's my fri'nd. They'd die for me, they would, av I only axed them." "Ay, but a particular friend, named Kate, who--" "Och! ye don't mane it!" cried the Irishman, starting up with an anxious look. "Sure they lived up in the dark glen there; and they wint off wan fine day, an' I've niver been able to hear o' them since." "They are not very far off," continued Ned, detailing his interview with the brother and sister, and expressing a conviction that the former could not now be in life. "I'll go down to-night," said Larry, drawing on his heavy boots. "You'd better wait till to-morrow," suggested the captain. "The poor thing will be in no humour to see any one to-night, and we can make a halt near the hut for an hour or so." Larry, with some reluctance, agreed to this delay, and the rest of the evening was spent by the little party in making preparations for a start on the following day; but difficulties arose in the way of settling with the purchasers of their claims, so that another day passed ere they got fairly off on their journey towards Sacramento. On reaching the mouth of the Little Creek, Larry O'Neil galloped ahead of his companions, and turned aside at the little hut, the locality of which Sinton had described to him minutely. Springing off his horse, he threw the reins over a bush and crossed the threshold. It is easier to conceive than to describe his amazement and consternation on finding the place empty. Dashing out, he vaulted into the saddle, and almost galloped through the doorway of the nearest hut in his anxiety to learn what had become of his friends. "Halloo! stranger," shouted a voice from within, "no thoroughfare this way; an' I wouldn't advise ye for to go an' try for to make one." "Ho! countryman, where's the sick Irishman and his sister gone, that lived close to ye here?" "Wall, I ain't a countryman o' yourn, I guess; but I can answer a civil question. They're gone. The man's dead, an' the gal took him away in a cart day b'fore yisterday." "Gone! took him away in a cart!" echoed Larry, while he looked aghast at the man. "Are ye sure?" "Wall, I couldn't be surer. I made the coffin for 'em, and helped to lift it into the cart." "But where have they gone to?" "To Sacramento, I guess. I advised her not to go, but she mumbled something about not havin' him buried in sich a wild place, an' layin' him in a churchyard; so I gave her the loan o' fifty dollars--it was all I could spare--for she hadn't a rap. She borrowed the horse and cart from a countryman, who was goin' to Sacramento at any rate." "You're a trump, you are!" cried Larry, with energy; "give us your hand, me boy! Ah! thin yer parents were Irish, I'll be bound; now, here's your fifty dollars back again, with compound interest to boot--though I don't know exactly what that is--" "I didn't ax ye for the fifty dollars," said the man, somewhat angrily. "Who are you that offers 'em!" "I'm her--her--friend," answered Larry, in some confusion; "her intimate friend; I might almost say a sort o' distant relation--only not quite that." "Wall, if that's all, I guess I'm as much a friend as you," said the man, re-entering his cabin, and shutting the door with a bang. Larry sighed, dropped the fifty dollars into his leather purse, and galloped away. The journey down to Sacramento, owing to the flooded state of the country, was not an easy one. It took the party several days' hard riding to accomplish it, and during all that time Larry kept a vigilant look-out for Kate Morgan and the cart, but neither of them did he see. Each day he felt certain he would overtake them, but each evening found him trying to console himself with the reflection that a "stern chase" is proverbially a long one, and that _next_ day would do it. Thus they struggled on, and finally arrived at the city of Sacramento, without having set eyes on the wanderer. Poor Larry little knew that, having gone with a man who knew the road thoroughly, Kate, although she travelled slowly, had arrived there the day before him; while Ned had lengthened the road by unwittingly making a considerable and unnecessary detour. Still less did he know that, at the very hour he arrived in the city, Kate, with her sad charge, embarked on board a small river steamer, and was now on her way to San Francisco. As it was, Larry proposed to start back again, supposing they must have passed them; but, on second thoughts, he decided to remain where he was and make inquiries. So the three friends pushed forward to the City Hotel to make inquiries after Tom Collins. "Mr Collins?" said the waiter, bowing to Sinton--"he's gone, sir, about a week ago." "_Gone_!" exclaimed Ned, turning pale. "Yes, sir; gone down to San Francisco. He saw some advertisement or other in the newspaper, and started off by the next steamer." Ned's heart beat freely again. "Was he well when he left?" "Yes, sir, pretty well. He would have been the better of a longer rest, but he was quite fit to travel, sir." Captain Bunting, who, during this colloquy, had been standing with his legs apart, and his eyes glaring at the waiter, as if he had been mad, gave a prolonged whistle, but made no further remark. At this moment Larry, who had been conversing with one of the under-waiters, came rushing in with a look of desperation on his countenance. "Would ye belave it," he cried, throwing himself down on a splendid crimson sofa, that seemed very much out of keeping with the dress of the rough miners whom it was meant to accommodate--"would ye belave it, they're gone!" "Who are gone, and where to!" inquired Ned. "Kate an'--an' the caffin. Off to San Francisco, be all that's onlucky; an' only wint little more nor an hour ago." The three friends looked at each other. "Waiter," said Captain Bunting, in a solemn voice, "bear-chops for three, pipes and baccy for six, an' a brandy-smash for one; an', d'ye hear, let it be stiff!" "Yes, sir." A loud laugh from Ned and Larry relieved their over-excited and pent-up feelings; and both agreed that, under the circumstances, the captain's order was the best that could be given at that stage of their perplexities. Having ascertained that there was not another steamer to San Francisco for a week, they resolved to forget their anxieties as much as possible, and enjoy themselves in the great city of Sacramento during the next few days; while they instituted inquiries as to what had become of their comrade, Bill Jones, who, they concluded, must still be in the city, as they had not met him on the way down. CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE. GOLD NOT ALL-POWERFUL--REMARKABLE GROWTH OF SACRAMENTO--NEW STYLE OF BRINGING A HOTEL INTO NOTICE--A SURPRISING DISCOVERY--DEATH OF A MEXICAN HORSE-TAMER--THE CONCERT, AND ANOTHER DISCOVERY--MADEMOISELLE NELINA CREATES A SENSATION. It is said that gold can accomplish anything; and, in some respects, the saying is full of truth; in some points of view, however, the saying is altogether wrong. Gold can, indeed, accomplish almost anything in the material world--it can purchase stone, and metal, and timber; and muscles, bones, thews, and sinews, with life in them, to any extent. It can go a step further--it can purchase brains, intellect, genius; and, throwing the whole together, material and immaterial, it can cut, and carve, and mould the world to such an extent that its occupants of fifty years ago, were they permitted to return to earth, would find it hard to recognise the scene of their brief existence. But there are things and powers which gold cannot purchase. That worn-out old _millionnaire_ would give tons of it for a mere tithe of the health that yonder ploughman enjoys. Youth cannot be bought with gold. Time cannot be purchased with gold. The prompt obedience of thousands of men and women may be bought with that precious metal, but one powerful throb of a loving heart could not be procured by all the yellow gold that ever did or ever will enrich the human family. But we are verging towards digression. Let us return to the simple idea with which we intended to begin this chapter--the wonder-working power of gold. In no country in the wide world, we venture to affirm, has this power been exemplified so strikingly as in California. The knowledge of the discovery of gold was so suddenly and widely disseminated over the earth, that human beings flowed into the formerly-uninhabited wilderness like a mighty torrent, while thousands of ships flooded the markets with the necessaries of life. Then gold was found to be so abundant, and, _at first_, so easily procured, that the fever was kept up at white-heat for several years. The result of this was, as we have remarked elsewhere, that changes, worthy of Aladdin's lamp or Harlequin's wand, were wrought in the course of a few weeks, sometimes in a few days. The city of Sacramento was one of the most remarkable of the many strange and sudden growths in the country. The river on which it stands is a beautiful stream, from two to three hundred yards wide, and navigable by large craft to a few miles above the city. The banks, when our friends were there, were fringed with rich foliage, and the wild trees of the forest itself stood growing in the streets. The city was laid out in the form of a square, with streets crossing each other at right angles; a forest of masts along the _embarcadero_ attested the growing importance and wealth of the place; and nearly ten thousand inhabitants swarmed in its streets. Many of those streets were composed of canvas tents, or erections scarcely more durable. Yet here, little more than a year before, there were only _four thousand_ in the place! Those who chanced to be in possession of the land here were making fortunes. Lots, twenty feet by seventy, in the best situations, brought upwards of 3500 dollars. Rents, too, were enormous. One hotel paid 30,000 dollars (6000 pounds) per annum; another, 35,000 dollars. Small stores fetched ten and twelve thousand dollars a year; while board at the best hotels was five dollars a day. Truly, if gold was plentiful, it was needed; for the common necessaries of life, though plentiful, were bought and sold at fabulous prices. The circulation of gold was enormous, and the growth of the city did not suffer a check even for a day, although the cost of building was unprecedented. And this commercial prosperity continued in spite of the fact that the place was unhealthy--being a furnace in summer, and in winter little better than a swamp. "It's a capital hotel," remarked Captain Bunting to his companions, as they sat round their little table, enjoying their pipes after dinner; "I wonder if they make a good thing out of it?" "Sure, if they don't," said Larry, tilting his chair on its hind legs, and calmly blowing a cloud of smoke towards the roof, "it's a losin' game they're playin', for they sarve out the grub at a tearin' pace." "They are doing well, I doubt not," said Ned Sinton; "and they deserve to, for the owner--or owners, I don't know how many or few there are-- made a remarkable and enterprising start." "How was that?" asked the captain. "I heard of it when I was down here with Tom," continued Sinton. "You must know that this was the first regular hotel opened in the city, and it was considered so great an event that it was celebrated by salvos of artillery, and, on the part of the proprietors, by a great unlimited feast to all who chose to come." "What!" cried Larry, "free, gratis, for nothin'?" "Ay, for nothing. It was done in magnificent style, I assure you. Any one who chose came and called for what he wanted, and got it at once. The attendance was prompt, and as cheerfully given as though it had been paid for. Gin-slings, cocktails, mint-juleps, and brandy-smashes went round like a circular storm, even champagne flowed like water; and venison, wild-fowl, salmon, grizzly-bear-steaks, and pastry--all the delicacies of the season, in short--were literally to be had for the asking. What it cost the spirited proprietors I know not, but certainly it was a daring stroke of genius that deserved patronage." "Faix it did," said Larry, emphatically; "and they shall have it, too;-- here, waiter, a brandy-smash and a cheroot, and be aisy as to the cost; I think me bank'll stand it." "What say you to a stroll!" said Ned, rising. "By all means," replied Captain Bunting, jumping up, and laying down his pipe. Larry preferred to remain where he was; so the two friends left him to enjoy his cheroot, and wandered away, where fancy led, to see the town. There was much to be seen. It required no theatrical representation of life to amuse one in Sacramento at that time. The whole city was a vast series of plays in earnest. Every conceivable species of comedy and farce met the eye at every turn. Costumes the most remarkable, men the most varied and peculiar, and things the most incomprehensible and unexpected, presented themselves in endless succession. Here a canvas restaurant stood, or, rather leaned against a log-store. There a tent spread its folds in juxtaposition to a deck-cabin, which seemed to have walked ashore from a neighbouring brig, without leave, and had been let out as a grog-shop by way of punishment. Chinamen in calico jostled sailors in canvas, or diggers in scarlet flannel shirts, or dandies in broad-cloth and patent-leather, or red Indians in nothing! Bustle, and hurry, and uproar, and joviality prevailed. A good deal of drinking, too, unfortunately, went on, and the results were occasional melodramas, and sometimes serious rows. Tragedies, too, were enacted, but these seldom met the eye; as is usually the case, they were done in the dark. "What have we here?" cried Captain Bunting, stopping before a large placard, and reading. "`Grand concert, this evening--wonderful singer-- Mademoiselle Nelina, first appearance--Ethiopian serenaders.' I say, Ned, we must go to this; I've not heard a song for ages that was worth listening to." "At what hour?" inquired Ned--"oh! seven o'clock; well, we can stroll back to the hotel, have a cup of coffee, and bring Larry O'Neil with us. Come along." That evening our three adventurers occupied the back seat of a large concert-room in one of the most crowded thoroughfares of the town, patiently awaiting the advent of the performers. The room was filled to overflowing, long before the hour for the commencement of the performances, with every species of mortal, except woman. Women were exceedingly rare creatures at that time--the meetings of all sorts were composed almost entirely of men, in their varied and motley garbs. Considering the circumstances in which it was got up, the room was a very creditable one, destitute, indeed, of ornament, but well lighted by an enormous wooden chandelier, full of wax candles, which depended from the centre of the ceiling. At the further end of the room was a raised stage, with foot-lights in front, and three chairs in the middle of it. There was a small orchestra in front, consisting of two fiddles, a cornopian, a trombone, a clarionet, and a flute; but at first the owners of these instruments kept out of sight, wisely reserving themselves until that precise moment when the impatient audience would--as all audiences do on similar occasions--threaten to bring down the building with stamping of feet, accompanied with steam-engine-like whistles, and savage cries of "Music!" While Ned Sinton and his friends were quietly looking round upon the crowd, Larry O'Neil's attention was arrested by the conversation of two men who sat just in front of him. One was a rough-looking miner, in a wide-awake and red-flannel shirt; the other was a negro, in a shirt of blue-striped calico. "Who be this Missey Nelina?" inquired the negro, turning to his companion. "I dun know; but I was here last night, an' I'd take my davy, I saw the little gal in the ranche of a feller away in the plains, five hundred miles to the east'ard, two months ago. Her father, poor chap, was killed by a wild horse." "How was dat?" inquired the negro, with an expression of great interest. "Well, it was this way it happened," replied the other, putting a quid of tobacco into his cheek, such as only a sailor would venture to masticate. "I was up at the diggin's about six months, without gittin' more gold than jist kep' me in life--for, ye see, I was always an unlucky dog--when one day I goes down to my claim, and, at the very first lick, dug up two chunks o' gold as big as yer fists; so I sold my claim and shovel, and came down here for a spree. Well, as I was sayin', I come to the ranche o' a feller called Bangi, or Bongi, or Bungi, or some sort o' bang, with a gi at the end o' 't. He was clappin' his little gal on the head, when I comed up, and said good-bye to her. I didn't rightly hear what she said; but I was so taken with her pretty face that I couldn't help axin' if the little thing was his'n. `Yees,' says he--for he was a Mexican, and couldn't come round the English lingo--`she me darter.' I found the man was goin' to catch a wild horse, so, says I, `I'll go with ye,' an', says he, `come 'long,' so away we went, slappin' over the plains at a great rate, him and me, and a Yankee, a friend o' his and three or four servants, after a drove o' wild horses that had been seen that mornin' near the house. Well, away we went after the wild horses. Oh! it was grand sport! The man had lent me one of his beasts, an' it went at such a spankin' pace, I could scarce keep my seat, and had to hold on by the saddle--not bein' used to ridin' much, d'ye see. We soon picked out a horse--a splendid-lookin' feller, with curved neck, and free gallop, and wide nostrils. My eye! how he did snort and plunge, when the Mexican threw the lasso, it went right over his head the first cast, but the wild horse pulled the rope out o' his grip. `It's all up,' thought I; but never a bit. The Mexican put spurs to his horse, an' while at full gallop, made a dive with his body, and actually caught the end o' the line, as it trailed over the ground, and recovered his seat again. It was done in a crack; an', I believe, he held on by means of his spurs, which were big enough, I think, to make wheels for a small carronade. Takin' a turn o' the line round the horn of his saddle, he reined in a bit, and then gave the spurs for another spurt, and soon after reined in again--in fact, he jist played the wild horse like a trout, until he well-nigh choked him; an', in an hour, or less, he was led steamin', and startin', and jumpin', into the corral, where the man kept his other horses." At this point in the narrative, the cries for music became so deafening, that the sailor was obliged to pause, to the evident annoyance of the negro, who seemed intensely interested in what he had heard; and, also, to the regret of Larry, who had listened eagerly the whole time. In a few minutes the "music" came in, in the shape of two bald-headed Frenchmen, a wild-looking bearded German, and several lean men, who might, as far as appearance went, have belonged to almost any nation; and who would have, as far as musical ability went, been repudiated by every nation, except, perhaps, the Chinese. During the quarter of an hour in which these performers quieted the impatient audience with sweet sounds, the sailor continued his anecdote. "Well, you see," said he to the negro, while Larry bent forward to listen, "the Mexican mounted, and raced and spurred him for about an hour; but, just at the last, the wild horse gave a tremendous leap and a plunge, and we noticed the rider fall forward, as if he'd got a sprain. The Yankee an' one o' the servants ran up, and caught the horse by the head, but its rider didn't move--he was stone dead, and was held in his seat by the spurs sticking in the saddle-cloth. The last bound must have ruptured some blood-vessel inside, for there was no sign of hurt upon him anywhere." "You don' say dat?" said the negro, with a look of horror. "'Deed do I; an' we took the poor feller home, where his little daughter cried for him as if she'd break her heart. I asked the Yankee what we should do, but he looked at me somewhat offended like, an' said he was a relation o' the dead man's wife, and could manage the affairs o' the family without help; so I bid him good mornin', and went my way. But I believe in my heart he was tellin' a lie, and that he's no right to go hawkin' the poor gal about the country in this fashion." Larry was deeply interested in this narrative, and felt so strong a disposition to make further inquiries, that he made up his mind to question the sailor, and was about to address him when a small bell tinkled, the music ceased, and three Ethiopian minstrels, banjo in hand, advanced to the foot-lights, made their bow, and then seated themselves on the three chairs, with that intensity of consummate, impudent, easy familiarity peculiar to the ebony sons of song. "Go it, darkies!" shouted an enthusiastic individual in the middle of the room. "Three cheers for the niggers!" roared a sailor, who had just returned from a twelvemonth's cruise at the mines, and whose delight at the prospect of once more hearing a good song was quite irrepressible. The audience responded to the call with shouts of laughter, and a cheer that would have done your heart good to listen to, while the niggers shewed their teeth in acknowledgment of the compliment. The first song was "Lilly Dale," and the men, who, we need scarcely say, were fictitious negroes, sang it so well that the audience listened with breathless attention and evident delight, and encored it vociferously. The next song was "Oh! Massa, how he wopped me," a ditty of quite a different stamp, but equally popular. It also was encored, as indeed was every song sting that evening; but the performers had counted on this. After the third song there was a hornpipe, in the performance of which the dancer's chief aim seemed to be, to shew in what a variety of complex ways he could shake himself to pieces if he chose. Then there was another trio, and then a short pause, in order duly to prepare the public mind for the reception of the great _cantatrice_ Mademoiselle Nelina. When she was led to the foot-lights by the tallest of the three negroes, there was a momentary pause, as if men caught their breath; then there was a prolonged cheer of enthusiastic admiration. And little wonder, for the creature that appeared before these rough miners seemed more like an angelic visitant than a mortal. There was nothing strikingly beautiful about the child, but she possessed that inexpressibly _sweet_ character of face that takes the human heart by storm at first sight; and this, added to the fact that she was almost the only one of her sex who had been seen for many months by any of those present,--that she was fair, blue-eyed, delicate, modestly dressed, and innocent, filled them with an amount of enthusiasm that would have predisposed them to call a scream melodious, had it been uttered by Mademoiselle Nelina. But the voice which came timidly from her lips was in harmony with her appearance. There was no attempt at execution, and the poor child was too frightened to succeed in imparting much expression to the simple ballad which she warbled; but there was an inherent richness in the tones of her voice that entranced the ear, and dwelt for weeks and months afterwards on the memory of those who heard it that night. It is needless to add, that all her songs were encored with rapturous applause. The second song she sang was the popular one, "Erin, my country!" and it created quite a _furore_ among the audience, many of whom were natives of the Green Isle. "Oh! ye purty creature! sing it again, do!" yelled an Irishman in the front seats, while he waved his hat, and cheered in mad enthusiasm. The multitude shouted, "Encore!" and the song was sung for the third time. While it was singing, Larry O'Neil sat with his hands clasped before him, his bosom heaving, and his eyes riveted on the child's face. "Mr Sinton," he said, in a deep, earnest tone, touching Ned on the shoulder, as the last sweet notes of the air were drowned in the thunder of applause that followed Mademoiselle Nelina off the stage; "Mr Sinton, I'd lay me life that it's _her_!" "Who?" inquired Ned, smiling at the serious expression of his comrade's face. "Who but Nelly Morgan, av course. She's the born image o' Kate. They're as like as two paise. Sure av it's her, I'll know it, I will; an' I'll make that black thief of a Yankee explain how he comed to possess stolen goods." Ned and the captain at first expressed doubts as to Larry's being able to swear to the identity of one whom he had never seen before; but the earnest assurances of the Irishman convinced them that he must be right, and they at once entered into his feelings, and planned, in an eager undertone, how the child was to be communicated with. "It won't do," said Ned, "to tax the man right out with his villainy. The miners would say we wanted to get possession of the child to make money by her." "But if the child herself admitted that the man was not her relative!" suggested Captain Bunting. "Perhaps," returned Ned, "she might at the same time admit that she didn't like the appearance of the strangers who made such earnest inquiries about her, and prefer to remain with her present guardian." "Niver fear," said Larry, in a hoarse whisper; "she'll not say that if I tell her I know her sister Kate, and can take her to her. Besides, hasn't she got an Irish heart? an' don't I know the way to touch it? Jist stay where ye are, both o' ye, an' I'll go behind the scenes. The niggers are comin' on again, so I'll try; maybe there's nobody there but herself." Before they could reply, Larry was gone. In a few minutes he reached the front seats, and, leaning his back against the wall, as if he were watching the performers, he gradually edged himself into the dark corner where the side curtain shut off the orchestra from the public. To his great satisfaction he found that this was only secured to the wall by one or two nails, which he easily removed, and then, in the midst of an uproarious laugh, caused by a joke of the serenaders, he pushed the curtain aside, and stood before the astonished gaze of Mademoiselle Nelina, who sat on a chair, with her hands clasped and resting on her knee. Unfortunately for the success of Larry's enterprise, he also stood before the curtain-raiser--a broad, sturdy man, in rough miner's costume--whose back was turned towards him, but whose surprised visage instantly faced him on hearing the muffled noise caused by his entry. There was a burly negro also in the place, seated on a small stool, who looked at him with unqualified astonishment. "Halloo! wot do _you_ want?" exclaimed the curtain-raiser. "Eh! tare an' ages!" cried Larry, in amazement. "May I niver! Sure it's draimin' I am; an' the ghost o' Bill Jones is comed to see me!" It was, indeed, no other than Bill Jones who stood revealed before him; but no friendly glance of recognition did his old comrade vouchsafe him. He continued, after the first look of surprise, to frown steadily on the intruder. "You've the advantage o' me, young man," said Bill, in a stern, though subdued tone, for he feared to disturb the men on the stage; "moreover, you've comed in where ye've got no right to be. When a man goes where he shouldn't ought to, an' things looks as if they wasn't all square, in them circumstances, blow high or blow low, I always goes straight for'ard an' shoves him out. If he don't shove easy, why, put on more steam--that's wot _I_ say." "But sure ye don't forgit me, Bill!" pleaded Larry, in amazement. "Well, p'r'aps I don't, an' p'r'aps I do. W'en I last enjoyed the dishonour o' yer acquaintance, ye wos a blackguard. It ain't likely yer improved, so be good enough to back yer top-sails, and clear out." Bill Jones pointed, as he spoke, to the opening through which Larry had entered, but, suddenly changing his mind, he said, "Hold on; there's a back door, an' it'll be easier to kick you through that than through the consart-room." So saying, Bill seized Larry O'Neil by the collar, and led that individual, in a state of helpless and wondering consternation, through a back door, where, however, instead of kicking him out, he released him, and suddenly changed his tone to an eager whisper. "Oh! Larry, lad, I'm glad to see ye. Wherever did ye come from? I've no time to speak. Uncle Ned's jist buried, and Jim Crow comes on in three minutes. I had to pretend, ye know, 'cause it wouldn't do to let Jim see I know'd ye--that wos him on the stool--I know wot brought ye here--an' I've fund out who _she_ is. Where d'ye stop?" Larry's surprise just permitted him to gasp out the words "City Hotel," when a roar of laughter and applause met their ears, followed by the tinkle of a small bell. Bill sprang through the doorway, and slammed the door in his old comrade's face. It would be difficult to say, looking at that face at that particular time, whether the owner thereof was mad or drunk--or both--so strangely did it wrinkle and contort as it gradually dawned upon its owner that Bill Jones, true to his present profession, was acting a part; that he knew about the mystery of Mademoiselle Nelina; was now acquainted with his, (Larry's), place of abode; and would infallibly find him out after the concert was over. As these things crossed his mind, Larry smote his thigh so often and so vigorously, that he ran the risk of being taken up for unwarrantably discharging his revolver in the streets, and he whistled once or twice so significantly, that at least five stray dogs answered to the call. At last he hitched up the band of his trousers, and, hastening round to the front door, essayed to re-enter the concert-room. "Pay here, please," cried the money-taker, in an extremely nasal tone, as he passed the little hole in the wall. "I've paid already," answered Larry. "Shew your check, then." "Sure I don't know what that is." The doorkeeper smiled contemptuously, and shut down with a bang the bar that kept off the public. Larry doubled his fist, and flushed crimson; then he remembered the importance of the business he had on hand, and quietly drew the requisite sum from his leather purse. "Come along," said he to Ned Sinton, on re-entering the room. "I've see'd her; an' Bill Jones, too!" "Bill Jones!" cried Ned and the captain simultaneously. "Whist!" said Larry; "don't be makin' people obsarve us. Come along home; it's all right--I'll tell ye all about it when we're out." In another minute the three friends were in the street, conversing eagerly and earnestly as they hastened to their quarters through the thronged and noisy streets of Sacramento. CHAPTER TWENTY SIX. DEEP PLOTS AND PLANS--BILL JONES RELATES HIS MISADVENTURES--MADEMOISELLE NELINA CONSENTS TO RUN OFF WITH LARRY O'NEIL--A YANKEE MUSICIAN OUTWITTED--THE ESCAPE. As Larry had rightly anticipated, Bill Jones made his appearance at the City Hotel the moment the concert was over, and found his old comrades waiting anxiously for him. It did not take long to tell him how they had discovered the existence of Nelly Morgan, as we shall now call her, but it took much longer to drag from Bill the account of his career since they last met, and the explanation of how he came to be placed in his present circumstances. "Ye see, friends," said he, puffing at a pipe, from which, to look at him, one would suppose he derived most of his information, "this is how it happened. When I set sail from the diggin's to come here for grub, I had a pleasant trip at first. But after a little things began to look bad; the feller that steered us lost his reckoning, an' so we took two or three wrong turns by way o' makin' short cuts. That's always how it Is. There's a proverb somewhere--" "In Milton, maybe, or Napier's book o' logarithms," suggested Captain Bunting. "P'r'aps it wos, and p'r'aps it wosn't," retorted Bill, stuffing the end of his little finger, (if such a diminutive may be used in reference to any of his fingers), into the bowl of his pipe. "I raither think myself it wos in _Bell's Life_ or the _Royal Almanac_; hows'ever, that's wot it is. When ye've got a short road to go, don't try to make it shorter, say I--" "An' when ye've got a long story to tell, don't try to make it longer," interrupted Larry, winking at his comrade through the smoke of his pipe. "Well, as I wos sayin'," continued Bill, doggedly, "we didn't git on so well after a bit; but somehow or other we got here at last, and cast anchor in this very hotel. Off I goes at once an' buys a cart an' a mule, an' then I sets to work to lay in provisions. Now, d'ye see, lads, 'twould ha' bin better if I had bought the provisions first an' the mule and the cart after, for I had to pay ever so many dollars a day for their keep. At last I got it all square; packed tight and tied up in the cart--barrels o' flour, and kegs o' pork, an' beans, an' brandy, an' what not; an' away I went alone; for, d'ye see, I carry a compass, an' when I've once made a voyage, I never need to be told how to steer. "But my troubles began soon. There's a ford across the river here, which I was told I'd ha' to cross; and sure enough, so I did--but it's as bad as Niagara, if not worse--an' when I gits half way over, we wos capsized, and went down the river keel up. I dun know yet very well how I got ashore, but I did somehow--" "And did the cart go for it?" inquired Captain Bunting, aghast. "No, the cart didn't. She stranded half-a-mile further down, on a rock, where she lies to this hour, with a wheel smashed and the bottom out, and about three thousand tons o' water swashin' right through her every hour; but all the provisions and the mule went slap down the Sacramento; an', if they haven't bin' picked up on the way, they're cruisin' off the port o' San Francisco by this time." The unfortunate seaman stopped at this point to relight his pipe, while his comrades laughingly commented on his misadventure. "Ah! ye may laugh; but I can tell ye it warn't a thing to be laughed at; an' at this hour I've scarce one dollar to rub 'gainst another." "Never mind, my boy," said Ned, as he and the others laughed loud and long at the lugubrious visage of their comrade; "we've got well-lined pockets, I assure you; and, of course, we have _your_ share of the profits of our joint concern to hand over whenever you wish it." The expression of Bill Jones's face was visibly improved by this piece of news, and he went on with much greater animation. "Well, my story's short now. I comed back here, an' by chance fell in with this feller--this Yankee-nigger--who offered me five dollars a day to haul up the curtain, an' do a lot o' dirty work, sich as bill stickin', an' lightin' the candles, an' sweepin' the floor; but it's hard work, I tell ye, to live on so little in sich a place as this, where everything's so dear." "You're not good at a bargain, I fear," remarked Sinton; "but what of the little girl?" "Well, I wos comin' to that. Ye see, I felt sure, from some things I overheerd, that she wasn't the man's daughter, so one day I axed her who she wos, an' she said she didn't know, except that her name was Nelly Morgan; so it comed across me that Morgan wos the name o' the Irish family you wos so thick with up at the diggin's, Larry; an' I wos goin' to ask if she know'd them, when Jolly--that's the name o' the gitter up o' the concerts--catched me talkin', an' he took her away sharp, and said he'd thank me to leave the girl alone. I've been watchin' to have another talk with her, but Jolly's too sharp for me, an' I haven't spoke to her yet." Larry manifested much disappointment at this termination, for he had been fully prepared to hear that the girl had made Bill her confidant, and would be ready to run away with him at a moment's notice. However, he consoled himself by saying that he would do the thing himself; and, after arranging that Bill was to tell Nelly that a friend of his knew where her sister was, and would like to speak with her, they all retired to rest, at least to rest as well as they could in a house which, like all the houses in California, swarmed with rats. Next night Bill Jones made a bold effort, and succeeded in conveying Larry's message to Nelly, very adroitly, as he thought, while she was standing close to him waiting for Mr Jolly to lead her to the foot-lights. The consequence was that the poor child trembled like a leaf when she attempted to sing, and, finally, fainted on the stage, to the consternation of a crowded house. The point was gained, however; Nelly soon found an opportunity of talking in private with Bill Jones, and appointed to meet Larry in the street next morning early, near the City Hotel. It was with trembling eagerness, mixed with timidity, that she took the Irishman's arm when they met, and asked if he really knew where her sister was. "Oh, how I've longed for her! But are you _sure_ you know her?" "Know her!" said Larry, with a smile. "Do I know meself?" This argument was unanswerable, so Nelly made no reply, and Larry went on. "Yes, avic, I know'd her, an' faix I hope to know her better. But here's her picture for ye." Larry then gave the earnest listener at his side a graphic description of her sister Kate's personal appearance, and described her brother also, but he did not, at that time, acquaint her with the death of the latter. He also spoke of Black Jim, and described the circumstances of her being carried off. "So ye see, darlin'," said he, "I know all about ye; an' now I want ye to tell me what happened to ye after that." "It's a sad story," said the child, in a low tone, as if her mind were recalling melancholy incidents in her career. Then she told rapidly, how she had been forsaken by those to whom she had been intrusted, and left to perish in the mountain snow; and how, in her extremity, God had sent help; how another party of emigrants found her and carried her on; how, one by one, they all died, till she was left alone a second time; and how a Mexican horseman found her, and carried her to his home, and kept her there as his adopted daughter, till he was killed while taming a wild horse. After that, Nelly's story was a repetition of what Larry had already overheard accidentally in the concert-room. "Now, dear," said Larry, "we haven't time to waste, will ye go with me to San Francisco?" The tones of the rough man's voice, rather than his words, had completely won the confidence of the poor child, so she said, "Yes," without hesitation. "But how am I to escape from Mr Jolly?" she added; "he has begun to suspect Mr Jones, I see quite well." "Lave that to me, darlin', an' do you kape as much as ye can in the house the nixt day or two, an' be lookin' out for what may turn up. Good day to ye, mavourneen; we must part here, for fear we're seen by any lynx-eyed blackguards. Kape up yer heart." Nelly walked quickly away, half laughing at, and half perplexed by, the ambiguity of her new friend's parting advice. The four friends now set themselves to work to outwit Mr Jolly, and rob him of Mademoiselle Nelina. At last they hit upon a device, which did not, indeed, say much for the ingenuity of the party, but which, like many other bold plans, succeeded admirably. A steamer was to start in three days for San Francisco--one of those splendid new vessels which, like floating palaces, had suddenly made their appearance on these distant waters--having made the long and dangerous voyage from the United States round the Horn. Before the steamer started, Larry contrived to obtain another interview with Nelly Morgan, and explained their plan, which was as follows:-- On the day of the steamer sailing, a few hours before the time of starting, Mr Jolly was to receive the following letter, dated from a well-known ranche, thirty miles up the river:-- "Sir,--I trust that you will forgive a perfect stranger addressing you, but the urgency of the case must be my excuse. There is a letter lying here for you, which, I have reason to know, contains information of the utmost importance to yourself; but which--owing to circumstances that I dare not explain in a letter that might chance to fall into wrong hands--must be opened here by your own hands. It will explain all when you arrive; meanwhile, as I am a perfect stranger to the state of your finances, I send you a sufficient quantity of gold-dust by the bearer to enable you to hire a horse and come up. Pray excuse the liberty I take, and believe me to be, "Your obedient servant, "Edward Sinton." At the appointed time Larry delivered this epistle, and the bag of gold into Mr Jolly's hands, and, saying that no answer was required, hurried away. If Mr Jolly had been suddenly informed that he had been appointed secretary of state to the king of Ashantee, he could not have looked more astonished than when he perused this letter, and weighed the bag of gold in his hand. The letter itself; had it arrived alone, might, very likely would, have raised his suspicions, but accompanied as it was by a bag of gold of considerable value, it commended itself as a genuine document; and the worthy musician was in the saddle half-an-hour later. Before starting, he cautioned Nelly not to quit the house on any account whatever, a caution which she heard but did not reply to. Three hours later Mr Jolly reached his destination, and had the following letter put into his hands. "Sir,--By the time you receive this, your late charge, Mademoiselle Nelina, will be on her way to San Francisco, where you are welcome to follow her, and claim her from her sister, if you feel so disposed. "I am, Sir, etcetera, "Edward Sinton." We need not repeat what Mr Jolly said, or try to imagine what he felt, on receipt of _this_ letter! About the time it was put into his hands the magnificent steamer at the _embarcadero_ gave a shrill whistle, then it panted violently, the paddles revolved,--and our adventurers were soon steaming swiftly down the noble river on their way to San Francisco. CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. SAN FRANCISCO AGAIN--A TERRIBLE MISFORTUNE--AN OLD FRIEND IN SURPRISINGLY NEW CIRCUMSTANCES--SEVERAL REMARKABLE DISCOVERIES AND NEW LIGHTS. There is no time or place, perhaps, more suitable for indulging in ruminations, cogitations, and reminiscences, than the quiet hours of a calm night out upon the sea, when the watchful stars look down upon the bosom of the deep, and twinkle at their reflections in placid brilliancy. Late at night, when all the noisy inmates of the steamer had ceased to eat, and drink, and laugh, and had sought repose in their berths, Edward Sinton walked the deck alone, meditating on the past, the present, and the future. When he looked up at the serene heavens, and down at the tranquil sea, whose surface was unruffled, save by the long pure white track of the vessel, he could scarcely bring himself to believe that the whirl of incident and adventure in which he had been involved during the last few and short months was real. It seemed like a brilliant dream. As long as he was on shore it all appeared real enough, and the constant pressure of _something to be done_, either immediately, or in an hour, or to-morrow, kept his mind perpetually chained down to the consideration of visible, and tangible, and passing events; but now the cord of connexion with land had been suddenly and completely severed. The very land itself was out of sight. Nothing around him tended to recall recent events; and, as he had nothing in the world to do but wait until the voyage should come to an end, his mind was left free to bound over the recent-past into the region of the long-past, and revel there at pleasure. But Ned Sinton was not altogether without anxieties. He felt a little uneasy as to the high-handed manner, in which he had carried off Nelly Morgan from her late guardian; and he was a good deal perplexed as to what the important affairs could be, for which he had so hastily overturned all the gold-digging plans of his whole party. With these thoughts mingled many philosophic inquiries as to the amount of advantage that lay--if, indeed, there was any advantage at all--in making one's fortune suddenly and at the imminent hazard of one's life. Overpowering sleep at last put an end to Ned's wandering thoughts, and he too bade the stars good-night, and sought his pillow. In due course the vessel cast anchor off the town of San Francisco. "There is many a slip 'tween the cup and the lip." It is an old proverb that, but one which is proved, by frequent use, on the part of authors in all ages, to be a salutary reminder to humanity. Its truth was unpleasantly exemplified on the arrival of the steamer. As the tide was out at the time, the captain ordered the boats to be lowered, in order to land the passengers. The moment they touched the water they were filled by impatient miners, who struggled to be first ashore. The boat into which Ned and his friends got was soon overloaded with passengers, and the captain ordered her to be shoved off. "Hold on!" shouted a big coarse-looking fellow, in a rough blue jacket and wide-awake, who was evidently drunk; "let me in first." "There's no room!" cried several voices. "Shove off." "There's room enough!" cried the man, with an oath; at the same time seizing the rope. "If ye do come down," said a sailor, sternly, "I'll pitch ye overboard." "Will ye!" growled the man; and the next instant he sprang upon the edge of the boat, which upset, and left its freight struggling in the water. The other boats immediately picked them all up; and, beyond a wetting, they were physically none the worse. But, alas! the bags of gold which our adventurers were carrying ashore with them, sank to the bottom of the sea! They were landed on the wharf at San Francisco as penniless as they were on the day of their arrival in California. This reverse of fortune was too tremendous to be realised in a moment. As they stood on the wharf; dripping wet, and gazing at each other in dismay, they suddenly, as if by one consent, burst into a loud laugh. But the laugh had a strong dash of bitterness in its tone; and when it passed, the expression of their countenances was not cheerful. Bill Jones was the first to speak, as they wandered, almost helplessly, through the crowded streets, while little Nelly ever and anon looked wistfully up into Larry's face, as he led her by the hand. "It's a stunnin' smash," said Bill, fetching a deep sigh. "But w'en a thing's done, an' can't be undone, then it's unpossible, that's wot it is; and wot's unpossible there's no use o' tryin' for to do. 'Cause why? it only wastes yer time an' frets yer sperrit--that's _my_ opinion." Not one of the party ventured to smile--as was their wont in happier circumstances--at the philosophy of their comrade's remark. They wandered on in silence till they reached--they scarce knew how or why-- the centre plaza of the town. "It's of no use giving way to it," said Ned Sinton, at last, making a mighty effort to recover: "we must face our reverses like men; and, after all, it might have been worse. We might have lost our lives as well as our gold, so we ought to be thankful instead of depressed." "What shall we do now?" inquired Captain Bunting, in a tone that proved sufficiently that he at least could not benefit by Ned's advice. "Sure we'll have to go an' work, capting," replied Larry, in a tone of facetious desperation; "but first of all we'll have to go an' see Mr Thompson, and git dry clo'se for Nelly, poor thing--are ye cowld, darlin'?" "No, not in the least," answered the child, sadly. "I think my things will dry soon, if we walk in the sun." Nelly's voice seemed to rouse the energies of the party more effectually than Ned's moralising. "Yes," cried the latter, "let us away to old Thompson's. His daughter, Lizette, will put you all to rights, dear, in a short time. Come along." So saying, Ned led the way, and the whole party speedily stood at the door of Mr Thompson's cottage. The door was merely fastened by a latch, and as no notice was taken of their first knock, Ned lifted it and entered the hall, then advancing to the parlour door, he opened it and looked in. The sight that met his gaze was well calculated to make him open his eyes, and his mouth too, if that would in any way have relieved his feelings. Seated in old Mr Thompson's easy-chair, with one leg stretched upon an ottoman, and the other reposing on a stool, reclined Tom Collins, looking, perhaps, a little paler than was his wont, as if still suffering from the effects of recent illness, but evidently quite happy and comfortable. Beside Tom, on another stool, with her arm resting on Tom's knee, and looking up in his face with a quiet smile, sat Elizabeth Thompson. "Tom! Miss Thompson!" cried Ned Sinton, standing absolutely aghast. Miss Thompson sprang up with a face of crimson, but Tom sat coolly still, and said, while a broad grin overspread his handsome countenance, "No, Ned, not Miss Thompson--Mrs _Collins_, who, I know, is rejoiced to see you." "You are jesting, Tom," said Ned, as he advanced quickly, and took the lady's hand, while Tom rose and heartily welcomed his old companions. "Not a bit of it, my dear fellow," he repeated. "This, I assure you, is my wife. Pray, dear Lizette, corroborate my statement, else our friends won't believe me. But sit down, sit down, and let's hear all about you. Go, Lizette, get 'em something to eat. I knew you would make your appearance ere long. Old Thompson's letter--halloo! why what's this? You're wet! and _who's_ this--a wet little girl?" "Faix, ye may well be surprised, Mister Tom," said Larry, "for we're all wet _beggars_, ivery wan o' us--without a dollar to bless ourselves with." Tom Collins looked perplexed, as he turned from one to the other. "Stay," he shouted; "wife, come here. There's a mystery going on. Take this moist little one to your room; and there," he added, throwing open a door, "you fellows will all find dry apparel to put on--though I don't say to fit. Come along with me, Ned, and while you change, give an account of yourself." Ned did as he was desired; and, in the course of a lengthened conversation, detailed to Tom the present condition of himself and his friends. "It's unfortunate," said Tom, after a pause; "ill-luck seems to follow us wherever we go." "You ought to be ashamed of yourself;" cried Ned, "for saying so, considering the wife you have got." "True, my boy," replied the other, "I ought indeed to be ashamed, but I spoke in reference to money matters. What say you to the fact, that I am as much a beggar as yourself?" "Outward appearances would seem to contradict you." "Nevertheless, it is true, I assure you. When you left me, Ned, in the hotel at Sacramento, I became so lonely that I grew desperate; and, feeling much stronger in body, I set off for this town in the new steamer--that in which you arrived. I came straight up here, re-introduced myself to Mr Thompson; and, two days after--for I count it folly to waste time in such matters when one's mind is made up--I proposed to Lizette, and was accepted conditionally. Of course, the condition was that papa should be willing. But papa was _not_ willing. He said that three thousand dollars, all I possessed, was a capital sum, but not sufficient to marry on, and that he could not risk his daughter's happiness, etcetera, etcetera--you know the rest. Well, the very next day news came that one of Thompson's best ships had been wrecked off Cape Horn. This was a terrible blow, for the old man's affairs were in a rickety condition at any rate, and this sank him altogether. His creditors were willing enough to wait, but one rascal refused to do so, and swore he would sequestrate him. I found that the sum due him was exactly three thousand dollars, so I paid him the amount in full, and handed Thompson the discharged account. `Now,' said I, `I'm off to the diggings, so good-bye!' for, you see, Ned, I felt that I could not urge my suit at that time, as it would be like putting on the screw--taking an unfair advantage of him. "`Why, what do you mean, my lad?' said he. "`That I'm off to-morrow,' replied I. "`That you must not do,' said he. "`Why not?' said I. "`Because,' said he, `now that things are going smooth, I must go to England by the first ship that sails, and get my affairs there put on a better footing, so you must stay here to look after my business, and to--to--take care of Lizette.' "`Eh! what!' said I, `what do you mean? You know _that_ is impossible.' "`Not at all, boy, if you marry her!' "Of course I could not refuse, and so, to cut it short, we were married right off and here we are, the representatives of the great firm of Thompson and Company, of California." "Then, do you mean to say that Thompson is gone?" Inquired Ned, with a look of horror. "Near the Horn, I should think, by this time; but why so anxious?" "Because," sighed Ned, sitting down on the edge of the bed, with a look of despair, "I came here by his invitation; and--" "Oh! it's all right," interrupted Tom; "I know all about it, and am commissioned by him to settle the affair for you." "But what _is_ the affair?" inquired Ned, eagerly. "Ah! my dear boy, do try to exercise patience. If I tell you everything before we go down to our comrades, I fear we shall have to send a message to say that we are not coming till to-morrow morning." Tom rose as he spoke, and led the way to the parlour, where bread and cheese were spread out for them. "The only drawback to my felicity," whispered Tom to Sinton, as they entered, "is that I find Thompson's affairs far worse than he himself was aware of; and it's a fact, that at this moment I can scarcely draw enough out of the business to supply the necessaries of life." There was a slight bitterness in Tom's tone as he said this, but the next moment he was jesting with his old companions as lightheartedly as ever. During the meal he refused, however, to talk business, and, when it was concluded, he proposed that they should go out for a stroll through the town. "By the way," remarked Ned, as they walked along, "what of Captain Bunting's old ship?" "Ay!" echoed the captain, "that's the uppermost thing in _my_ mind; but master Tom seems determined to keep us in the dark. I do believe the _Roving Bess_ has been burned, an' he's afraid to tell us." "You're a desperately inquisitive set," cried Tom Collins, laughing. "Could you not suppose that I wanted to give you a surprise, by shewing you how curiously she has been surrounded by houses since you last saw her. You'll think nothing of it, now that I have told you." "Why, where are ye goin'?" cried Larry, as Tom turned up a street that led a little away from the shore, towards which they had been walking! Tom made no reply, but led on. They were now in that densely-crowded part of the town where shops were less numerous, warehouses more plentiful, and disagreeable odours more abundant, than elsewhere. A dense mass of buildings lay between them and the sea, and in the centre of these was a square or plaza, on one side of which stood a large hotel, out of the roof of which rose a gigantic flag-staff. A broad and magnificent flight of wooden steps led up to the door of this house of entertainment, over which, on a large board, was written its name--"The Roving Bess Tavern." "Dear me! that's a strange coincidence," exclaimed the captain, as his eye caught the name. "Tare an' ages!" yelled Larry, "av it isn't the owld ship! Don't I know the mizzen-mast as well as I know me right leg?" "The _Roving Bess_ Tavern!" muttered Captain Bunting, while his eyes stared incredulously at the remarkable edifice before him. Bill Jones, who, up to this point, had walked beside his comrades in silent meditation, here lost presence of mind and, putting both hands to his mouth, sang out, in true stentorian boatswain tones, "All hands ahoy! tumble up there--tumble up!" "Ay, ay, sir!" roared half-a-dozen jack tars, who chanced to be regaling themselves within, and who rushed out, hat in hand, ready for a spree, at the unexpected but well-known summons. "Major Whitlaw," said Tom Collins, springing up the steps, and addressing a tall, cadaverous-looking Yankee, "allow me to introduce to you your landlord, Captain Bunting--your tenant, captain. I dare say you have almost forgotten each other." The captain held out his hand mechanically and gazed at his tenant unbelievingly, while the major said-- "Glad to see ye, cap'n, I guess. Wanted to for a long time. Couldn't come to terms with old Thompson. Won't you step in and take a cocktail or a gin-sling? I'd like to have a private talk--this way." The landlord of the _Roving Bess_ Tavern led the captain to what was once his own cabin, and begged him to be seated on his own locker at the head of his own table. He accepted these civilities, staring round him in mute wonder all the time, as if he thought it was a dream, out of which he should wake in due course, while, from all parts of the tavern, came sounds of mirth, and clatter of knives and forks and dishes, and odours of gin-slings and bear-steaks and pork-pies. "Jist sit there a minute," said the Yankee, "till I see to your friends bein' fixed off comfortable; of course, Mr Collins may stay, for he knows all about it." When he was gone, the captain rose and looked into his old berth. It had been converted into a pantry, so he shut the door quickly and returned to his seat. "Tom," said he, in a low whisper, as if he feared to break the spell, "how _did_ they get her up here!" "She's never been moved since you left her," answered Tom, laughing; "the town has gradually surrounded her, as you see, and crept out upon the shore, filling up the sea with rubbish, till it has left her nearly a quarter of a mile inland." The captain's eyes opened wider than ever, but before he could find words again to speak, Major Whitlaw returned. "They're all square now, gentlemen, so, if you please, we'll proceed to business. I suppose your friend has told you how the land lies?" "He certainly has," replied the captain, who accepted the phrase literally. "Wall, I reckon your property's riz since ye wor here; now, if you give me leave to make the alterations I want to, I'll give you 1000 dollars a month, payable in advance." "You'd better tell Captain Bunting what the alterations you refer to are," suggested Tom Collins, who saw that the captain's state of mind rendered him totally incapable of transacting business. "That's soon done. I'll give it ye slick off. I want to cut away the companion-hatch and run up a regular stair to the deck; then it's advisable to cut away at least half o' the main deck to heighten the gamin' saloon. But I guess the main point is to knock out half-a-dozen windows in the hold, for gas-light is plaguey dear, when it's goin' full blast day and night. Besides, I must cut the entrance-door down to the ground, for this tree-mendous flight o' stairs'll be the ruin o' the business. It's only a week since a man was shot by a comrade here in the cabin, an' as they rushed out after him, two customers fell down the stair and broke their arms. And I calc'late the gentlemen that's overtaken by liquor every night won't stand it much longer. There isn't a single man that quits this house after 12 p.m. but goes down that flight head-foremost. If you don't sanction that change, I guess I'll have to get 'em padded, and spread feather-beds at the foot. Now, cap'n, if you agrees to this right off, I'll give the sum named." Captain Bunting's astonishment had now reached that point at which extremes are supposed to meet, and a reaction began to take place. "How much did you propose?" he inquired, taking out a pencil and an old letter, as if he were about to make notes, at the same time knitting his brows, and endeavouring to look intensely sagacious. "One thousand dollars a month," answered the Yankee; "I railly can't stand more." "Let me see," muttered the captain slowly, in an under tone, while he pressed his forehead with his fore-finger; "one thousand dollars--200 pounds sterling--hum, equal to about 2400 pounds a year. Well," he added, raising his voice, "I don't mind if I do. I suppose, Tom, it's not _much_ below the thing, as rents go!" "It's a fair offer," said Tom, carelessly; "we might, perhaps, get a higher, but Major Whitlaw is in possession, and is, besides, a good tenant." "Then I'll conclude the bargain--pray get pen, ink, and paper." While the major turned for a moment to procure writing materials, the captain looked at Tom and winked expressively. Then, a document was drawn up, signed, and witnessed, and then the captain, politely declining a brandy-smash, or any other smash whatever, left the _Roving Bess_ Tavern with his friends, and with 200 pounds--the first month's rent--in his pocket. It is needless to remark, that his comrades congratulated him heartily, and that the worthy captain walked along the streets of San Francisco chuckling. In a few minutes, Tom Collins stopped before a row of immense warehouses. There was one gap in the row, a space of several yards square, that might have held two good-sized houses. Four wooden posts stood at the corners of the plot, and an old boat, turned keel up, lay in the middle of it. "I know it!" cried Ned Sinton, laughing in gleeful surprise; "it's my old boat, isn't it? Well, I can scarcely credit my eyes! I saw it last on the sea-shore, and now it's a quarter of a mile into the town!" "More than that, Ned," said Tom Collins, "the plot of ground is worth ten thousand dollars at this moment. Had it been a little further south, it would have been worth ten times that sum. And more than that still, the Irish family you lent the boat to--you remember them--well, they dug up a bag from under the boat which contained five thousand dollars; the honest people at once gave it up, and Mr Thompson rewarded them well; but they did not live to enjoy it long, they're all dead now. So you see, Ned, you're just 3000 pounds richer than you thought you were this morning." "It's a great day!" remarked Larry O'Neil, looking round upon his comrades, who received all this information with an expression of doubting surprise; "a great day intirely! Faix, I'm only hopin' we won't waken up an' find it's all a dhrame!" Larry's companions quite agreed with him. They did not indeed say so, but, as they returned home after that stroll, talking eagerly of future plans and prospects, the ever-recurring sentiment broke from their lips, in every style of phrase, "It's a great day, intirely!" CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT. MORE UNEXPECTED DISCOVERIES--CAPTAIN BUNTING MAKES BILL JONES A FIRST MATE--LARRY O'NEIL MAKES HIMSELF A FIRST MATE--THE PARTING--NED SINTON PROVES HIMSELF, A SECOND TIME, TO BE A FRIEND IN NEED AND IN DEED. "It never rains but it pours," saith the proverb. We are fond of proverbs. We confess to a weakness that way. There is a depth of meaning in them which courts investigation from the strongest intellects. Even when they are nonsensical, which is not unfrequently the case, their nonsense is unfathomable, and, therefore, invested with all the zest which attaches, metaphysically speaking, to the incomprehensible. Astonishing circumstances had been raining for some time past around our bewildered adventurers, and, latterly, they had begun to pour. On the afternoon of the day, the events of which have been recorded in the last chapter, there was, metaphorically speaking, a regular thunder-plump. No sooner had the party returned to old Mr Thompson's cottage, than down it came again, heavy as ever. On entering the porch, Lizette ran up to Tom, in that pretty tripping style peculiar to herself, and whispered in his ear. "Well, you baggage," said he, "I'll go with you; but I don't like secrets. Walk into the parlour, friends; I'll be with you in a minute." "Tom," said Lizette, pursing up her little mouth and elevating her pert nose; "you can't guess what an interesting discovery I've made." "Of course I can't," replied Tom, with affected impatience; "now, pray, don't ask me to try, else I shall leave you instantly." "What an impatient creature you are!" said Lizette. "Only think! I have discovered that my maid, whom we hired only two days ago, has--" "Bolted with the black cook, or somebody else, and married him," interrupted Tom, with a look of horror, as he threw himself into any easy-chair. "Not at all," rejoined Lizette, hurriedly; "nothing of the sort; she has discovered that the little girl Mr Sinton brought with him is her sister." "What! Kate Morgan's sister!" cried Tom, with a look of surprise. "I knew it; I was sure I had heard the name before, but I couldn't remember when or where; I see it now; she must be the girl Larry O'Neil used to talk about up at the diggin's; but as I never saw her there, of course I couldn't know her." "Well, I don't know about that; I suppose you're right," replied Lizette; "but isn't it nice? They're kissing and hugging each other, and crying, in the kitchen at this moment. Oh! I'm _so_ happy--the dear little thing!" If Lizette was happy she took a strange way to shew it, for she sat down beside Tom and began to sob. While the above conversation was going on up-stairs, another conversation--interesting enough to deserve special notice--was going on in the parlour. "Sure don't I know me own feelin's best?" remarked Larry, addressing Ned Sinton. "It's all very well at the diggin's; but when it comes to drawin'-rooms and parlours, I feels--an' so does Bill Jones here--that we're out 'o place. In the matter o' diggin' we're all equals, no doubt; but we feels that we ain't gintlemen born, and that it's a'k'ard to the lady to be havin' sich rough customers at her table, so Bill an' me has agreed to make the most o' ourselves in the kitchen." "Larry, you're talking nonsense. We have messed together on equal terms for many months; and, whatever course we may follow after this, you _must_ sup with us to-night, as usual. I know Tom will be angry if you don't." "Ay, sir, but it ain't `as oosual,'" suggested Bill Jones, turning the quid in his cheek; "it's quite on-oosual for the likes o' us to sup with a lady." "That's it," chimed in Larry; "so, Mister Ned, ye'll jist plaise to make our excuges to Mrs Tom, and tell her where we've gone to lo-cate, as the Yankees say. Come away, Bill." Larry took his friend by the arm, and, leading him out of the room, shut the door. Five seconds after that there came an appalling female shriek, and a dreadful masculine yell, from the region of the kitchen, accompanied by a subdued squeak of such extreme sweetness, that it could have come only from the throat of Mademoiselle Nelina. Ned and the captain sprang to the door, and dashed violently against Tom and his wife, whom they unexpectedly met also rushing towards the kitchen. In another moment a curious and deeply interesting _tableau vivant_ was revealed to their astonished gaze. In the middle of the room was Larry O'Neil, down on one knee, while with both arms he supported the fainting form of Kate Morgan. By Kate's side knelt her sister Nelly, who bent over her pale face with anxious, tearful countenance, while, presiding over the group, like an amiable ogre, stood Bill Jones, with his hands in his breeches-pockets, his legs apart, one eye tightly screwed up, and his mouth expanded from ear to ear. "That's yer sort!" cried Bill, in ecstatic glee. "W'en a thing comes all right, an' tight, an' ship-shape, why, wot then? In coorse it's all square--that's wot _I_ say." "She's comin' to," whispered Larry. "Ah! thin, spake, won't ye, darlin'? It'll do ye good, maybe, an' help to open yer two purty eyes." Kate Morgan recovered--we need scarcely tell our reader that--and Nelly dried her eyes, and that evening was spent in a fashion that conduced to the well-being, and comfort, and good humour of all parties concerned. Perhaps it is also needless to inform our reader that Larry O'Neil and Bill Jones carried their point. They supped in the kitchen that night. Our informant does not say whether Kate Morgan and her sister Nelly supped with them--but we rather think they did. A week afterwards, Captain Bunting had matured his future plans. He resolved to purchase a clipper-brig that was lying at that time useless in the harbour, and embark in the coasting trade of California. He made Bill Jones his first mate, and offered to make Larry O'Neil his second, but Larry wanted a mate himself, and declined the honour; so the captain gave him five hundred pounds to set him up in any line he chose. Ned Sinton sold his property, and also presented his old comrade with a goodly sum of money, saying, that as he, (Ned), had been the means of dragging him away from the diggings, he felt bound to assist him in the hour of need. So Kate Morgan became Mrs O'Neil the week following; and she, with her husband and her little sister, started off for the interior of the country to look after a farm. About the same time, Captain Bunting having completed the lading of his brig, succeeded in manning her by offering a high wage, and, bidding adieu to Ned and Tom, set sail for the Sacramento. Two days afterwards, Ned got a letter from old Mr Shirley--the first that he had received since leaving England. It began thus:-- "My Dearest Boy,--What has become of you? I have written six letters, at least, but have never got a single line in reply. You must come home immediately, as affairs here require your assistance, and I'm getting too old to attend to business matters. Do come at once, my dear Ned, unless you wish me to reprove you. Moxton says only a young and vigorous man of business can manage things properly; but when I mentioned you, he shook his head gravely. `Too wild and absurd in his notions,' said he. I stopped him, however, by saying that I was fully aware of your faults--" The letter then went rambling on in a quaint, prosy, but interesting style; and Ned sat long in his room in old Mr Thompson's cottage poring over its contents, and gradually maturing his future plans. "It's awkward," soliloquised he, resting his head on both hands. "I shall have to go at once, and so won't have a chance of seeing Bunting again, to tell him of poor Tom's circumstances. He would only be too glad to give him a helping hand; but I know Tom will never let him know how hard-up he is. There's nothing else for it," he added, determinedly; "my uncle will laugh at my profitless tour--but, _n'importe_, I have learned much.--Come in!" This last remark was addressed to some one who had tapped gently at the door. "It's only me, Ned; can I come in? I fear I interrupt you," said Tom, as he entered the room. "Not at all; sit down, my boy. I have just been perusing a letter from my good old uncle Shirley: he writes so urgently that I fear I must return to England by the first homeward-bound ship." "Return to England!" exclaimed Tom, in surprise. "What! leave the gold-fields just as the sun is beginning to shine on you?" "Even so, Tom." "My dear Ned, you are mad! This is a splendid country. Just see what fortunes we should have made, but for the unfortunate accidents that have happened!" Tom sighed as he spoke. "I know it," replied his friend, with sadden energy. "This is a splendid country; gold exists all over it--not only in the streams, but on the hill-sides, and even on hill-tops, as you and I know from personal experience--but gold, Tom, is not _everything_ in this world, and the getting of it should not be our chief aim. Moreover, I have come to the conclusion, that _digging_ gold ought to be left entirely to such men as are accustomed to dig ditches and throw up railway embankments. Men whose intelligence is of a higher order ought not to ignore the faculties that have been given to them, and devote their time--too often, alas! their lives--to a species of work that the merest savage is equally capable of performing. Navvies may work at the mines with propriety; but educated men who devote themselves to such work are, I fear, among the number of those to whom Scripture specially speaks, when it says, `Make not haste to be rich.'" "But there are other occupations here besides digging for gold," said Tom. "I know it; and I would be happy and proud to rank among the merchants, and engineers, and such men, of California; but duty calls me home, and, to say truth," added Ned, with a smile, "inclination points the way." Tom Collins still for some time attempted to dissuade his friend from quitting the country, and his sweet little wife, Lizette, seconded his efforts with much earnestness; but Ned Sinton was immovable. He took passage in the first ship that sailed for England. The night before he sailed, Ned, after retiring to his room for the last time in his friend's house, locked his door, and went through a variety of little pieces of business that would have surprised his hosts had they seen him. He placed a large strong-box on the table, and cautiously drew from under his bed a carpet-bag, which, from the effort made to lift it, seemed to be filled with some weighty substance. Unlocking the bag, he proceeded to lift out handful after handful of shining dollars and gold pieces, interspersed here and there with massive nuggets. These he transferred into the wooden box until it was full. This was nearly the whole of Ned's fortune. It amounted to a little more than 3000 pounds sterling. Having completed the transfer, Ned counted the surplus left in the bag, and found it to be about 500 pounds. This he secured in a leather purse, and then sat down to write a letter. The letter was short when finished, but it took him long to write, for he meditated much during the writing of it, and several times laid his head on his hands. At last it was completed, put into the box, and the lid screwed down above it. Then Ned read a chapter in the Bible, as was his wont, and retired to rest. Next day Tom and Lizette stood on the wharf to see him embark for England. Long and earnest was the converse of the two friends, as they were about to part, probably for ever, and then, for the first time, they became aware how deep was the attachment which each had formed for the other. At last the mate of the ship came up, and touched his hat. "Now, sir, boat's ready, sir; and we don't wish to lose the first of the ebb." "Good-bye, Lizette--good-bye, Tom! God be with and bless you, my dear fellow! Stay, I had almost forgotten. Tom, you will find a box on the table in my room; you can keep the contents--a letter in it will explain. Farewell!" Tom's heart was too full to speak. He squeezed his friend's hand in silence, and, turning hurriedly round, walked away with Lizette the instant the boat left the shore. Late in the evening, Tom and his wife remembered the box, and went up-stairs to open it. Their surprise at its rich contents may be imagined. Both at once understood its meaning; and Lizette sat down, and covered her face with her hands, to hide the tears that flowed, while her husband read the letter. It ran thus:-- "My Dearest Tom,--You must not be angry with me for leaving this trifle--it _is_ a trifle compared with the amount of gold I would give you if I had it. But I need not apologise; the spirit of love in which it is given demands that it shall be unhesitatingly received in the same spirit. May God, who has blessed us and protected us in all our wanderings together, cause your worldly affairs to prosper, and especially may He bless your soul. Seas and continents may separate us, but I shall never forget you, Tom, or your dear wife. But I must not write as if I were saying farewell. I intend this epistle to be the opening of a correspondence that shall continue as long as we live. You shall hear from me again ere long. "Your sincerely-attached friend, "Edward Sinton." At the time Tom Collins was reading the above letter to Lizette, in a broken, husky voice, our hero was seated on the taffrail of the ship that bore him swiftly over the sea, gazing wistfully at the receding shore, and bidding a final adieu to California and all his golden dreams. CHAPTER TWENTY NINE. OUR STORY COMES TO AN END. Home! What a host of old and deep and heart-stirring associations arise in every human breast at the sound of that old familiar word! How well we know it--how vividly it recalls certain scenes and faces--how pleasantly it falls on the ear, and slips from the tongue--yet how little do we appreciate home until we have left it, and longed for it, perhaps, for many years. Our hero, Ned Sinton, is home at last. He sits in his old place beside the fire, with his feet on the fender. Opposite to him sits old Mr Shirley, with a bland smile on his kind, wrinkled visage, and two pair of spectacles on his brow. Mr Shirley, as we formerly stated, regularly loses one pair of spectacles, and always searches for them in vain, in consequence of his having pushed them too far up on his bald head; he, therefore, is frequently compelled to put on his second pair, and hence makes a spectacle, to some extent, of himself. Exactly between the uncle and the nephew, on a low stool, sits the cat--the cat, _par excellence_--Mr Shirley's cat, a creature which he has always been passionately fond of since it was a kitten, and to which, after Ned's departure for California, he had devoted himself so tenderly, that he felt half-ashamed of himself, and would not like to have been asked how much he loved it. Yes, the cat sits there, looking neither at old Mr Shirley nor at young Mr Sinton, but bestowing its undivided attentions and affections on the fire, which it enjoys extremely, if we may judge from the placid manner in which it winks and purrs. Ned has been a week at home, and he has just reached that point of experience at which the wild life of the diggings through which he has passed begins to seem like a vivid dream rather than reality. Breakfast had just been concluded, although the cloth had not yet been removed. "Do you know, uncle," remarked Ned, settling his bulky frame more comfortably in the easy-chair, and twirling his watch-key, "I find it more difficult every day to believe that the events of the last few months of my life have actually occurred. When I sit here in my old seat, and look at you and the cat and the furniture--everything, in fact, just the same as when I left--I cannot realise that I have been nearly two years away." "I understand your feelings, my dear boy," replied Mr Shirley, taking off his spectacles, (the lower pair,) wiping them with his handkerchief putting them on again, and looking _over_ them at his nephew, with an expression of unmitigated admiration. "I can sympathise with you, Ned, for I have gone through the same experience more than once in the course of my life. It's a strange life, boy, a very strange life this, as you'll come to know, if you're spared to be as old as I am." Ned thought that his knowledge was already pretty extended in reference to life, and even flattered himself that he had had some stranger views of it than his uncle, but he prudently did not give expression to his thoughts; and, after a short pause, Mr Shirley resumed-- "Yes, lad, it's a very strange life; and the strangest part of it is, that the longer we live the stranger it gets. I travelled once in Switzerland--," (the old gentleman paused, as if to allow the statement to have its full weight on Ned's youthful mind,) "and it's a curious fact, that when I had been some months there, home and all connected with it became like a dream to me, and Switzerland became a reality. But after I came back to England, and had spent some time here, home again became the reality, and Switzerland appeared like a dream, so that I sometimes said to myself, `Can it be possible that I have been there!' Very odd, isn't it?" "It is, uncle; and I have very much the same feelings now." "Very odd, indeed," repeated Mr Shirley. "By the way, that reminds me that we have to talk about that farm of which I spoke to you on the day of your arrival." We might feel surprised that the above conversation could in any way have the remotest connexion with "that farm" of which Mr Shirley was so suddenly reminded, did we not know that the subject was, in fact, never out of his mind. "True, uncle, I had almost forgotten about it, but you know I've been so much engaged during the last few days in visiting my old friends and college companions, that--" "I know it, I know it, Ned, and I don't want to bother you with business matters sooner than I can help, but--" "My dear uncle, how can you for a moment suppose that I could be `bothered' by--" "Of course not, boy," interrupted Mr Shirley. "Well, now, let me ask you, Ned, how much gold have you brought back from the diggings?" Ned fidgeted uncomfortably on his seat--the subject could no longer be avoided. "I--I--must confess," said he, with hesitation, "that I haven't brought much." "Of course, you couldn't be expected to have done much in so short a time; but _how_ much?" "Only 500 pounds," replied Ned, with a sigh, while a slight blush shone through the deep bronze of his countenance. "Oh!" said Mr Shirley, pursing up his mouth, while an arch twinkle lurked in the corners of each eye. "Ah! but, uncle, you mustn't quiz me. I _had_ more, and might have brought it home too, if I had chosen." "Then why didn't you?" Ned replied to this question by detailing how most of his money had been lost, and how, at the last, he gave nearly all that remained to his friend Tom Collins. "You did quite right, Ned, _quite right_," said Mr Shirley, when his nephew had concluded; "and now I'll tell you what I want you to do. You told me the other day, I think, that you wished to become a farmer." "Yes, uncle. I do think that that life would suit me better than any other. I'm fond of the country and a quiet life, and I don't like cities; but, then, I know nothing about farming, and I doubt whether I should succeed without being educated to it to some extent at least." "A very modest and proper feeling to entertain," said Mr Shirley, with a smile; "particularly when it is considered that farming is an exceedingly difficult profession to acquire a knowledge of. But I have thought of that for you, Ned, and I think I see a way out of the difficulty." "What way is that?" "I won't tell you just yet, boy. But answer me this. Are you willing to take any farm I suggest to you, and henceforth to give up all notion of wandering over the face of the earth, and devote yourself steadily to your new profession?" "I am, uncle; if you will point out to me how I am to pay the rent and stock the farm, and how I am to carry it on in the meantime without a knowledge of husbandry." "I'll do that for you, all in good time; meanwhile, will you put on your hat, and run down to Moxton's office--you remember it?" "That I do," replied Ned, with a smile. "Well, go there, and ask him for the papers I wrote about to him two days ago. Bring them here as quickly as you can. We shall then take the train, and run down to Brixley, and look at the farm." "But are you really in earnest!" asked Ned, in some surprise. "Never more so in my life," replied the old gentleman, mildly. "Now be off; I want to read the paper." Ned rose and left the room, scarcely believing that his uncle did not jest. As he shut the door, old Mr Shirley took up the paper, pulled down the upper pair of spectacles--an act which knocked the lower pair off his nose, whereat he smiled more blandly than ever--and began to read. Meanwhile, Edward Sinton put on his great-coat--the identical one he used to wear before he went away--and his hat and his gloves, and walked out into the crowded streets of London, with feelings somewhat akin, probably, to those of a somnambulist. Having been so long accustomed to the free-and-easy costume of the mines, Ned felt about as uncomfortable and stiff as a warrior of old must have felt when armed _cap-a-pie_. His stalwart frame was some what thinner and harder than when he last took the same walk; his fair moustache and whiskers were somewhat more decided, and less like wreaths of smoke, and his countenance was of a deep-brown colour; but in other respects Ned was the same dashing fellow that he used to be--dashing by _nature_, we may remark, not by _affectation_. In half-an-hour he stood before Moxton's door. There it was, as large as life, and as green as ever. Ned really found it impossible to believe that it was so long since he last saw it. He felt as if it had been yesterday. The brass knocker and the brass plate were there too, as dirty as ever--perhaps a thought dirtier--and the dirty house still retreated a little behind its fellows, and was still as much ashamed of itself--seemingly--as ever. Ned raised the knocker, and smote the brass knob. The result was, as formerly, a disagreeable-looking old woman, who replied to the question, "Is Mr Moxton in?" with a sharp, short, "Yes." The dingy little office, with its insufficient allowance of daylight, and its compensating mixture of yellow gas, was inhabited by the same identical small dishevelled clerk who, nearly two years before, was busily employed in writing his name interminably on scraps of paper, and who now, as then, answered to the question, "Can I see Mr Moxton?" by pointing to the door which opened into the inner apartment, and resuming his occupation--the same occupation--writing his name on scraps of paper. Ned tapped--as of yore. "Come in," cried a stern voice--as of ditto. Ned entered; and there, sure enough, was the same tall, gaunt man, with the sour cast of countenance, standing, (as formerly,) with his back to the fire. "Ah!" exclaimed Moxton, "you're young Sinton, I suppose?" Ned almost started at the perfect reproduction of events, and questions, and answers. He felt a species of reckless incredulity in reference to everything steal over him, as he replied-- "Yes; I came, at my uncle's request, for some papers that--" "Ah, yes, they're all ready," interrupted the lawyer, advancing to the table. "Tell your uncle that I shall be glad to hear from him again in reference to the subject of those papers; and take care of them--they are of value. Good-morning!" "Good-morning!" replied our hero, retreating. "Stay!" said Moxton. Ned stopped, and turned round. "You've been in California, since I last saw you, I understand?" "I have," replied Ned. "Umph! You haven't made your fortune, I fancy?" "No, not quite." "It's a wild place, if all reports are true?" "Rather," replied Ned, smiling; "there's a want of law there." "Ha! and lawyers," remarked Moxton, sarcastically. "Indeed there is," replied Ned, with some enthusiasm, as he thought of the gold-hunting spirit that prevailed in the cities of California. "There is great need out there of men of learning--men who can resist the temptation to collect gold, and are capable of doing good to the colony in an intellectual and spiritual point of view. Clergymen, doctors, and lawyers are much wanted there. You'd find it worth your while to go, sir." Had Edward Sinton advised Mr Moxton to go and rent an office in the moon, he could scarcely have surprised that staid gentleman more than he did by this suggestion. The lawyer gazed at him for one moment in amazement. Then he said-- "These papers are of value, young man: be careful of them. Good-morning--" and sat down at his desk to write. Ned did not venture to reply, but instantly retired, and found himself in the street with-- not, as formerly, an indistinct, but--a distinct impression that he had heard the dishevelled clerk chuckling vociferously as he passed through the office. That afternoon Ned and old Mr Shirley alighted from the train at a small village not a hundred miles out of London, and wended their way leisurely--for it was a warm sunny day for the season--towards a large, quaint, old farm-house, about two miles distant from the station. "What a very pleasant-looking house that is on the hill-top!" remarked Ned, as he gave his arm to his uncle. "D'you think so? Well, I'm glad of it, because that's the farm I wish you to take." "Indeed!" exclaimed Ned, in surprise. "Surely the farm connected with such a house must be a large one?" "So it is," replied the other. Ned laughed. "My dear uncle," said he, "how can _I_ manage such a place, without means or knowledge?" "I said before, boy, that I would overcome both these difficulties for you." "You did, dear uncle; and if you were a rich man, I could understand how you might overcome the first; but you have often told me you had no money in the world except the rent of a small property." "Right, Ned; I said so; and I say it again. I shan't leave you a sixpence when I die, and I can't afford to give you one while I am alive." "Then I must just leave the matter in your own hands," replied Ned, smiling, "for I cannot comprehend your plans." They had now reached the gate of the park that surrounded the fine old building of Brixley Hall. The house was one of those rambling, picturesque old mansions, which, although not very large in reality, have a certain air of magnitude, and even grandeur, about them. The windows were modern and large, so that the rooms were well lighted, and the view in all directions was magnificent. Wherever the eye turned, it met knolls, and mounds, and fields, and picturesque groves, with here and there a substantial farm-steading, or a little hamlet, with its modest church-spire pointing ever upwards to the bright sky. Cattle and sheep lowed and bleated in the meadows, while gentle murmurs told that a rivulet flowed along its placid course at no great distance. The spot was simply enchanting--and Ned said so, in the fulness of his heart, emphatically. "'Tis a sweet spot!" remarked his uncle, in a low, sad tone, as he entered the open door of the dwelling, and walked deliberately into the drawing-room. "Now, Ned, sit down--here, opposite that window, where you can see the view--and I'll tell you how we shall manage. You tell me you have 500 pounds?" "Yes, uncle." "Well, your dear mother left you her fortune when she died--it amounts to the small sum of 200 pounds. I never told you of it before, my boy, for reasons of my own. That makes 700 pounds." "Will that suffice to stock and carry on so large a farm," inquired Ned? "Not quite," replied Mr Shirley, "but the farm is partly stocked already, so it'll do. Now, I've made arrangements with the proprietor to let you have it for the first year or two rent free. His last tenant's lease happens to have expired six months ago, and he is anxious to have it let immediately." Ned opened his eyes very wide at this. "He says," continued the old gentleman, "that if you can't manage to make the two ends meet in the course of a year or two, he will extend the _gratis_ lease." Ned began to think his uncle had gone deranged. "Why, what _do_ you mean," said he, "who is this extraordinary proprietor?" "He's an eccentric old fellow, Ned, who lives in London--they call him Shirley, I believe." "Yourself, uncle!" cried Ned, starting up. Dear reader, the conversation that followed was so abrupt, exclamatory, interjectional, and occasionally ungrammatical, as well as absurd, that it could not be reduced to writing. We therefore leave it to your imagination. After a time, the uncle and nephew subsided, and again became sane. "But," said Ned, "I shall have to get a steward--is that what you call him? or overseer, to manage affairs until I am able to do it myself." "True, Ned; but I have provided one already." "Indeed!--but I might have guessed that. What shall I have to pay him? a good round sum, I suppose." "No," replied Mr Shirley; "he is very moderate in his expectations. He only expects his food and lodging, besides a little care, and attention, and love, particularly in his old age." "He must be a cautious fellow, to look so far forward," said Ned, laughing. "What's his name?" "His name--is Shirley." "What! yourself again?" "And why not, nephew? I've as much right to count myself fit to superintend a farm, as you had, a year ago, to think yourself able to manage a gold mine. Nay, I have a better right--for I was a farmer the greater part of my life before I went to reside in London. Now, boy, as I went to live in the Great City--which I _don't_ like--in order to give you a good education, I expect that you'll take me to the country--which I _do_ like--to be your overseer. I was born and bred here, Ned; this was my father's property, and, when I am gone, it shall be yours. It is not much to boast of. You won't be able to spend an idle life of it here; for, although a goodly place, it must be carefully tended if you would make it pay." "I don't need to tell _you_," replied Ned, "that I have no desire to lead an idle life. But, uncle, I think your terms are very high." "How so, boy?" "_Love_ is a very high price to pay for service," replied Ned. "Your kindness and your generosity in this matter make me very happy and very grateful, and, perhaps, might make me very obedient and extremely attentive; but I cannot give you _love_ at any price. I must refuse you _as an overseer_, but if you will come to me as old Uncle Shirley--" "Well, well, Ned," interrupted the old gentleman, with a benign smile, "we'll not dispute about that. Let us now go and take a run round the grounds." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ It is needless, dear reader, to prolong our story. Perchance we have taxed your patience too much already--but we cannot close without a word or two regarding the subsequent life of those whose fortunes we have followed so long. Ned Sinton and old Mr Shirley applied themselves with diligence and enthusiasm to the cultivation of their farm, and to the cultivation of the friendship and good-will of their neighbours all round. In both efforts they were eminently successful. Ned made many interesting discoveries during his residence at Brixley Hall, chief among which was a certain Louisa Leslie, with whom he fell desperately in love--so desperately that his case was deemed hopeless. Louisa therefore took pity on him, and became Mrs Sinton, to the unutterable delight of old Mr Shirley--and the cat, both of whom benefited considerably by this addition to the household. About the time this event occurred, Ned received a letter from Tom Collins, desiring him to purchase a farm for him as near to his own as possible. Tom had been successful as a merchant, and had made a large fortune--as was often the case in those days--in the course of a year or two. At first, indeed, he had had a hard struggle, and was more than once nearly driven, by desperation, to the gaming-table, but Ned's advice and warnings came back upon him again and again--so he fought against the temptation manfully, and came off victorious. Improved trade soon removed the temptation--perhaps we should say that his heavenly Father took that means to remove it--and at last, as we have said, he made a fortune, as many had done, in like circumstances, before him. Ned bought a farm three miles from his own, and, in the course of a few months, Tom and he were once more walking together, arm in arm, recalling other days, and--arguing. Lizette and Louisa drew together like two magnets, the instant they met. But the best of it was, Tom had brought home Larry O'Neil as his butler, and Mrs Kate O'Neil as his cook while Nelly became his wife's maid. Larry, it seems, had not taken kindly to farming in California, the more so that he pitched unluckily on an unproductive piece of land, which speedily swallowed up his little fortune, and refused to yield any return. Larry, therefore, like some men who thought themselves much wiser fellows, pronounced the country a wretched one, in reference to agriculture, and returned to San Francisco, where he found Tom Collins, prospering and ready to employ himself and his family. As butler to an English squire, Larry O'Neil was, according to his own statement, "a continted man." May he long remain so! Nelly Morgan soon became, out of sight, the sweetest girl in the countryside, and, ere long, one of the best young fellows in the district carried her off triumphantly, and placed her at the head of affairs in his own cottage. We say he was one of the best young fellows--this husband of Nelly's--but he was by no means the handsomest; many a handsome strapping youth there failed to obtain so good a wife as Nelly. Her husband was a steady, hard working, thriving, good man--and quite good-looking enough for her--so Nelly said. As for Captain Bunting and Bill Jones, they stuck to each other to the last, like two limpets, and both of them stuck to the sea like fish. No shore-going felicities could tempt these hardy sons of Neptune to forsake their native element again. He had done it once, Bill Jones said, "in one o' the splendidest countries goin', where gold was to be had for the pickin' up, and all sorts o' agues and rheumatizes for nothin'; but w'en things didn't somehow go all square, an' the anchor got foul with a gale o' adwerse circumstances springin' up astarn, why, wot then?--go to sea again, of coorse, an' stick to it; them wos _his_ sentiments." As these were also Captain Bunting's sentiments, they naturally took to the same boat for life. But, although Captain Bunting and Bill did not live on shore, they occasionally, at long intervals, condescended to revisit the terrestrial globe, and, at such seasons of weakness, made a point of running down to Brixley Hall to see Ned and Tom. Then, indeed, "the light of other days" shone again in retrospect on our adventurers with refulgent splendour; then Larry sank the butler, and came out as the miner--as one of the partners of the "R'yal Bank o' Calyforny"--then Ned and Tom related marvellous adventures, to the admiration of their respective wives, and the captain smote his thigh with frequency and emphasis, to the terror of the cat, and Bill Jones gave utterance to deeply-pregnant sentences, and told how that, on his last voyage to China, he had been up at Pekin, and had heard that Ah-wow had dug up a nugget of gold three times the size of his own head, and had returned to his native land a _millionnaire_, and been made a mandarin, and after that something else, and at last became prime minister of China--so Bill had been _told_, but he wouldn't vouch for it, no how. All this, and a great deal more, was said and done on these great and rare occasions--and our quondam gold-hunters fought their battles o'er again, to the ineffable delight of old Mr Shirley, who sat in his easy-chair, and gazed, and smiled, and stared, and laughed, and even wept, and chuckled--but never spoke--he was past that. In the course of time Ned and Tom became extremely intimate with the pastor of their village, and were at last his right and left-hand men. This pastor was a man whose aim was to live as his Master had lived before him--he went about doing good--and, of all the happy years our two friends spent, the happiest were those in which they followed in the footsteps and strengthened the hands of this good man, Lizette and Louisa were helpmates to their husbands in this respect, as in all others, and a blessing to the surrounding country. Ned Sinton's golden dream was over now, in one sense, but by no means over in another. His sleeping and his waking dreams were still, as of old, tinged with a golden hue, but they had not a metallic ring. The _golden rule_ was the foundation on which his new visions were reared, and that which we are told is _better_ than gold, "yea, than much fine gold," was thenceforth eagerly sought for and coveted by him. As for other matters--he delighted chiefly in the sunshine of Louisa's smile, and in fields of golden grain. THE END. 
62866	----	book was produced from images made available by the HathiTrust Digital Library.) +-------------------------------------------------+ |Transcriber's note: | | | |Obvious typographic errors have been corrected. | | | +-------------------------------------------------+ [Illustration: THE MYSTERIOUS LETTER] THE YOUNG GAME-WARDEN BY HARRY CASTLEMON AUTHOR OF "THE HOUSE-BOAT BOYS," "GUNBOAT SERIES," "ROCKY MOUNTAIN SERIES," ETC. THE JOHN C. WINSTON CO. PHILADELPHIA CHICAGO TORONTO COPYRIGHT, 1896, BY HENRY T. COATES & CO. CONTENTS. CHAPTER PAGE I. SILAS MORGAN, 5 II. THE BROTHERS, 17 III. THE MYSTERIOUS LETTER, 31 IV. HOBSON'S HOUSE, 45 V. WHAT DAN OVERHEARD, 55 VI. THE YOUNG GAME-WARDEN, 66 VII. BROTHERLY LOVE, 77 VIII. JOE'S PLANS IN DANGER, 89 IX. VOLUNTEERS, 100 X. WHY THE LETTER WAS WRITTEN, 109 XI. THE PLOT SUCCEEDS, 121 XII. A MYSTERY, 134 XIII. DAN IS SCARED, 146 XIV. THE "HANT," 158 XV. JOE'S NEW HOME, 169 XVI. JOE'S "FIRST OFFICIAL ACT," 181 XVII. WHO FIRED THE FOUR SHOTS? 194 XVIII. DAN'S SECRET, 205 XIX. DAN TELLS HIS STORY, 216 XX. A RUN FOR HOME, 228 XXI. A TREACHEROUS GUIDE, 240 XXII. MR. BROWN TAKES HIS DEPARTURE, 252 XXIII. EXPLORING THE CAVE, 264 XXIV. ROBBERS, 277 XXV. WHAT THE GRIP-SACK CONTAINED, 289 XXVI. MR. HALLET HEARS THE NEWS, 302 XXVII. JOE'S PLANS, 315 XXVIII. CAPTURE OF BOB EMERSON, 326 XXIX. THE HUNT FOR THE ROBBERS, 338 XXX. BRIERLY'S SQUAD CAPTURES A ROBBER, 350 XXXI. SILAS IN LUCK AT LAST, 362 XXXII. BOB EMERSON'S STORY, 374 XXXIII. TURNING OVER A NEW LEAF, 386 XXXIV. THE TRANSFORMATION, 399 THE YOUNG GAME-WARDEN. CHAPTER I. SILAS MORGAN. "I do think in my soul that of all the mean things a white man has to do, hauling wood on a hot day like this is the very meanest." The speaker was Silas Morgan--a tall, broad-shouldered man, whose tattered garments and snail-like movements proclaimed him to be the very personification of indolence and shiftlessness. As he spoke, he took off his hat and drew his shirt-sleeve across his dripping forehead, while the lazy old horse, which had pulled the rickety wood-rack up the long, steep hill from the beach, lowered his head, dropped his ears, and fell fast asleep. The man had two alert and wide-awake companions, and they were a brace of finely-bred Gordon setters, which, after beating the bushes on both sides of the road in the vain effort to put up a grouse or start a hare, now came in, and lay down near the wagon. They were a sight for a sportsman's eye, and that same sportsman would very naturally ask himself how it came that this poverty-stricken fellow could afford to own dogs that would have won honors at any bench-show in the land. "Yes, I reckon them dog-brutes air just about nice," Silas said, whenever any inquisitive person propounded this inquiry to him, "and they were given to me for a present by a couple of city shooters who once hired me for a guide. You see, birds of all sorts, and 'specially woodcock, was mighty skeerce that year, but I took 'em where there was a little bunch that I was a saving for my own shooting, and they had the biggest kind of sport. They give me them dogs in consequence of my perliteness to 'em." There was no one in the neighborhood who could dispute this story, but there were those who took note of the fact that at certain times the dogs disappeared as completely as though they had never existed, and that they were never seen when there were any strange sportsmen in the vicinity. "The luck that comes to different folks in this world is just a trifle the beatenest thing that I ever heared tell on," continued Silas, leaning heavily upon the wood-rack and fanning his flushed face with his brimless straw hat. "I can think and plan, but it don't bring in no money, like it does for some folks that ain't got nigh as much sense as I have. Now, there's them two setter dogs that was accidentally left on my hands last year! I thought sure that I'd make my everlasting fortune out of them; but if there's been a reward offered for their safe return to their master, I never seen or heared of it. I've tried every way I can think of to make something, so't things in and around my house won't look so sorter peaked and poor, but I'm as fur from hitting the mark now as I was ten year ago. I wish I could think up some way to make a strike, but I can't; and so here goes for that wood-pile. It won't always be as hot as it is to-day. Winter will be here before long, the roads will be blocked with drifts, and if this wood ain't down to the beach directly, me and the ole woman will have to shiver over a bare hearth." With this reflection to put life and energy into him, Silas straightened up and turned toward the wood-pile with slow and reluctant steps, all unconscious of the fact that every move he made was closely watched by two recumbent figures, who, snugly concealed by a thicket of evergreens, a short distance away, had distinctly caught every word of his soliloquy. The dogs knew they were there, for they had run upon their hiding-place, but as the recumbent figures were neither birds nor hares, they did not even bark at them, but gave a friendly wag with their tails, as if to say that it was all right, and returned to their master, to whom they gave no sign to indicate that they had discovered anything. Silas went about his work in that indescribably lazy way that a boy or man generally assumes when he is laboring under protest. Every stick he lifted from the pile to the wagon seemed to tax his strength to the very utmost, and he was often obliged to stop and rest; but still he made a little headway, and when the rack was about half-loaded he concluded that he could do no more until he had refreshed himself with a smoke. "I have always heared," said Silas, aloud (whenever he thought himself safely out of hearing, he invariably gave utterance to the thoughts that were in his mind)--"I have always heared 'em say that all this country around here is historical, and that if these mountings could speak, they'd tell tales that would make your eyes stick out as big as your fist. "They do say that there's been a heap of stealing and plundering going on about here in the days gone by"--as Silas said this he glanced around him a little apprehensively--"and that there's heaps and stacks of gold and silver hid away where nobody won't ever think of looking for 'em. If I thought that was so, wouldn't I try my level best to find some of it? I'd leave Joe and Dan to run the ferry, and then I'd put a shovel on to my shoulder and come up here, and never leave off digging till I'd turned some of these mountings t'other side up. But I guess I won't smoke. I was fool enough to come away and leave my matches to home." Silas held his pipe in his hand, and ran his eye along the wood-pile as if he were looking for a light. As he did so, he gave a sudden start, his eyes opened to their widest extent, his under jaw dropped down, and the hand in which he held the pipe fell to his side. The object that riveted his gaze was a letter. It had been thrust into a crack in the end of a stick of wood, and looked as though it might have been placed there on purpose to attract his attention. "Now, don't that beat you?" exclaimed Silas, who was greatly astonished. "Who in the world has been using my wood-pile for a post-office, I'd like to know?" If the truth must be told, Silas was frightened as well as surprised. Like all ignorant men, he was superstitious, and whenever he saw or heard anything for which he could not account on the instant, he was sure to be overcome with terror. His first thought was to take to his heels, make the best of his way to the cabin, and send his boys back after the wagon; but if he did that, they would be sure to see the letter--they couldn't help it, if they kept their eyes open--and might they not read it and make themselves masters of some information that he alone ought to possess? "It's mighty comical how that thing come there, and who writ it," said Silas, "and somehow I can't get my consent to tech it." And he didn't touch it, either, until he had viewed it from all sides. First, he bent down, with his hands upon his knees, and twisted his body into all sorts of shapes in the vain effort to see the other side of the letter. Then he straightened up and made a wide circle around it; and finally, he climbed upon the wood-pile and looked at it from another direction. At last, he must have satisfied himself that it was a letter and nothing else, for he reached out his hand and took possession of it. "It's mighty comical," repeated Silas, looking first at the letter, and then turning suspicious glances upon the surrounding woods, "and I can't for the life of me think who put it there. Now, who'll I get to read it for me? I can spell out printing with the best of them, but I can't say that I know much about them turkey-tracks they call writing." As Silas was walking around the wood-pile toward his wagon, he turned the letter over in his hands, and then he saw that there was something inscribed upon the envelope. The characters were printed, too, and the man had little difficulty in deciphering the following: "NOTIS "to the luckey person in to whose hans this dockyment may happen to fall. thare is a big fortune for you in this mounting if you have got the pluck to do what I have writ on the inside. thare is danger in it, but mebbe that hant won't bother you as it has bothered me ever since I pushed him in to the gorge." Silas was in another profuse perspiration long before he spelled out the last word in the "notis," but now the cold chills began creeping all over him. His breath came in short, quick gasps, and his hand trembled visibly, as he thrust the letter into his pocket. Then he cast frightened glances on all sides of him, glided back to his wagon with long noiseless footsteps and reached for the reins. The commands which he usually shouted at his aged and infirm beast, were uttered in a whisper, and the horse, not being accustomed to that style of driving, had to be severely admonished with a hickory switch before he would settle into the collar and start the very light load behind him. Silas never could have told how he got down the hill without breaking his crazy old wagon all to pieces, for his mind was so completely taken up with other matters that he never thought to look out for the rough places in the road, or to give a wide berth to the stumps. He seemed to be treading on air. He hoped and believed that he was on the point of making a most important discovery; but, great as was his desire to make himself the possessor of the fortune that was hidden somewhere in the mountain he had just left, he could not screw up courage enough to stop and read the letter. He wanted to put the woods far behind him before he did that. The "notis" he had read contained some words that he did not like to recall to mind. "Didn't I say that there had been a heap of plundering and stealing a going on in this country in bygone days?" said Silas to himself. "This letter proves it, and the words that's printed onto the envelope tells me some things that I don't like to hear tell of. There's likewise been some killing a going on up there. A feller has been shoved into one of the gorges, and his hant (some folks calls it a ghost or spirit) has come back, and keeps a bothering of the feller that pushed him in. I don't know whether or not I can get my consent to go up there and dig for that fortune, even if I knew where to look for it, which I don't." At the end of half an hour, Silas Morgan drew a long breath of relief, and stopped looking behind him. He was safely out of the woods, and moving quietly along the river road, within shouting distance of his cabin. Then his courage all came back to him, and he was ready for any undertaking, no matter how dangerous it might be, so long as there was money behind it. "Now, Silas, let's look at this thing kind o' sensible like," said he to himself. "There must be as much as a thousand dollars up there in the mounting. If there wasn't, it wouldn't be a fortune, would it? And what's to hender you from getting it for you own? If you go up there in the daytime, that hant can't bother you none, 'cause I've heard folks say that they never show themselves except on dark and stormy nights; but if this one comes out and tells you to leave off digging for that fortune, you can fill him so full of bird shot that he won't be of no use as a hant any more, can't you? Get along with you!" he shouted, bringing the heavy switch down upon the horse's back with no gentle hand. "I ain't got much more wood hauling for you to do, 'cause I'm going after them thousand dollars." A few minutes later Silas reached his home. Dropping the reins and whip to the ground, he bolted into the cabin, closing the door behind him. CHAPTER II. THE BROTHERS. "Toot! toot! t-o-ot!" This was the third time the horn had been blown--first warningly, then persuasively, and at last angrily. The hunters on the other side of the river, who had been trying for more than twenty minutes to bring the ferryman over to them, were beginning to get impatient. So was Joe Morgan, the ferryman's youngest son--a sturdy, sun-browned boy of fifteen, who stood in the flat, holding one of the heavy sweeps in his hand, all ready to shove off. He looked toward the men on the opposite shore, and then he looked at his brother, who sat on the bank, with his elbows on his knees and his chin resting on his hands. "There's eighty cents in that load," said Joe, who was in a great hurry to respond to the angry blasts of the horn. "If they get tired of waiting, and go down to the bridge, we shall be just that much out of pocket." "Let 'em go, if they want to," replied the boy on the bank, in a lazy, indifferent tone. "There's no law to hinder 'em that I know of. Pap don't seem to be in no great hurry, and neither be I. I'm sick and tired of pulling that heavy flat over the river every time anybody takes a fool notion into his head to toot that horn. Some day I'll get mad and sink it so deep that it can't never be found again--I will so!" "Now, Dan, what's the use of talking that way?" exclaimed Joe, impatiently. "You know well enough that as long as we run the ferry, we must hold ourselves in readiness to serve any one who may call upon us; and if you should destroy the flat, we would have to get another or give up the business." "And that's just what I want to do," answered Dan. "Then how would we make a living?" "Easy enough. Can't we all shoot birds and rabbits when the season's open, and snare 'em when it's shut? And can't mother earn a dollar every day by washing for them rich--" "Dan, I'm ashamed of you," interrupted Joe. "What mother wants is rest, and not more work. Come on; what's the use of being so lazy? You've got to make a start some time or other." But Dan made no move, and Joe, who was very much disgusted with his brother's obstinacy, threw down the sweep, sprang ashore and ran up the bank toward the little board cabin that stood at the top. Finding that the door would not open for him, Joe ran around the corner of the building, and looked in at a convenient window, just in time to catch his father in the act of thrusting a letter into his pocket. The ferryman's face was flushed, and his movements were nervous and hurried. The boy saw at a glance that he was greatly excited about something. "As long as I have been acquainted with him, I never knew him to get a letter before," said Joe to himself. "He has heard some very good or some very bad news, for he is so upset that he doesn't seem to know what he is about." "I heard 'em blowing, Joey," said Silas, without waiting for the boy to speak, "and now we'll go and bring 'em over. Thank goodness, I won't have to follow this mean business much longer. I don't like it, Joey. I wasn't born to wait on other folks, and I'm going to quit it." "Then you will have to quit ferrying," said Joe, as he followed his father down the bank. "That's just what I intend to do," answered Silas, and then the boy noticed that there was a triumphant smile on his face, and that he rubbed his hands together as if he were thinking about something that afforded him the greatest satisfaction. "I've got an idee into my head, and if I don't make the folks around here look wild some of these days, I'm a goat," added the ferryman. And then he raised a yell to let the men on the other side of the river know that he had at last made up his mind to respond to their signals. But before he did so, he shaded his eyes with his hand, and took a good look at the group on the opposite bank, after which he walked around the cabin, snapping his fingers as he went. This was a signal to the dogs that it was time for them to retire from public gaze for a short season; in other words, to go into a miserable lean-to behind the cabin, which Silas called a wood-shed, and stay there until the hunters, who were now on the other side of the river, should have passed out of sight. They went in in obedience to a sign from the ferryman, and the latter closed the door and put a stick of cord-wood against it to hold it in place. "If them setter brutes was a present to pap, like he says they was, it's mighty comical to me why he takes so much trouble to hide 'em every time some of them city shooters comes along and toot that horn," soliloquized Dan, as he slowly, almost painfully, arose from the ground, and, after much stretching and yawning, followed his father and brother down the bank toward the flat. "He says he's scared that somebody will take a notion to 'em and steal 'em; but that's all in my one eye, 'cording to my way of thinking. Now, I'll just tell him this for a fact. If he don't quit being so stingy with the money I help him earn with this ferry, I'll bust up the plans he's got into his head about them dogs--I will so. I wonder what's come over him all of a sudden? Here he's been clear up the mounting and come back with only an armful of wood on his wagon, and he don't generally whoop in that there good-natured way, less'n he's got something on his mind." That was true enough. The ferryman's replies to the hails that came to him from over the river, usually sounded more like the complaints of a surly bear than anything else to which we can compare them. The tone in which they were uttered seemed to say, "I'll come because I can't help myself," and he was so long about it, and made himself so very disagreeable in the presence of his passengers, that those who knew him would often go ten miles out of their way to reach a bridge rather than put a dime into his pocket. But on this particular morning, his voice rang out so cheerily that it attracted Joe's attention as well as Dan's. Silas was always good-natured when he had something besides his poverty to think about, and Joe would have known that his father had some new idea in his head, even if he had not said a word about it. "Lively, Dannie!" exclaimed Silas, seizing the steering-oar and pushing the flat away from the bank. "Put in your very best licks, 'cause there won't none of us have to follow this miserable business much longer. There'll be a day when we won't have to go and come at everybody's beck and call, and that day ain't so very far away neither." The two boys took their places at the sweeps, and the flat moved out into the river. Joe did his best to make a quick passage, as he always did, while the lazy Dan, who had the current in his favor, merely put his oar into the water and took it out again, without exerting himself in the least. His father's hopeful and encouraging words did not infuse a particle of energy into him. He had heard him talk that way too often. "It ain't right that we should be so poor, while other folks, who never did a hand's turn in their lives, have got more than they know what to do with," continued Silas, as he dropped the steering-oar into the water. "I've got just as much right to have money, and the fine things that money'll buy, as anybody has, and I'm going to have 'em, too. I ain't going to live like the pigs in the gutter no longer. Just think of the hundreds and thousands of dollars that's spent down to the Beach every summer by the city chaps who come there to loaf! _I_ can't lay around under the shade of the trees or swing in a hammock just 'cause the weather's hot. I've got to work. I've got to cut cord-wood in winter and run this ferry during the summer, in order to make a living; but other fellows can stay around and do nothing, just 'cause they've got money. I say again, that such things ain't right." "It makes me savage every time I go down to the Beach," chimed in Dan, "when I see them city folks, who ain't a cent's worth better than I be, wearing their good clothes, and walking around with their fine guns and fish-poles on their shoulders--" "Like them over there," said his father, nodding his head toward the bank, which was now but a short distance away. Dan faced about on his seat, and took a good look at the party in question. There were ninety cents in the load instead of eighty. There were three sportsmen in brown hunting-suits, who were walking restlessly about as if they did not know what to do with themselves, and they had a double team, with a negro to drive it. With them were half a dozen setters and pointers, which were exercising their muscles by racing up and down the bank. The sight of the negro set the ferryman's tongue in motion again, while the good clothes the strangers wore had about the same effect upon Dan that a piece of red cloth is supposed to have upon a pugnacious turkey gobbler. "More 'ristocrats!" sneered Silas. "Why don't they drive their own team?" "Probably they don't want to," replied Joe. "Besides, they are able to hire some one to drive it for them." "Of course they are!" exclaimed Silas, who was angry in an instant. "But I ain't able to hire a nigger to run this ferry for me. I say that such a state of things ain't right." "Well, it isn't their fault, is it?" said Joe. "I didn't say it was," snapped his father. "It ain't my fault, neither, that I haven't got as much money as the richest of them, but it will be my fault if I don't have it before the season's over. They're going after woodcock," added Silas, who was a market-shooter as well as a ferryman and wood-cutter. "I would like to bet them something that they won't get enough birds to pay them for crossing the river. I've got all the covers pretty well cleaned out." "Them's the sort of fellers I despise," said Dan, turning around on his seat and resuming his work at the sweep--or, rather, his pretence of it. "The money them dogs cost would keep me in the best kind of grub and clothes for a whole year. Just look at the clothes they've got on, and then cast your eye at these I've got on. Dog-gone such luck! I hope they won't get nothing, and if they should hire me for a guide, I would take good care to lead them where such a bird as a woodcock wasn't never seen." "Perhaps they don't need a guide," said Joe. "Because they wear good clothes and own fine dogs, it is no sign that they don't know woodcock ground or a snipe bog when they see it, as well as you do. Perhaps they are all better hunters and wing-shots than you ever dare be." "Not much they ain't," exclaimed Dan, who got fighting mad whenever his brother threw out a hint of this kind. "I can beat any feller who wears them kind of clothes; and as for them fine dogs of their'n, I'll take Bony and get more partridges in a day than they can shoot in a week." "Well, then, why ain't you satisfied? What are you growling about?" "'Cause they're 'ristocrats--that's what I'm growling about," answered Dan, looking savagely across the flat at his brother, while Silas nodded a silent but hearty approval. "I am getting tired of seeing so much style every day, while I am so poor that I can't hardly raise money enough to buy powder and shot, and some fine day I'll bust up some of these hunting parties. I've got just as much right to see fun as they have." "So you have, Dannie," said his father. "There ain't no sense in the way things go in this world anyway, and I am glad to see you kick agin it. I have always told you, that I would be better off some day, and I have hit upon the very idee at last. Me and you will stick together, and I'll warrant that we will make more money than Joe does by toadying to these 'ristocrats who come here to take the bread out of our mouths, by shooting the game that rightfully belongs to us." "I don't toady to anybody," replied Joe, with some spirit. "I am glad of the chances they give me to earn something now and then, and I am sure we need it bad enough." "I have thought up a way to get more out of them than you do, and the first good chance I get I am going to try it on," observed Dan. "I won't go halvers with you, neither, and you needn't expect me to. You never give me a cent." "Of course I don't. You are as able to make something for yourself as I am to make it for you. Mother gets all I earn." By this time the flat was within a few lengths of the shore, and the crew were obliged to give their entire attention to the sweeps, in order to make a landing. The ferryman, who up to this time had been in a state of nervousness and expectancy, now began to act more like himself--that is to say, he greeted his passengers with an angry scowl, and gave them about as much polite attention as he would have bestowed upon so many bags of corn. He had kept his gaze fastened upon them, and he was both relieved and disappointed to discover that the owner of the dogs that were shut up in his woodshed was not among them. At the proper moment the "apron"--a movable gangway which could be raised and lowered at pleasure--was dropped upon the bank, and in five minutes more the team and the passengers were all aboard, and the flat was moving back across the river. CHAPTER III. THE MYSTERIOUS LETTER. Having landed his passengers and pocketed his money, Silas Morgan made his way toward the cabin with so much haste that he again drew the attention of the boys, who gazed after him with no little surprise and curiosity. Silas was as lazy as a man ever gets to be, and Joe and Dan could not imagine what had happened to put so much life into him. "I knew that something or 'nother had come over pap when he yelled in that good-natured way to let them fellers on t'other side know that he was coming," observed Dan, who walked back to his seat on the bank, and sunned himself there like a turtle on his log, while Joe hauled in the sweeps and made the flat secure. "He's got another of them money-making plans into his head, I reckon." Those who were well acquainted with Silas Morgan knew that he always had plans of that kind in his head. He was full of schemes for getting rich without work, some of which, if carried into execution, would have brought him into serious trouble with the officers of the law; but the idea that occupied his busy brain on this particular morning was a little ahead of anything he had ever before thought of. You will probably laugh at it when you know what it was, but Silas didn't. Of all the thousand and one plans which he had conjured up and pondered over, this one, which had come into his possession by the merest accident, seemed to hold out the brightest promises of success. "But it wasn't accident, neither," Silas kept saying to himself. "There isn't a day during the shooting season that them mountings ain't just covered with hunters, and how did the man that put this letter into my wood-pile know that I was the one who was to take it out? He didn't know it. I found it 'cause it was to be so, that's the reason." The first thing the ferryman did when he reached the cabin was to close and fasten the door, to prevent interruption, and the next to draw from his pocket the mysterious letter, which he spread upon the table before him. To make himself master of its contents was a work of no little difficulty. Silas did not know much about books, and, besides, some of the characters that were intended to represent letters were so badly printed that it was hard to tell what they were intended for. He read as follows: "DECEMBER 15--IN THE MOUNTINGS. "I write this to inform whoever finds it that I have a secret to tell you. I was born in Europe, and am now forty years of age. I am a gentleman, and my father is a rich man and a large land-owner. I am the second son, and fell in love with a girl when I was twenty years of age. "Everything went well till my older brother came home from the war, and when she found out that I was not entitled to the estates, she left me, and went to concerts and balls with my brother, and that was something I could not stand. So I sent her a bottle of sody-water, with my best wishes, and I put in strickning, and the next day she was dead. The doctors said she died of heart disease, but I knew better. So I told my father that I was going to America. So he gave me five hundred pounds in money--" "Five hundred pounds of money!" exclaimed Silas, after he had spelled the words over three times to satisfy himself that he had made no mistake. "How did he ever make out to carry that heft of greenbacks clear across the ocean and up into these mountings? If I find it, I'll have to bring it down on my wagon, won't I? And where'll I put it after I get it so that it will be safe? That's what's a bothering of me now." Silas was already beginning to feel the responsibilities that weigh upon capitalists, one of whom assures us that he finds it harder work to take care of his money than it was to accumulate it. Silas made a note of all the good hiding-places which he could recall to mind on the spur of the moment, and then went on with his reading: --"and the next day I shipped for New York. I wish I had never done it. A coming over the ocean, I made the acquaintance of a man who coaxed me to go to Californy with him, and there we fell in with two more who were as bad as we was, and we went into a bank there, and took out seventy thousand dollars. So we went to Canady, and stayed there till the country got too hot for us, and then we come to these mountings. So we went along till we come to the old Indian road. One day my chum dropped his pipe down a crack in the rocks, and he said he would have it again if he broke his neck a getting it. So he slid down about twelve feet, and there was as nice a cave in the rock as you ever see. "There is a crack in the ground that goes down about twelve feet, and then you come onto the level, and can go a hundred feet before you come to the place where a lot of sand and stones has fell in. The cave has been lived in before, by robbers most likely, 'cause we found a lot of money and some guns and pistols there, of a kind that we never see before. I and my chum lived in this cave about three weeks, and then we started to go to the lake. "When we got to the top of the Indian road, I refused to go any farther, and when my chum made as if he were going to shoot me for being a coward, I give him a shove, and down he went into the gulf. He's there now, where nobody will ever find him; but his hant (ghost) comes back to me every day and night, and that's why I am going to jump into the lake--just to get away from that hant. Now I must tell you about the money. "There is twelve thousand in bills, and about three hundred in gold and silver. It is in a leather satchel in the bottom. It has a false plate on the bottom, put on with screws. And there you will find the money. I will and bequeath it to you and your heirs and assanees forever. I leave this in a wood-pile, and the one who draws the wood will find it. "The cave is about a quarter of a mile from the wood-pile, near a large hemlock tree. There is a rope that goes down into the cave, and it hangs under the roots of the tree. Look close or you can't find it. I leave a map of the route from the pile of wood to the cave in this letter. I hope the hant won't bother you while you are getting the money, as he has bothered me ever since I have been writing this letter. "JULIUS JONES." Words would fail us, were we to attempt to tell just how Silas felt after he had finished reading this interesting communication. He hoped it might be true--that there was a cave with a fortune in it which he could have for the finding of it--and consequently it was very easy for him to believe that it _was_ true; but there were one or two things that ought to have attracted his attention and aroused his suspicions at once. In the first place, there was the document itself. It was now the latter part of August, and if the letter was left in the wood-pile on the day it purported to be written, it had been exposed for eight long months to some of the most furious snow and rain storms that had ever visited that section of the country, and yet the writing looked fresh, and there was not a single wrinkle or even the suspicion of a stain upon the envelope. It could not have been cleaner if it had but just been taken out of the post office. Another thing, the writer would have found it an exceedingly difficult task to drown himself in the lake during the month of December, for he would have been obliged to cut through nearly two feet of ice in order to reach water. But the ferryman did not notice these little discrepancies. He gave his imagination full swing, and worked himself into such a state of excitement that his nerves were all unstrung; consequently, when hasty steps sounded outside the cabin, and Dan's heavy hand fumbled with the latch, it was all Silas could do to repress the cry of alarm that trembled on his lips as he sprang to his feet. Finding that the door was fastened on the inside, Dan came around the corner, and looked in at the window. "Say, pap," he whispered excitedly, "dog-gone my buttons, what did you go and lock yourself up for? Think somebody was about to steal all the gold dishes? Open up, quick! Here's a go--two of 'em." Although the ferryman heartily wished Dan a thousand miles away, he complied with this peremptory demand for admission, whereupon the boy stepped quickly across the threshold and locked the door behind him. "Say, pap," he continued, in a hurried whisper, "don't it beat the world how some folks can make money without ever trying? Now, there's that Joe of our'n. He don't never seem to do much of nothing but just loaf around in the woods with them city fellers that come up here to show their fine guns, and yet he's always got money. He takes mighty good care to keep it hid, too, 'cause I can't never find none of it." "Is that all you've got to say?" exclaimed Silas impatiently. "I know it as well as you do." "Well, it ain't all I've got to say, neither," replied Dan. "I've got a heap more, if you will only let me tell you. Old man Warren is out there talking with Joe now. You remember them blue-headed birds you killed for him last year, don't you?" "Them English partridges?" said Silas with a grin. "I ain't forgot 'em. Old man Warren offered me ten dollars a month if I wouldn't shoot over his grounds, 'cause he wanted them birds pertected till there were lots of 'em; but I wouldn't agree to nothing of the kind. He brung them birds from England on purpose to stock his covers with. They cost him six dollars a pair, and I made more'n forty dollars out of 'em. Well, what of it? I don't care for such trifling things any more." "Well," answered Dan, "he's gone and got more of them to take the place of them you shot--old man Warren has--a hundred pair of 'em--six hundred dollars worth, and--" "Ah! that makes it different," said Silas, rubbing his hands and looking up at his old muzzle-loader, which rested on a couple of wooden hooks over the door. "It's true that six hundred dollars ain't no great shakes of money to a man who--hum! But still I am obliged to old Warren. They won't bring me in no such sum as that, them birds won't, but they'll be worth a dollar a brace this season easy enough, and that'll pay me for the trouble I'll have in shooting them. Ain't I going to make a power of money this winter?" "No, you ain't," snapped Dan, who had made several ineffectual attempts to induce his father to stop talking and listen to him. "And you ain't by no means as smart as you think you be, neither." "What for?" demanded his father. "'Cause you keep jawing all the while and won't let me tell you. He's going to have them birds pertected, the old man is, and you can't shoot them loose and reckless like you did last winter." "_That_ for his pertection!" cried the ferryman, snapping his fingers in the air. "He can't do it, and I won't pay no heed to him if he tries it." "Then he'll have the law on you." "He can't do that, neither, 'cause there ain't no close season for English partridges. There's no such birds in this country known to the law. Besides, how is old man Warren going to tell whether it was me or some of them city sportsmen that shot 'em?" "He's going to post his land, and put a game-warden up there in the woods to watch them partridges," observed Dan. "What kind of a feller is that?" asked Silas. "Is it the same as a game-constable?" "Just the same, only the old man will pay him out of his own pocket, instead of looking to the county to pay him. He's going to have that there game-warden shoot every dog and 'rest every man who comes on to the grounds with a gun in his hands, if he don't go off when he's told to." "Well, I'd like to see him shoot one of my dogs, and I wouldn't go off, neither, less'n I felt like it," said Silas, doubling his huge fists and looking very savage indeed. "Do you know how much he is going to give him?" "Fifteen dollars a month from the first of September to the first of May," answered Dan, "and his grub is throwed in--the best kind of grub, too." "Well, that ain't so bad," said Silas, slowly. "Fifteen dollars a month and grub for eight months--that would be a hundred and twenty dollars, wouldn't it, Dannie? That's more'n I could make by shooting the birds. Is old man Warren out there now? If he is, I'll go and tell him that I'll take the job. You and Joe can run the ferry during the rest of the summer, and pocket all you can make. I don't care for such trifling things any more." "Whoop! Hold me on the ground, somebody!" yelled Dan, jumping up and knocking his heels together. This was the expression he always used and the performance he went through whenever he got mad and became possessed with an insane desire to smash things. "Now I'll just tell you what's a fact, pap," continued Dan, spreading out his feet, and settling his hat firmly on his head. "Me and Joe won't run the ferry, and neither will you get the chance to grow fat off good grub this winter, less'n you earn it yourself. Didn't I tell you the very first word I said that old man Warren had give the job to Joe?" "Not our Joe!" exclaimed Silas, who was fairly staggered by this unexpected piece of news. "Yes, our Joe--nobody else." "No, you didn't tell me that," replied his father. "Then it's 'cause you want to do all the talking yourself, and won't let me say a word," retorted Dan. "Yes, that Joe of our'n has got the job. He's going to have a nice house, with a carpet onto the floor, to live in, and the grub he'll have to eat will be just the same kind that old man Warren has onto his table at home. Just think of that, pap! You'll have to look around for some cheap boy to help you run the ferry from now till winter, 'cause I'm going up there to live with Joe, and help him keep an eye on them birds." "Dan!" shouted Mr. Morgan, pushing up his sleeves, and looking about the room as if he wanted to find some missile to throw at the boy's head--"Dan, for two cents I'd--" The ferryman suddenly paused, for he found he was talking to the empty air. When he began pushing up his sleeves, Dan jumped for the door, and now all that Silas could see of him was one of his eyes, which looked at him through a crack about half an inch wide. He noticed, however, that Dan held the hook in his hand, and that he was all ready to fasten the door on the outside in case his father showed a disposition to follow him. CHAPTER IV. HOBSON'S HOUSE. "And that ain't all I've got to tell you, neither," shouted Dan. "The road commissioners has come up here with some surveyors and a jury, and they're going to build a bridge across the river so's to bust up the ferrying business." Silas would have been glad to thrash the boy for bringing him so unwelcome news as this, and the only reason he did not attempt it was because he knew he could not catch him. He did not like the "ferrying business," for it was very confining, and, besides, there wasn't money enough in it to suit him; but still it enabled him to eke out his slender income, and the mere hint that the authorities were about to take away this source of revenue by building a bridge across the river at that point surprised and enraged him. "That's just the way the thing stands, pap," continued Dan, who looked upon his sire's exhibition of bewilderment and anger as a highly edifying spectacle. "If you think I am trying to make a fool of you, look out the winder." Silas looked, and a single glance was enough to satisfy him that there was something unusual going on outside the cabin. There were at least a score of men gathered about the flat, and among them Silas saw the town commissioner of highways. He could easily pick out the surveyor and his party, for the former held a tripod in his hand, and a queer-looking brass instrument under his arm, while one of his men carried a chain and the rest had axes on their shoulders. A few steps away from this party, and apparently not in the least interested in what they were saying or doing, were Mr. Warren and Joe Morgan, who were talking earnestly about something. Mr. Warren was the richest man in the country for miles around. He owned the hotel and most of the cottages at the beach; but he was seldom seen there, because he said he could find more rest and recreation in the woods, with his dog and gun for companions, than he could at a fashionable watering-place. The cabin which the Morgans occupied, rent free, belonged to him, and so did the ground on which it stood; and it was owing to his influence that Silas had been permitted to establish his ferry. But still Silas hated him, as he hated every one who was better off in the world than he was. A little distance farther away stood a solitary individual, who, if the expression of his countenance could be taken as an index to his feelings, was mad enough to do something desperate. He took the deepest interest in all that was going on before him, and indeed he had good reason for it. His livelihood depended upon what the commissioner and his jury of twelve disinterested freeholders might decide to do. A bridge at that particular place would ruin his occupation as effectually as it would break up the business of ferrying. "That's Hobson," said Silas, looking around for his hat. "I don't wonder that he's mad. What do they want to put a bridge across here for, anyway? Ain't there a good ferry right in front of the door, and can't we take care of them that wants to go back and forth?" "We can, but we don't," answered Dan. "When that horn toots, you never move till you get a good ready." "I know that," assented Silas. "I ain't hired myself out for a slave yet, and them that expect me to jump the minute a man who has got more money than I have chooses to call on me, will find themselves fooled. I have always run this ferry to suit Silas Morgan, and nobody else." "That there is just the p'int," observed Dan, sagely. "The way you run it may suit you, but it don't by no means suit the public. That's the reason they want a bridge here." "But there ain't no good road." "No, odds; they're going to build one out of the old log road, and make the distance from Bellville to the Beach shorter by five good long miles than it is now. They're going to tear t'other bridge down, and make all the travel come this way." "Why, that will shut Hobson out in the cold entirely," exclaimed the ferryman. "He'll have to quit keeping hotel." "That's just what old man Warren and them fellers down to the Beach wan't to do," said Dan. "I heared 'em say so. He always keeps a crowd of loafers around him, Hobson does, and there's so many shooting-matches going on in the grove behind his hotel, that it ain't safe for folks to drive past there with skittish horses. There's been five or six runaways along that road already." "That's only an excuse for shutting him up, Dannie," said the ferryman, with a knowing wink at his hopeful son. "Hobson keeps the Halfway House, and it's natural for folks who are going to and from the Beach to stop there to water their horses and get a bite of lunch. They spend money with Hobson that they would otherwise spend at the Beach, and that's why old man Warren wants that hotel closed. It's about time for poor people to rise up and pertect themselves, seeing that the law won't do nothing for them. I don't wonder Hobson looks mad." Having found his hat, Silas went out to exchange a few words of condolence with the man whose name he had just mentioned. He glanced at Joe's face as he passed, and the pleased expression he saw there was very different from the malevolent scowl with which he was welcomed by the proprietor of the Halfway House. The latter was quite as angry as he looked to be, and the first words he uttered as the ferryman came up were: "Now what I want to know is this: Are me and you obliged to stand here with our hands in our pockets, and see these rich men take the bread and butter out of the mouths of our families?" "They are going to do worse by me than they are by you," answered Silas. "I can't start again if they break up my ferry, but you can." "How, I'd like to know?" growled Hobson. "Why, all the land around here belongs to old man Warren. Folks say that he's a mighty kind-hearted chap, though I never saw any signs of it in him, and you might buy or rent a piece of land, and build another and better hotel. You have the money to do it, for you have made many a dollar over your bar during the last two years." "That's just what's the matter," cried Hobson, who became so angry when he thought of it that it was all he could do to restrain himself. "That's the reason old man Warren wants to shut me up--because he knows that I am making a little money. He won't sell or rent me a foot of land, for I tried him as soon as I found out that a new road was coming through here." "That's worse than I thought for," said the ferryman, in a sympathizing tone which was more assumed than real. Hobson's business interests were likely to suffer more severely than his own, and he was glad of it. "It is bad enough, I tell you," said the proprietor of the Halfway House. "But you can say to your folks that it is going to be a dear piece of business for old man Warren. If I don't damage him for more thousands than he does me for hundreds, it will not be because I don't try." "It looks mighty strange to me that he should go out of his way to be so scandalous mean to some, while he is so good to others," said Silas, reflectively. "I don't pertend to understand it. Here he is, robbing me of the onliest chance I had to make a living during the summer, and yet he's standing over there now, offering that Joe of our'n a chance to make a hundred and twenty dollars." "What doing?" inquired Hobson, who was paying more attention to the surveyor's movements than he was to Silas. "You remember them English pa'tridges he brought over here to stock his woods, the same year he built that big hotel down to the Beach, don't you?" asked Silas, in reply. "I should say I did," answered Hobson. "You shot the most of them, and I got the rest, all except the few that Dan managed to catch with his snares and that little black dog of his'n. I wish I could see him cleaned out of everything as slick as he was cleaned out of them birds." "Well, he's got a new supply of them, old man Warren has--six hundred dollars' worth." Hobson opened his eyes and began taking some interest in what the ferryman was saying to him. "I am powerful glad to hear it," said he. "If he won't let me keep hotel and support myself, he can just make up his mind that he's got to keep me in grub. I won't allow myself to go hungry while his covers are well stocked, I bet you. I'll earn a tolerable good living by shooting over his grounds this fall and winter." "But you will have more bother in doing it than you did last season," said Silas, who then went on to repeat what Dan had told him concerning the game-warden who was to live in Mr. Warren's woods, and devote his entire time and attention to keeping trespassers at a distance. This seemed a novel idea to Hobson, who finally said: "If that's the case, we'll have to go somewhere else to do our shooting." "What for?" demanded the ferryman, who was not a little surprised. "Do you think that that little Joe of our'n could 'rest us if we didn't want him to?" "Of course not; but he could report us, and the sheriff could arrest us," answered Hobson. Silas clenched both his fists and glared savagely at Joe, who was just then holding an animated colloquy with his brother Dan upon some point concerning which there was evidently a wide diversity of opinion. CHAPTER V. WHAT DAN OVERHEARD. "If I thought that Joe of our'n would be mean enough to carry tales on me and have me 'rested, I'd larrup him 'till his own mother wouldn't know him," declared Silas, who grew so angry at the mere mention of such a thing, that he wanted to catch up a stick and fall upon the boy at once. "And make the biggest kind of a fool of yourself by doing of it," said Hobson, calmly. "Look a-here, Silas, you want to keep away from old man Warren's woods this winter." "With them six hundred dollars' worth of birds running around loose and no law to pertect 'em?" cried the ferryman. "I'll show you whether I will or not. I tell you I'll have the last one of them before the winter's over. It is true that I don't care for such trifling things as the ferry any more, 'cause I've got a plan in my head that'll--hum! But I want to get even with old man Warren for breaking up my business, don't I?" "Of course you do; and the best way to do it is to make him give something toward your support. Joe ain't of age yet, and you can compel him to hand over every cent he earns." "That's so!" exclaimed the ferryman, who now began to see what his friend Hobson was aiming at. "That Joe of our'n makes right smart by acting as guide and pack-horse to the strangers who come here to shoot and fish; but I never thought to ask him for any of it. He always gives it to his mother." "Why don't you make him give it to you, and then you can spend it as you please?" said Hobson, hoping that the ferryman would act upon his advice, and so increase his wealth by the addition of Joe's hard earnings that he could squander more at the bar of the Halfway House than he was in the habit of doing. "The head of the family ought to have the handling of all the money that comes into the house--that's my creed." "And a very good creed it is, too," replied Silas, who told himself that he must be very stupid indeed not to have seen the matter in its true light long ago. "I'll turn over a new leaf this very day. Joe shall give me every cent of them hundred and twenty dollars, and I'll have what I can make out of them birds besides." "There you go again," said Hobson, in a tone of disgust. "You mustn't go to work the first thing and kill the goose that lays the golden egg. If you begin on the first day of September, when the pa'tridge season opens, and shoot all them birds, there won't be none left for Joe to watch; and then old man Warren will tell Joe that he don't need him any longer. See the point?" "I'd be stone blind if I couldn't see it," answered Silas, "and it makes me madder than I was before. Don't you understand that old Warren means to perfect them birds till they have increased to as many as a million, mebbe, and then he'll bring in a lot of his city friends and shoot 'em for fun--for fun, mind you--while poor folks like me and you, who need the money we could make out of 'em to buy grub and clothes--we'll be took up if we so much as set foot on t'other side his fences. Dog-gone such doings! 'Tain't right nor justice that it should be so, and I ain't going to stand it no longer. Thank goodness, I won't have to! I've got a plan in my head that'll--hum!" Hobson made no response. Indeed, he did not seem to hear what Silas said to him, for he was straining his ears to catch the conversation that was-carried on by Mr. Warren and the surveyor, who were now coming up the bank. He must have heard more than he wanted to, for, with an oath and a threat that made the ferryman's hair stand on end, Hobson hurried toward the place where he had left his horse. He mounted and rode away. Mr. Warren and the surveying party left a few minutes later, followed by the commissioner and his jury; and Silas turned about and walked slowly toward his cabin. He had not made many steps before he found himself confronted by his hopeful son Dan. "Well," said Silas, cheerfully, "we won't have to pull that heavy flat across the river many more days, and the next time you go over you can take your gun with you and put a charge of shot into that horn, if you feel like it. Hallo! What's the matter of you?" Dan's clenched hands were held close by his side, his black eyes were flashing dangerously, and he stood before his father, looking the very picture of rage and excitement. "Can't you speak, and tell me what's the matter of you?" demanded Silas, who could not remember when he had seen Dan in such a towering passion before. "I know it's mighty hard to give up the ferry just 'cause them rich folks down to the Beach have took it into their heads that they don't want one here, but we can make enough out of them birds of old man Warren's to--" Dan interrupted his father with a gesture of impatience, and snapped his fingers in the air. "I don't care _that_ for the ferry," he sputtered. "I am glad to see it go, for it has brung me more backaches than dimes, I tell you." "Well, then, what's the matter of you?" Silas once more inquired. "You'd best make that tongue of your'n more lively, if you want me to listen to you, 'cause I ain't got no time to waste. I'm going in to talk to that Joe of our'n about the job that old man Warren offered to give him." These words had a most surprising effect upon Dan. He bounded into the air like a rubber ball, knocked his heels together, and yelled loudly for somebody to hold him on the ground. "Of all the mean fellers in the world that I ever see, that Joe of our'n is the beatenest," said he, as soon as he could speak. "Now, pap, wait till I tell you, and see if you don't say so yourself." The ferryman, recalling some words that Dan let fall during their hurried interview in the cabin, told himself that he knew right where the trouble was; but he listened attentively to the story, which the angry boy related substantially as follows: While Dan was taking his ease on the bank, and Joe was hauling in the sweeps and making the flat secure, Mr. Warren came up, arriving on the ground five or ten minutes before the commissioner and the surveying party got there. He hitched his horse to the nearest tree, walked down the bank, and greeted Joe with a hearty good-morning, paying no attention to Dan, who was so highly enraged at this oversight or willful neglect on the part of the wealthy visitor, that he shook his fist at him as soon as he turned his back. He was not long in finding out what brought Mr. Warren there, for he distinctly overheard every word that passed between him and Joe. As he listened, the expression of rage that had settled on his face gradually gave place to a look of surprise and delight; and finally Dan became wonderfully good-natured, and showed it by rubbing his hands together, grinning broadly, and winking at the trees on the opposite bank of the river. "Well, Joseph," said Mr. Warren, cheerfully, "going to school next term?" "I am afraid I can't," replied Joe, sadly. "I don't see how I can afford it. Mother needs every cent I can give her. I must work every day, and shall be glad to cut some wood for you, if you will give me the chance." "Then you can cut it by yourself, I bet you," muttered Dan. "I won't help you; I'd rather hunt and trap." "I shall need a good supply of wood," said Mr. Warren, "but I thought of giving your father and Dan a chance at that." "Thank-ee for nothing," said Dan, under his breath. "Pap can take the job if he wants to, but I won't tech it. I am getting tired of doing such hard work, and am on the lookout for something easy." "I think I have better work for you, Joe," continued the visitor; whereupon Dan, who had thrown himself at full length on the bank, straightened up and began listening with more eagerness. "It is something that will take up every moment of your time during the day, and if you do your duty faithfully, you will find the work quite as hard and wearisome as chopping wood, and more confining; but you will have your evenings to yourself, and abundant opportunity to do as much reading and studying as you please. You know that one of our greatest men, Martin Van Buren, laid the foundation of his knowledge by studying by the light of a pine-knot on the hearth after his day's work was over. But you will not have to do that. I will give you a warm, comfortable house to live in, supply your table from my own, lend you books from my library, and furnish you with a lamp to read and study by. If you lay up a little information on some useful subject every day, you will have quite a store on hand by the time winter is over." "What sort of a job is that, do you reckon?" said Dan to himself. "It's a soft thing, so far as the perviding goes, but what's the work? that's the p'int." It must have been the very question Joe was revolving in his mind, for when Mr. Warren ceased speaking, he asked: "What will you expect me to do in return for all this?" "I am coming to that," answered the visitor, moving a step or two nearer to Joe, while Dan leaned as far forward as he could, stretched out his long neck and placed one hand behind his ear, so that he might catch every word. "You know that I have about six thousand acres of woodland, which is so utterly worthless that no man, who had his senses about him, would take it as a gift if he had to clear and cultivate it. It isn't even good enough for pasture; but it was a tolerably fair shooting-ground until I was foolish enough to build that hotel down there at the Beach. That brought in a crowd of city sportsmen, and between them and the resident market-shooters, the game, both large and small, has been pretty well cleaned out." "Well, what of it," muttered Dan. "If I know anything about such matters, them deer and birds and rabbits belonged to us poor folks as much as they did to you." "I like to shoot occasionally," Mr. Warren went on, "but the last time I went up there with a party of friends, we did not get enough to pay us for the tramp we took; so two years ago I went to considerable expense to restock those woods, and even offered to pay the market-shooters if they would let the birds alone until they had time to increase. But they wouldn't do it, and the consequence was that the English partridges and quails that cost me six dollars a pair were served up on somebody's dinner-table." "Six dollars a pair!" whispered Dan, who could hardly believe that he had heard aright. "Pap didn't by no means get that much for them he shot. It's nice to be rich." "My experience with those birds," continued Mr. Warren, "proved to my satisfaction that they are hardy and able to endure our severe winters. So I determined to try it again, and day before yesterday I turned down a hundred pairs of English partridges and quails--six hundred dollars' worth." Dan was almost ready to jump from the ground when he heard this, and it was all he could do to refrain from giving audible expression to his delight. CHAPTER VI. THE YOUNG GAME-WARDEN. "Whoop-pee!" was Dan's mental exclamation. "I've struck a banana. Me and pap I'll get rich the first thing you know. But what makes old man Warren come here to tell us about it?" "I certainly hope you will be able to preserve them this time," said Joe, who could not see what these expensive birds had to do with the comfortable home, the unlimited supply of books, and the good living, of which his visitor had spoken. "It would be a great pity to lose them after going to so much trouble and paying out so much money for them." "That's what I think, and it is what Mr. Hallet thinks, also. You know his wood-lot adjoins mine--there is no fence between them--and he has turned down the same number." The eavesdropper fairly gasped for breath when he heard this; but quickly recovering from his amazement, he raised his hands before his face, with all the fingers spread out, and began a little problem in arithmetic. "That makes--makes--le' me see! By Moses it makes twelve--twelve hundred dollars' worth of birds. I'm going to sell that old muzzle-loader of mine the first good chance I get, and buy a breech-loader, and one of them j'inted fish-poles, and some of them fine hunting clothes, and--whoop-pee! I've struck two bananas; and I'll look as spick and span as the best of them city sportsmen by this time next year. But look a-here, a minute, Dan," he added, to himself, confidentially, "Don't you say a word to pap about them birds that's been turned loose on Hallet's place. Them's your'n, and you don't go halvers with no living person." "The difficulty in preserving them lies right here," said Mr. Warren. "Our native birds are protected by law during certain months in the year, but the law doesn't say a word about imported game. If I catch a man shooting over my grounds in the close season, I can have him arrested and fined; but he could shoot these English birds before my face, and I could not help myself. We hope some day to induce the Legislature to pass a law protecting imported as well as native game; but until we can do that, we must protect it ourselves to the best of our ability. We have men at work now posting our land, and hereafter any one who sets a foot over my fence or Hallet's will be liable for trespass. "I reckon you'll have to catch him before you can prove anything agin him, won't you?" soliloquized Dan. "But why don't he tell that Joe of our'n what he wants of him?" "Of course, Mr. Hallet and myself have enough to do without spending valuable time in watching these birds," added the visitor, "and so we have decided to employ game-wardens to do it for us. There will be two wardens, one for each place, and we shall pay them out of our own pockets. I have selected you because I believe you to be honest and faithful, and I know that you are ambitious to better your condition. I am always on the lookout for such boys, and when I find one I like to give him a helping hand." "Then it's mighty strange that you never diskivered me," said Dan, to himself. "If there's anybody in the world who wants awful bad to be something better'n the ragged vagabone he is, I am that feller. Dog-gone such luck as I do have, any way! Why didn't he offer that soft job to me, instead of giving it to that Joe of our'n? I am older'n he is, and it would be the properest thing for me to have the first chance." "It is worth something to live up there in the woods alone for eight months--from the first of September to the last of April--but your surroundings will be as pleasant as they can be made under the circumstances. In the first place, there is a tight log-house, with a carpet on the floor, and a lean-to behind it to serve as a wood-shed. You know that the fierce winter winds drive the snow into pretty deep drifts up there in the mountains, and if you are as provident as I think you are, you will keep that shed full. You don't want to turn out of a stormy morning, when the mercury is below zero, to cut fire-wood, when you ought to be scattering grain around for the birds to eat. There is plenty of furniture in the cabin, and all the dishes you will be likely to need. I have spent a good many months in camp, first and last, and being posted, I don't think I have forgotten anything. Your pay, which you can have as often as you want it, will be fifteen dollars a month," said Mr. Warren in conclusion. "That is as much as farm-hands command hereabout, and you will be much better off than a woodchopper, because you will be earning money all the while, no matter how bad the weather may be. What do you say?" Dan listened with all his ears to catch his brother's reply, but, to his great surprise, Joe did not make any reply. "What's the fool studying about, do you reckon?" was the inquiry which Dan propounded to himself. "Why don't he speak up and say he'll take it? If he does, me and pap will have easy times with them birds, 'cause of course Joe wouldn't be mean enough to pester us. But if he don't take it, and old man Warren gets somebody else for game-warden, then the case will be different, and me and pap will have to watch out." "You don't say anything, Joe," continued Mr. Warren, seeing that the boy hesitated and hung his head. "If you must work during the coming winter instead of going to school, I don't think you can find any employment that will be more to your liking." "I know I couldn't, sir," replied Joe, quickly; "but that isn't what I am thinking about. The fact is--you see--" The boy paused and looked down at the ground again. He knew that his own father was more to blame than any one else for the loss of the birds that had been "turned down" in Mr. Warren's wood-lot two years before, and it was not quite clear to Joe how his wealthy visitor could have so much confidence in him. Why should he wish to employ the son of the man who had robbed him, to keep trespassers off his grounds, and exercise supervision over the new supply of game he had just purchased? And there was another thing that came into his mind: Silas Morgan and Dan were two of the most notorious poachers in the county, and Joe knew that when the grouse season opened, they would be the very first to shoulder their guns, call their dogs to heel and start for Mr. Warren's woods. If he accepted the position offered him, it would be his duty to order them off. They wouldn't go, of course, and the next thing would be to report them to Mr. Warren, who, beyond a doubt, would have warrants issued for their arrest. That would be bad indeed, Joe told himself; but would it cause him any more sorrow than he felt whenever he saw his mother setting out on one of those long fatiguing walks to the house of a neighbor, where she earned the pitiful sum of a dollar by doing a hard day's work at washing or scrubbing? The money he could give her every month would save her all that, and provide her with many things that were necessary to her comfort. When Joe thought of his mother, his hesitation vanished. "I'll take it, Mr. Warren," said he, with an air of resolution, "and I am very grateful indeed to you for offering it to me. Now, will you tell me when you want me to go up there, and just what you expect me to?" To Dan's great disappointment and disgust, Mr. Warren took Joe by the arm, and led him away out of earshot; but he heard him say something about shooting all the stray dogs that came into the woods, because they would do more damage among the few deer that were left, than so many wolves, and that was all he learned that day regarding Joe's instructions. "Luck has come my way at last!" exclaimed Dan, who, for some reason or other seemed to be highly excited. "I can't hardly hold myself on the ground. I'll go down to old man Hallet's this very minute, and tell him that if he's needing a game-warden, I'm the chap he's waiting for. Then mebbe I won't have a nice little house all to myself, and good grub to grow fat on, as well as that Joe of our'n. I won't do no shooting, 'cause that would make too much noise, and give me away to old man Hallet; but I'll do a heap of trapping and snaring, I bet you. Hallo! who's them fellers?" Dan had just caught sight of a large party of men, who were coming along the road which led from the ferry to the Beach. Believing that they were about to cross the river, and that there was another hard pull in prospect with no money (for him) behind it, Dan was about to take to his heels, when some words that came to his ears arrested his footsteps. The new-comers were the road commissioner and his party. They did not look toward Dan at all, and neither did they take the least pains to conceal the object of their visit from him. "This is the place for the new bridge," said the surveyor. "It will cost the town a good deal less money to fix up the old log road in good shape, than it will to cut out and grade a new highway." "And when the bridge is up, we shall be well rid of two nuisances--Hobson's grog-shop and Morgan's ferry, neither of which ought to have been tolerated as long as they have been," remarked one of the twelve freeholders, who had been summoned by the commissioner to determine where the bridge and the new road should be located. "When the other bridge is demolished, and the lower road shut up, the travel will have to come this way." When Dan heard this, he felt like throwing his hat into the air. He hated the tooting of that horn, which was kept hung up on the limb of a tree on the other side of the river, as he hated no other sound in the world; and he was glad to know that he would soon hear it for the last time. He did not make any demonstrations of delight, however, but stole silently away to carry the news to his father. Joe's good fortune, and his own bright dreams of becoming Mr. Hallet's game-warden, at fifteen dollars a month, and the best kind of food thrown in, were uppermost in his mind, and they were the first things he intended to speak about when his father admitted him into the cabin; but he was so long in coming to the point that Silas grew impatient, and did not give him an opportunity to mention his own affairs at all. "No matter; they'll keep," thought the boy, as the ferryman put on his hat and went out to talk to Hobson. "Now I wish old Warren would hurry up and go about his business, so't I can find out what 'rangements he's made with that Joe of our'n." Dan had not long to wait. Even while he was communing with himself in this way, Mr. Warren took his leave, first shaking Joe warmly by the hand, and Dan lost no time in stepping to his brother's side. CHAPTER VII. BROTHERLY LOVE. "I don't wonder that you look like you was half tickled to death," was the way in which Dan began the conversation with his brother. "Did you ever dream that me and you would have such amazing good luck as has come to us this day? Now, let me tell you, it bangs me completely. Don't it you?" Joe did not know how to reply to this. He had seldom seen Dan in so high spirits, and he could not imagine what he was referring to when he spoke of the good luck that had fallen to both of them. "Say--don't it bang you?" repeated Dan. "Ain't me and you going to live like the richest of them this winter?" "You and I?" said Joe, with no suspicion of the truth in his mind. "That's what I remarked," exclaimed Dan, who could hardly keep from dancing in the excess of his joy. "I tell you, Joe," he added, confidentially, "if there's anything in life I take pleasure in, it's living in the woods during the winter, when you've got a tight roof to shelter you and plenty of firewood to burn, so't you don't have to go through the deep snow to cut it. That's what I call living, that is." "I don't see how you happen to know so much about it. You never tried it." "I know I never did; but didn't I tell you almost the very first word I said, that I'm going to try it this winter?" "Oh!" said Joe, who now thought he began to understand the matter. "Are you going to be Mr. Hallet's game-warden?" "Perzackly. You've hit centre the first time trying." "Then I wonder why Mr. Warren did not say something to me about it." And there was still another thing that caused Joe to wonder, although he made no reference to it. How did it come that Mr. Hallet, who knew how persistently Dan broke the law in regard to snaring birds and hares, and shooting out of season--how did it come that he had selected this poacher to act as his game-warden? He might as well have hired a wolf to watch his sheep. "Now wait till I tell you," said Dan hastily. "The thing ain't quite settled yet, 'cause I ain't had no time to run down and see old man Hallet; but--" "Aha!" exclaimed Joe. "There ain't no 'aha' about it," cried Dan, who was angry in an instant. "Wait till I tell you. I ain't been down to see old man Hallet yet, but I'm going directly, and I'm going to say to him that if he wants somebody to keep an eye on them birds of his'n, I'm the man he's looking for. He'll be glad to take me, of course, 'cause if there's any one in the whole country who knows all about a game-warden's business, its me. But if he can't take me--if he has picked out another man before I get a chance to speak to him--me and you will go halvers on them hundred and twenty, won't we?" "No, we won't," replied Joe, promptly. "What for, won't we?" demanded Dan. "For a good many reasons. In the first place, Mr. Warren seems to think that he needs but one warden, and that I can do all the work myself." "Well, you can't, and you shan't, neither," Dan almost shouted. And in order to show his brother how very much in earnest he was about it, he struck up a war-dance, and called loudly for somebody to hold him on the ground. "And in the next place," continued Joe, who had witnessed these ebullitions of rage often enough to know that they never ended in anything more serious than an unnecessary expenditure of breath and strength on Dan's part--"in the next place, every cent I make this winter will go to mother, with the exception of the little I shall need to clothe myself." "I'll bet you a good hoss that it don't," roared Dan, who was so angry that it was all he could do to keep from laying violent hands upon his brother. "Now let me tell you what's the gospel truth, Joe Morgan: If you don't go pardners with me in this business, I'll bust up the whole thing. If I don't get half them hundred and twenty dollars, you shan't have a cent to bless yourself with. I've been kicked and slammed around till I am tired of it, and I ain't going to ask my consent to stand it no longer." "If you want money, go to work and earn it for yourself," said Joe. "You can't have any of mine." "I'll show you whether I will or not. Now, let me tell you: I'll make more out of them birds this winter than you will. You're awful smart, but you'll find that there are them in the world that are just as smart as you be." "I know what you mean by that," answered Joe, who had fully made up his mind to see trouble with Dan. "Now let me tell _you_ something: If I catch you on Mr. Warren's grounds after I take charge of them, you will wish you had stayed away, mind that. I took this position because mother needs money, and having accepted it, I shall look out for my employer's interests the best I know how. But why do you go against me in this way? You ought to help me all you can." "Then why don't you help me?" retorted Dan. "You don't need it. You are able to help yourself, because you have no one else to look out for." "Then I won't help you, neither. You want to keep a close watch over that shanty of your'n, or the first thing you know, you will come back to it some dark, cold night, almost froze to death, and it won't be there." Joe walked off without making any reply, and Dan stood shaking his fists at him until he disappeared. Then he turned about to find himself face to face with his father, to whom he told his story, not forgetting to make a few artful additions, which he hoped would have the effect of making the ferryman as angry at Joe as he was himself. A disinterested listener would have thought that Joe was the meanest brother any fellow ever had, and that Dan was deserving of better treatment at his hands. "Now, I just want you to tell me what you think of that," said Dan, as he brought his highly-seasoned narrative to a close. "He's a most scandalous stingy chap, that Joe of our'n is. He wants to keep his good things all to himself. And--would you believe it, pap, if I didn't tell you?--he said he would as soon shoot your dog or mine as look at 'em, and that if we come fooling around where he was, he'd have us tooken up, sure pop." Silas Morgan's eyes flashed, and an angry scowl settled on his swarthy face. Dan was succeeding famously in his efforts to arouse his father's ire against the unoffending Joe--at least he thought so--and he hoped to increase it until it broke out into some violent demonstration. "Them's his very words, pap," continued Dan, with unblushing mendacity. "Since he took up with that rich man awhile ago, he has outgrowed his clothes, and me and you ain't good enough for him. Me and Joe could have had just the nicest kind of times up there in the woods, and by doing a little extry work on the sly, we could have snared enough of old man Warren's birds, and Hal--um!" Dan caught his breath just in time. He was about to say that he and Joe could have snared enough of Mr. Warren's birds and Hallet's to run the amount of their joint earnings up to two hundred dollars; but he suddenly remembered that his father was not yet aware that Mr. Hallet's covers had been freshly stocked, and that _that_ was a matter that was to be kept from his knowledge, so that Dan could have the field to himself. But the ferryman was quick to catch some things, if he was dull in comprehending others, and Dan had inadvertently given him an idea to ponder over at his leisure. "But then I don't care for such trifling things as birds any more," said Silas to himself. "If Hallet has been fooling away his money for more pa'tridges, Dan can have the fun of shooting 'em, if he wants it; and while he is tramping around through the cold looking for 'em, I'll be snug and warm at home, living like a lord on the money I took out of that cave up there in the mountings. What was you saying, Dannie?" "I said that me and Joe could have made right smart by doing a little trapping on the quiet," answered Dan. "But he wouldn't hear to my going up there to live with him. What's grub enough for one is grub enough for two, and I could have had piles of things that come from old man Warren's table, and never cost you a red cent the whole winter. More than that, being on the ground all the while, it wouldn't be no trouble at all for me to knock over one of them deer now and then, and that would save you from buying so much bacon; but that mean Joe of our'n he wouldn't hear to it, and now I'm going to knock all his 'rangements higher'n the moon." "What be you going to do, Dannie?" Silas asked, in a voice so calm and steady that the boy backed off a step or two and looked at him suspiciously. Was his father about to side with Joe? Dan was really afraid of it, and his voice did not have that resolute ring in it when he answered: "I'm going to set some snares up there where Joe won't never think of looking for them, and by the time Christmas gets here I'll have every one of them English birds in the market and sold for cash." The ferryman thrust one hand deep into his pocket, and shook the other menacingly at Dan. "Look a-here, son," said he, in a tone which he never assumed unless he meant that his words should carry weight with them, "you just keep away from old man Warren's woods, and let them English birds be. Are you listening to your pap?" "What for?" Dan almost gasped. "'Cause why; that's what for," was the not very satisfactory answer. "You want to pay right smart heed to what I'm saying to you, 'cause if you don't, I'll wear a hickory out over your back, big as you think you be." "Well, if this ain't a trifle the beatenest thing I ever heard of, I don't want a cent," began Dan, who was utterly amazed. "Do you want them--that rich feller to have all the fine shooting to himself?" "That ain't what I'm thinking about just now," replied the ferryman. "I want Joe to earn them hundred and twenty dollars; see the p'int?" "Not all of it?" exclaimed Dan. "Yes, every cent." "Can't I make him go pardners with me?" "No, you can't. I want Joe to have the handling of it all." "Then you won't never see none of it; you can bet high on that." "Yes, I reckon I'll see the whole of it. You and Joe ain't twenty-one year old yet, and the law gives me the right to take every cent you make." For a moment Dan stood speechless with rage and astonishment; but quickly recovering the use of his tongue, he squared himself for a fight, and demanded furiously: "And is that the reason you never give me a red for breaking my back with that ferry? Whoop! hold me on the ground, somebody!" "If I had a good hickory in my hands, I reckon I could very soon make you willing to hold yourself on the ground," said his father, calmly. "Whoop!" yelled Dan, jumping into the air, and knocking his heels together. "This bangs me; don't it you? The men who was here just now said you was one nuisance, and Hobson was another; and I am so glad that the business is clean busted up, that--" Silas suddenly thrust out one of his long arms, but his fingers closed upon the empty air instead of upon Dan's collar. The boy escaped his grasp by ducking his head like a flash, and then he straightened up and took to his heels. CHAPTER VIII. JOE'S PLANS IN DANGER. Silas Morgan made no attempt at pursuit, for he had learned by experience that he could not hold his own with Dan in a foot-race; but he knew how to bide his time. "Never mind, son," he shouted. "I'll catch you to-night after you have gone to bed." "These threatening words arrested Dan's headlong flight, and he stopped to shout back: "You just lay an ugly hand onto me, and it'll be worse for you and them setter dogs that you've got shut up in the wood-shed. I know well enough that nobody ever give 'em to you, and that that man with the long black whiskers who was here last year would be willing to give something handsome--" The ferryman couldn't stand it any longer, for the boy was getting too near the truth to suit him. He began looking about on the ground for something to throw at him; whereupon Dan turned and took to his heels again, and quickly disappeared around the corner of the cabin. "I wish that black-whiskered man had them setter dogs, and that I was shet of them," muttered Silas, as he walked slowly up the bank. "I did think that mebbe I could get a big reward for giving them back; but I don't care for such things now. The money that's hid in the cave is what I'm thinking of these times." The ferryman was left to his own devices for the rest of the day; for Joe, highly elated over his unexpected fortune, had gone to meet his mother, so that he might tell her the good news without being overheard by any of the rest of the family, and Dan was on his way to Mr. Hallet's to offer him his services as game-warden. But Silas was glad to be alone at this particular time, for he had something mysterious and exciting to think about--a cave in the mountains that had an abundance of treasure in it. He had long looked forward to something of this sort, for he had often dreamed about it; and when he read in a torn newspaper, which came from the store wrapped around one of his wife's bundles, that some workmen, while digging for the foundations of a public building in a distant city, had come upon an earthen jar that was filled to the brim with American and Mexican coins of ancient date--when he read this, Silas took it as an omen that his bright dreams of acquiring wealth without labor were on the eve of being realized. The man's first care was to let out the dogs and unhitch the horse from the wood-rack, and his second to hunt up a shady spot on the bank and look for the letter which he had stowed away in his pocket. But it was not to be found. The ferryman's clothes, like all the other things that belonged to him, were sadly in need of repairs, and when he went to shut up the dogs, the letter had worked its way through his pocket, down the leg of his trowsers, and fallen to the ground in front of the wood-shed door, where it lay until Dan came along and picked it up. Meanwhile Joe was strolling leisurely along the road in the direction from which he knew his mother would come, when her day's work was over. "She will be glad to learn that she has done her last washing and scrubbing for other folks," the boy kept saying to himself. "When winter comes, and the roads are blocked with drifts, she can sit down in front of a warm fire and stay there, instead of wading through the deep snow to earn a dollar. I am in a position to take care of her now, and I could do it easy enough if father and Dan would only let me alone. They call me stingy because I will not share my hard earnings with them; but they never think of sharing with me, nor did I ever see one of them give mother anything. On the contrary, if they know that she's got a dime or two saved up for a rainy day, they never give her a minute's peace till they get it for themselves. Now, is there any way I can work it so that mother can have everything she wants, and yet be able to say that she hasn't got a cent in the house?" While Joe was revolving this problem in his mind, he heard a familiar bark behind him, and faced about to see his brother Dan approaching on a dog-trot. He was followed by the only friend and companion he had in the world--a little black cur, which no self-respecting boy would have accepted as a gift. But mean and insignificant as he looked, Bony was of great use to his master. He was the best coon, grouse and squirrel dog in the country for miles around, and it was by his aid that Dan earned money to buy his clothes and ammunition. Bony got more kicks than caresses in return for his services, but that did not seem to lessen his affection for Dan. "I allowed that I knew where you was gone, and that I'd come up with you directly," said the latter, as soon as he arrived within speaking distance. "Say, Joe, have you thought over that little plan of mine?" Joe replied that he had not. "Then, why don't you think it over?" continued Dan. "Of course, I don't expect you to go pardners with me for nothing. I've got my consent to do all I can to help you. I'll even agree to cut the wood, cook the grub, keep the shanty in order, and do all the rest of the mean work, while you are taking your ease or looking after the birds. All you've got to do is to say the word, and me and you will have the finest kind of times this winter." But Joe didn't say the word. In fact, he did not say anything, and, of course, his silence made Dan angry again. The latter was bound to handle at least a portion of his brother's wages, and he did not care what course he took to accomplish his object. "You ain't forgot what I told you awhile back, I reckon, have you?" said Dan, with suppressed fury. "No, I haven't forgotten it. I can recall everything you said to me." "Then, why don't you pay some heed to it? Do you want to see your business busted up? Look a here, Joe Morgan: You say you are going to give all that there money to mam. If you do, I'll have some of it in spite of you. I'll tell mam that I want my share, and she'll hand it over without no words, 'cause she knows well enough that I'll turn the house out doors if she don't do as I say. She's heard me calling for somebody to hold me on the ground, and she don't like to see me that way, 'cause she knows I'm mad." "I know that you have worried a good deal of money out of mother, first and last," said Joe, angrily, "but you needn't think you can frighten her into giving you any of mine, because she won't have any." "You stingy, good-for-nothing scamp! you're going back on your mam, are you?" shouted Dan, who could scarcely believe that he was not dreaming. "I never thought that of you. You're going to have the softest kind of a job all winter, and make stacks and piles of money, and never give a cent of it to mam, be you?" "Mother will have everything she wants, but still she will not touch a cent of my earnings," answered Joe, calmly. "Whoop! Hold me on the ground, somebody!" yelled Dan, striking up his war dance. "Then how'll mam get the things she wants?" "On a written order, and in no other way." "Who'll give that there order?" "Mr. Warren, whom I shall ask to act as my banker. I've got to do something to keep you from bothering the life out of mother, and that is what I have decided upon." "Whoop!" shouted Dan again. "Pap won't agree to no such bargain as that there, I bet you, and neither will I." "What has father got to say about my business?" "He's got a good deal to say about it, the first thing you know," answered Dan, with a triumphant air. His only object in hastening on to overtake his brother was that he might torment him by calling his attention to a point of law that Joe had never thought of before. "You ain't twenty-one year old yet, my fine feller, and pap's got the right to make you hand over every red cent you earn. He told me so; and he furder said that he was going to take the last dollar of them hundred and twenty that you are going to make this winter. So there, now. I told you that there was them in the world that's just as smart as you think you be, and me and pap are the fellers. He's a mighty hard old chap to get the better of, pap is, and so be I. You can't do it nohow you fix it." It looked that way, sure enough, thought Joe, who was greatly surprised and bewildered. He knew very well that his father could take his earnings, if he were mean enough to do it, but, as we have said, the matter had never been brought home to him before. He had always given his money to his mother, and Silas had never raised any objection to it. The reason was because he did not think of it, and besides, the amounts were too small to do him any good; they were not worth the rumpus which the ferryman knew would be raised about his ears if he interfered and tried to turn Joe's earnings into his own pocket. But things were different now. The young game-warden's prospective wages amounted to a goodly sum in the aggregate, and Silas was resolved to "turn over a new leaf," and assert his authority as head of the house. Joe, on the other hand, was fully determined that his mother alone should profit by his winter's work, and as he was a resolute fellow, and as fearless as a boy could be, it was hard to tell how the matter was destined to end. But there was trouble in store for him; there could be no doubt about that. "What do you say now?" asked Dan, who had little difficulty in reading the thoughts that were passing through his brother's mind, they showed so plainly on his face. "You're thinking of kicking agin me and pap, but I tell you that you'd best not do it. Will you be sensible and go pardners, or have your business busted up?" "Neither," answered Joe, turning so fiercely upon his persecutor that the latter recoiled a step or two. "Now, if you don't let me alone, I will go to Mr. Warren and see if he can find means to make you." "Sho!" said Dan, with a grin, "you don't mean it?" "Yes, I do. It may surprise you to know that you have put yourself in danger of being locked up." "Not much, I ain't," said Dan, confidently. "I ain't done a single thing yet." "But you have made threats, and Mr. Warren could have you put under bonds." "He'd have lots of fun trying that," replied Dan, who laughed loudly at the idea of such a thing. "Why, man, I ain't got none." "Of course you haven't, and you couldn't furnish them either, so you would have to go to jail." "Great Moses!" Dan managed to ejaculate. There was no grin on his face now, nor even the sign of one. He was astonished as well as frightened. It had never occurred to him that his brother could invoke the law to protect him, but he saw it plainly enough now, and he knew by the way Joe looked at him that he had been crowded just about as far as he intended to go. When the latter moved on down the road, Dan made no attempt to stop him. He backed toward a log, sat down on it, and kept his eyes fastened upon Joe until a bend in the road hid him from view. CHAPTER IX. VOLUNTEERS. "I don't know what answer to make you, boys. I have no desire to interfere with your pleasures, and I think you have always found me ready to listen to any reasonable proposition; but this latest scheme of yours looks to me to be a little--you know. I don't believe that Bob's father will consent to it." "Suppose you give your consent, and then we will see what we can do with Bob's father. If we can say that you are willing, he'll come to terms without any coaxing." "I don't see what objection there can be to it. We can't get into mischief up there in the mountains, and we'll promise to study hard every spare minute we get. There!" "And be fully prepared to go on with our class when the spring term begins. Now!" The first speaker was Mr. Hallet, who leaned back in his easy-chair and twirled his eye-glasses around his finger, while he looked at the two uneasy, mischief-loving boys who stood before him. Tom Hallet was his nephew and ward, and Bob Emerson was the son of an old school-friend who lived in Bellville, ten miles away. Bob, who was a fine, manly fellow, was a great favorite with both uncle and nephew, and had a standing invitation to spend all his vacations with them at their comfortable home among the Summerdale hills. To quote from Bob, Mr. Hallet's house was eminently a place for a tired school-boy to get away to. The fishing in the lake, and in the clear, dancing streams that emptied into it, was fine; young squirrels were always abundant after the first of August; and when September came, the law was "off" on grouse, wild turkeys and deer. Hares and 'coons were plenty, and Tom's little beagle knew right where to go to find them. Better than all, according to the boys' way of thinking, Mr. Hallet was a jolly old bachelor, who thoroughly enjoyed life in a quiet way, and who meant that every one around him should do the same. Taking all these things into consideration, it was little wonder that Bob Emerson looked forward to his yearly "outings" with the liveliest anticipations of pleasure. The Summerdale hills, in days gone by, had been a hunter's paradise; but, sad to relate, their glory was fast passing away, like that of many another place which had once been noted for the abundance of its game and fish. Mr. Warren, to use his own language, had been foolish enough to build a hotel at the Beach, and to connect it with Bellville by a stage route. This brought an influx of strangers, some of whom called themselves sportsmen, who did more to depopulate the woods and streams than Silas Morgan, Hobson, and a few others of that ilk, could have accomplished in a year's steady shooting and angling. Their advent gave rise to a class of men who had never before been known in that region--to wit, guides. There were some good and honest ones among them, of course; but, as a rule, they were a shiftless, lawless class--men who lived from hand to mouth, and who looked upon game laws as so many infringements of their rights, which were to be defied and resisted in any way they could think of. Up to the time the hotel was built, these men lived in utter ignorance of the fact that there were laws in force which prohibited hunting and fishing at certain seasons of the year; but one year the District Game Protector came up on the stage to look into things, and when he went back to Bellville he took with him a guide and his employer, whom he had caught in the act of shooting deer, when the law said that they should not be molested. This unexpected interference with their bread and butter astonished and enraged the rest of the guides, who at once held an indignation meeting, and resolved that they would not submit to any such outrageous things as game laws, in the making of which their opinions and desires had not been consulted. They boldly declared that they would continue to hunt and fish whenever they felt like it, and any officer who came to the hills to stop them would be likely to get himself into business. A few of the residents, including Mr. Warren and Mr. Hallet, had tried hard to bring about a better state of things. They had gone to the expense of restocking their almost tenantless woods, and had been untiring in their efforts to have every poacher and law-breaker arrested and punished for his misdeeds; but all they had succeeded in doing thus far was to call down upon their heads the hearty maledictions of the whole ruffianly crew, who owed them a grudge and only awaited a favorable opportunity to pay it. This was the way things stood on the morning that Tom Hallet, accompanied by his friend Bob, presented himself before his uncle, with the request that he would permit them to keep an eye on his English partridges and quails during the ensuing winter--in other words, that he would empower them to act as his game-wardens. Mr. Hallet was not at all surprised, for the boys had sprung so many "hare-brained schemes" on him, that he was ready for anything; but still he took a few minutes in which to consider the proposition before he made them any reply. "What in the world put that notion into your heads, anyway?" said Mr. Hallet, continuing the conversation which we have so unceremoniously interrupted. "Is it simply an excuse to get out of school for the winter?" The boys indignantly denied that they had any idea of such a thing. They liked their school and everything connected with it; but they thought it would be fun to spend a few months in the woods. And since Uncle Hallet would have to employ somebody to act as game-warden, or run the risk of having all his costly birds killed by trespassers, why couldn't he employ them as well as any one else? "Well, you two do think up the queerest ways for having fun that I even heard of," said Mr. Hallet. "I know something about camp-life, and you don't; and I tell you--" "Why, Uncle," exclaimed Tom, "haven't we already spent a whole week in camp since Bob came up here?" "A whole week!" repeated Mr. Hallet. "Yes, and it tired you out, and you were glad enough to get home. I know that 'camping out' looks very well on paper, but I tell you that it is the hardest kind of work, even for a lazy person, to say nothing of a couple of uneasy youngsters, who can't keep still for five minutes at a time to save their lives. Besides, how do I know that you wouldn't shoot some of my blue-headed birds, as Morgan calls them?" "Don't you suppose that we know a ruffed grouse from an English partridge or quail?" demanded Tom. "We are not so liable to make mistakes in that regard as others might be. Who is Mr. Warren going to hire for his warden?" "I believe he has gone up to Morgan's to-day to speak to Joe about it." "I don't know how that will work," said Bob, reflectively. "Joe is all right, but his father and brother are not, and I am afraid they will make trouble for him." "I thought of that, and so did Warren," answered Mr. Hallet, "and it is a point that you two would do well to consider before you insist on going into the mountains this winter. I am told that Hobson is furious over the opening of the new road, and that he and a few of his friends have threatened to burn the houses Warren and I built up there in the woods, and to drive out anybody we may put there to act as game-wardens." When Tom and Bob heard this, they exchanged glances that were full of meaning. Uncle Hallet's words showed them that there was a prospect for excitement during the coming winter, and the knowledge of this fact made them all the more determined to carry their point. "Oh, you needn't look at each other in that way," said Mr. Hallet, with a laugh. "I know what you are thinking about, and I have no notion of allowing you to do something to get these poachers and law-breakers down on you. However I am going to the village directly, and perhaps I'll drop in and see what Bob's father thinks about it." "Don't forget to tell him that we have your full and free consent," began Tom. "But I haven't given it," interrupted Mr. Hallet, adjusting his eye-glasses across the bridge of his nose and reaching for his paper. "And that we shall go along with all our lessons just as fast as the boys in school will," chimed in Bob. "I'll not forget it; but I shall be much surprised at your father if he believes it." Uncle Hallet resumed his reading, and the boys, taking this as a hint that he had said all he had to say on the subject, put on their hats and left the room. "It's all right, Bob," said Tom, gleefully. "I am sure of it," replied Bob. "We've got Uncle Hallet on our side, and it will be no trouble for him to talk father over. Now let's finish that letter to Mr. Morgan, and then go up and put it in his wood-pile." So saying, Bob went up the stairs three at a jump, Tom following close at his heels. CHAPTER X. WHY THE LETTER WAS WRITTEN. When the boys reached the landing at the head of the stairs, they turned into Tom's room, the door of which stood invitingly open. Bob seated himself at a table and picked up a pen, while Tom leaned over his shoulder and fastened his eyes upon the unfinished letter, to which reference was made at the close of the last chapter. "Let's see--how far did we get?" said the latter. "I believe we were talking about a bank they were supposed to have robbed somewhere in California. Well, say that they took a pile of money--seventy thousand dollars out of it. But I say, Bob! That's awful bad printing. I don't know whether Silas can make out to read it or not." "Then let him get somebody to help him," answered Bob. "I can't be expected to furnish him with the key, after going to so much trouble to write the letter." "But if he can't read it, what use will it be to him?" asked Tom. "Probably he's got friends who can spell it out for him, and I'm sure I don't care how much publicity he gives it. 'And there we took out seventy thousand dollars,'" said Bob. "Go on; what next? They went to Canada after that, didn't they? There is where all the crooks go these days." "Put it down, anyway. 'So we went to Canady (be careful about the spelling) and staid there till the country got too hot for us.' That reads all right," said Tom, throwing himself into the big rocking-chair, and wondering, like the minister in the "One-Hoss Shay," what the Moses should come next. "Don't forget to say something about the 'hant' who guards the treasure in the cave." "Can't you wait till I come to the cave?" replied Bob, who could not print the letter as fast as his friend could think up things to put into it. "I don't altogether approve of this ghost business, anyway. I am afraid it will scare the old fellow so badly that he will make no attempt to find the treasure that is concealed in the cave." "Don't you worry about that," Tom replied. "All we've got to do is to word the letter so that he will believe the money is really there, and he will go after it, even if he knew that he would have to face all the ghosts that ever haunted the Summerdale hills; and their name is legion, if there is any faith to be put in the stories I have heard." "I say, Tom," exclaimed Bob, throwing down his pen and settling-back in his chair, "wouldn't it be a joke if some of those same ghosts should take it into their heads to visit us during the winter? It must be lonely up there in the mountains, when the roads are blocked with drifts, and all communication with the outside world is cut off, and wouldn't we feel funny if we should hear something go this way some dark and stormy night--b-r-r-r?" Here Bob uttered a hollow groan, drew his head down between his shoulders, and tried to shiver and look frightened. "No doubt it would; but we shan't hear anything go this way--b-r-r-r," replied Tom, imitating Bob's groan as nearly as he could. "Now I think you had better go on with that letter, and I will draw the map that is to guide him in his search for the robbers' cave and plunder. We've wasted a good hour and a half already; and if we don't hurry up, we shan't be able to give him the letter to-day. Let me think a moment! There's a deep gorge about a quarter of a mile from Morgan's wood-pile, and I don't believe it has ever been explored. That would be a good place to put the cave, wouldn't it?" Bob said he thought it would, and went on with his writing, while Tom hunted up a piece of paper and began drawing the map. Bob pronounced it perfect when his friend presented it for his inspection, and indeed it ought to have been. There was no one in the neighborhood who was better acquainted with the hills than Silas Morgan, and if the map had guided him to a place that really had no existence, except in Tom's imagination, he would have known in a minute that somebody was trying to play a trick upon him. The letter was finished at last, to the entire satisfaction of both the boys, and the next thing was to put it where the man for whom it was intended would be sure to find it. Do you ask what it was that suggested to them the idea of making the shiftless and ignorant ferryman the victim of one of their practical jokes? Simply an accident, coupled with the want of something to do, and their innate propensity to get fun out of everything that came in their way. On the previous day they made it their business to stand guard over the English partridges and quails which Uncle Hallet had "turned down" in his wood-lot, and it so happened that they stopped to eat their lunch within a short distance of Silas Morgan's wood-pile, but out of sight of it. They heard the creaking of the ferryman's old wagon, as his aged and infirm beast pulled it laboriously up the steep mountain-side, and not long afterward the setters, which accompanied Silas, wherever he went, spied out their resting-place. But the animals did not give tongue, as they would no doubt have done if the boys had been utter strangers to them. They thankfully ate the bits of cracker and broiled squirrel that were tossed to them, and then went back to wait for Silas. "That man has no more right to those valuable dogs than I have," said Bob. "They're worth a hundred dollars apiece, and no one ever gave a guide that much money in return for a single day's woodcock shooting. Who is he talking to, I wonder?" "To no one," answered Tom. "He likes to talk to a sensible man, and he likes to hear a sensible man talk; consequently, he has a good deal to say to Silas Morgan. That's the fellow he is talking to." And so it proved. The ferryman was engaged in an animated conversation with the ferryman, asking and answering the questions himself, and so fully was his mind occupied with other matters, that it never occurred to him that possibly his words might be falling upon ears for which they were not intended. Tom and his companion had no desire to play the part of eavesdroppers. They were not at all interested in what Silas was saying to himself--at least they thought so; but it turned out otherwise. Having finished their lunch, they began making preparations to set out for home; but in the meantime Silas reached the wood-pile, and, leaning heavily upon his wagon, he gave utterance to his thoughts in much the same words as those we used at the beginning of this story. "I just know that I wasn't born to do no such mean work as I've been called to do all my life," declared Silas, stooping over, and throwing the perspiration from his forehead with his bent finger. "I can't get my consent to slave and toil in this way much longer, while there are folks all around me who never do a hand's turn. They can loaf around and take their ease from morning till night, while I--wait till I tell you. Such things ain't right, and I won't stand it much longer. The other night I dreamed of that robber's cave, with piles of gold and greenbacks into it, and yesterday I read about the finding of that earthen crock that was plumb full of money; so't I know I shall be a rich man some day. 'Pears to me that day isn't so very far off, neither. If I should come up here some time and find a letter telling me where there was a robber's cave with stacks and piles of money in it, I shouldn't be at all astonished; would you?" "Not in the least," whispered Bob, giving his friend a prod in the ribs with his elbow; whereupon Tom laid his finger by the side of his nose and winked first one eye and then the other, to show that he fully understood Bob. "Stranger things than that have happened," continued Silas, in a voice that was plainly audible to the two boys behind the evergreens, "and I don't see why it can't happen to me as well as to anybody else. Wouldn't that be a joyful day to me, though? I'd bust up that flat the very first thing I did, and tell the fellers that tooted the horn that I was done being servant for them or anybody else. No, I wouldn't do that, either," added Silas, after reflecting a minute. "I'd give it to Dan and Joe to make a living with, and then I wouldn't have to spend any of my fortune on their grub and clothes." "What a stingy old hulks he is!" whispered Bob, as the ferryman took a reluctant step toward the wood-pile. "I say, Tom, don't you think there is a robber's cave about here somewhere? I should think there ought to be, with so many ghosts hanging around. It don't look to me as though they could be here for nothing." "That's what I think," replied Tom, in the same cautious whisper. "I shouldn't wonder a bit if there was a freebooter's stronghold somewhere in these mountains." "With lots of money in it?" continued Bob. "Piles of it," said Tom. "As much as there is in the treasury at Washington." Bob turned toward his friend with a look of indignant astonishment on his face. "And you knew it all the time, and never told Silas about it!" he exclaimed. "Can't you see how badly he wants it, and how confident he is that he is going to get it? You ought to have attended to it long ago." "You're very right," said Tom, meekly. "Now I will tell you what I'll do: If you will print a letter--it must be printed, you know, for Silas can't read writing--telling how the money got into the cave in the first place, I'll draw a map that will aid him in finding it." Bob said it was a bargain, and the two boys shook hands on it; after which they again turned their attention to the ferryman, who kept up his soliloquy while he was loading the wood on the wagon. The burden of it was that his lot in life was a very hard one, that he never worked except under protest, and that he firmly believed that the future had something better in store for him. Tom and his companion went home, fully determined that if they lived to see the dawn of another day, Silas should find the wished-for letter in his wood-pile. They took one night to "sleep on it," and make up their minds just what they wanted to say to him, and bright and early the next morning they went to work. By their united efforts they finally produced the letter which we laid before the reader in the third chapter; but they were a long time about it. Every sentence and suggestion had to be weighed and discussed at length, and it was when Tom remarked that he would like to see the upshot of the whole matter, that a bright idea suddenly occurred to Bob. "We can stay up there to-morrow, and see what he will do when he finds the letter," observed the latter, "but we can't run to the top of the Summerdale hills every day to watch him go after the money, can we? It's too far, and-- Say, Tom, let's ask Uncle Hallet to make us his game-wardens." "Oh, let's!" exclaimed Tom, who was always ready for anything that had a spice of novelty or adventure in it. "Of course, we shall have to live up there in the woods, the same as Mr. Warren's man does." "To-be-sure. Then we shall be right on the ground, and it will be but little trouble for us to keep track of Morgan's movements. If he tries to find the cave, we may be on hand to give him a scare." "Well, that's a black horse of another color," said Tom, looking down at the floor, in a deep study. "Silas Morgan never goes into the woods without his double-barrel for company, and he is so sure a shot that I don't think it would be quite safe for the spectre of the cave to materialize while he is around." Bob hadn't thought of that before, nor did he stop to think of it now, because it was a matter that could be settled at some future time. It was enough for him to know that Tom was strongly in favor of the rest of his scheme, and the two posted off to find Uncle Hallet, and see what he thought about it. The result of the conference they held with him, so far as it was reached that day, we have already chronicled. We must now hasten on and tell what happened in and around the Summerdale hills after Silas found and lost the letter, and Dan got hold it. CHAPTER XI. THE PLOT SUCCEEDS. Tom's map having been duly examined and approved, and Bob's letter read and commented upon, the latter folded them both up together and placed them in an envelope, which he sealed with a vigorous blow of his fist. "I suppose it ought to have a stamp on it, in order to make it look ship-shape," said he, "but I haven't got two cents to waste in addition to the time and exhausting mental effort I have spent upon the production of this interesting and important communication. I ought to put a hint of its contents upon the envelope, I should think." "By all means," answered Tom. "Print anything that occurs to you, so long as it will excite his curiosity and impel him to a further examination. How does this strike you: 'Notis to the lucky person in to whose han's this dockyment may hapen to fall.' That sounds all right, doesn't it? Well, put it down, and then add something about the 'hant' that watches over the cave." For a few minutes Bob's pen moved rapidly, and at last he drew a long breath of relief and slammed the blotting-paper over what he had written. "It's done, I'm glad to say, and the next time we find it necessary to communicate with Mr. Morgan, or with any other gentleman who has not gone deep enough into the arcana of letters to be able to read good, honest writing, we'll hire a cheap boy to do the printing for us. Now, what shall we take besides our lunch? I don't want to carry my breech-loader up to the top of the mountains for nothing. I know it weighs only seven and a quarter pounds, but I'll think it weighs a hundred before I get back." "If you will sling your pocket-rifle case over your shoulder, I'll take my little tackle-box, and then we shall be fully equipped," replied Tom. "We'll be sure to get a young squirrel or two while we are going by the corn-field, and I know a stream in which there are still a few trout to be found." Acting upon his friend's advice, Bob put the letter into his pocket, and picked up the neat leather case in which his little rifle reposed, while Tom seized his tackle-box and led the way to the kitchen. A few minutes later they left the house, with a substantial lunch stowed away in a fish-basket which Tom carried under his arm, and bent their steps toward Silas Morgan's wood-pile, where they arrived after an hour's fatiguing walk up the mountain. The first thing in order was a reconnaissance in force, followed by a careful inspection of the ground, both of which satisfied them that they had reached the spot in ample time to carry out all the details of their scheme. The wheel-marks in the ground were not fresh, and neither were the footprints, and this proved that the ferryman had not yet been up after his daily load of wood. "He is later than usual," said Bob. "I hope nothing has happened to keep him away, for I wouldn't miss being around when he gets the letter for anything. It will be as good as a circus." "There he comes now!" exclaimed Tom, as a series of dismal wails arose from the valley below. "Don't you hear the creaking of his wagon? Shove the letter into the end of this stick, and then we'll dig out for the place where we ate lunch yesterday. We can hear and see everything from there." Bob hastily complied with his friend's suggestion, inserting the letter into a crack in a protruding stick in so conspicuous a position that Silas would be sure to see it, if he made any use whatever of his eyes, and then the two boys betook themselves to their hiding-place behind the evergreens. In due time the ferryman came in sight. He was clinging with both hands to the hind end of the wagon, and if he had let go his hold he would, beyond a doubt, have rolled clear back to the bottom of the hill, not being possessed of sufficient life and energy to stop himself. Whenever the horse halted for a short rest, which he did as often as the idea occurred to him, Silas raised no objections, but leaned heavily upon the wood-rack and rested, too, talking earnestly to himself all the while. He was so long in reaching the wood-pile that the boys became very impatient; but when he got there and found the letter, the fright and excitement he exhibited, and the extraordinary contortions he went through, amply repaid them for their long waiting. Bob's prediction, that "it would be as good as a circus," was abundantly verified. They observed every move he made, and heard every word he said. They were especially delighted to see him climb the wood-pile, and reach over and take possession of the letter; and when he snatched up the knotted reins and fell upon the horse with his hickory, because the animal would not move in obedience to his whispered commands, Bob caught Tom around the neck with both arms, and the two rolled on the ground convulsed with merriment. When they recovered themselves sufficiently to get up and look through the evergreens again, they saw Silas disappearing around the first turn in the road; but he was in sight long enough for them to take note of the fact that he was stepping out at a much livelier rate than they had seen him accomplish for many a day. When the trees hid him from view, Tom and Bob sat down on the ground and looked at each other. "Well," said the former, wiping the tears from his eyes, "so far so good. Now, what comes next?" "Nothing more of this sort to-day; at least I hope not," answered Bob. "I couldn't stand another such a laughing spell right away, unless I could give full vent to my feelings. I thought I should split when I heard Silas say that he didn't know whether or not he could get his consent to touch that letter." Silas being safely out of hearing by this time, there was no longer any reason why Bob should restrain his risibilities, and he gave way to a hearty peal of laughter, in which Tom joined with much gusto. "It was when he went through his antics on top of the wood-pile that I came the nearest losing control of myself," said the latter, as soon as he could speak. "I didn't suppose that there was so much ignorance and superstition in this whole country as that man has given us proof of this day." And neither did Tom imagine that while he and Bob were writing that letter, "just for the fun of the thing," they were setting in motion a series of events which were destined to create the greatest excitement far and near, and to come within a hair's-breadth of ending in something very like a tragedy. It was a long time before the boys had their laugh out. Tom, who was an incomparable mimic, went through the whole performance again, for his own delectation as well as for Bob's benefit, reaching for invisible letters, and climbing imaginary wood-piles, and so perfectly did he imitate the ferryman's actions, and even the tones of his voice, that Bob at last jumped to his feet, slung his rifle over his shoulder, and hastened away, declaring that he could not stand it any longer. The first thing the two friends did, after they became sobered down so that they could do anything, was to retrace their steps to the corn-field, where they hoped to secure an acceptable addition to the lunch that was in Tom's creel. Nor were they disappointed; the game they sought was out in full force; Bob's diminutive rifle spoke twice in quick succession, and two young squirrels, after being neatly dressed and wrapped in buttered tissue-paper, were placed in the basket with the lunch. Then the boys went in quest of the trout stream of which Tom had spoken. When Bob got down to it, and saw what a place it was in, he did not wonder that there were still a few fish to be found in it. On the contrary, he wondered if there had ever been any taken out of it. He had never seen an angler, no matter how enthusiastic and long-winded he might be, who would willingly stumble through five miles of trackless woods, climb over as many miles of tangled wind-fall, and scramble down the almost perpendicular side of that deep gorge, for the sake of catching a few trout, and he did not hesitate to tell Tom so. "Wait till you see the beauty I am going to snatch out from under that log in less than a minute after I drop in my hook," said the latter, who carried his open knife in his hand, and was looking about among the bushes for a pole to take the place of the split bamboo he had left at home. "But you needn't grumble, young man. You may see the day when you will be willing to tramp farther than this to have the pleasure of depositing a single trout in your creel." "When things get as bad as that I won't go trout-fishing," said Bob, in reply. "I'll take it out on black bass in the lake. Besides, these trout are not at all high-toned. They don't know enough to take a fly, and there's no fun in fishing with any other bait." "We're not looking for fun now; we're after our dinner," answered Tom, who, having found a pole to suit him, was kicking the bark off a decayed log in search of a grub to put on his hook. "Would it inconvenience you to stir around and get a fire going? You might as well have your scales ready, too; there's a trout under that log that weighs about-- There he is!" Sure enough, there he was. While Tom was speaking he dropped his hook into the water, and before the white grub on it had sunk out of sight, it was seized by a monster trout, which turned and started for the bottom with it, only to find himself yanked unceremoniously out of his native element, and by a dexterous movement of his captor's wrist, landed at Bob's feet on the opposite bank. "I haven't elbow-room for any display of science in handling fish," said Tom, as his companion unhooked the prize and quieted his struggles by a blow on the head with the handle of his heavy knife. "Main strength and awkwardness are what do the business in these tangled thickets. What do the scales say in regard to his weight?" "A pound and nine ounces," replied Bob. "Now suppose you hand over that pole and see if I can catch one to match him." Tom, who was quite willing to comply, jumped across the brook and set to work to kindle a fire and get the dinner going, while Bob took the rod and threaded his way through the thick bushes toward another promising hole which his friend told him of, farther up the stream. He was not gone more than twenty minutes, and when he came back he brought with him three trout, one of which was larger and heavier than Tom's. Bob could easily have taken more but did not do it, because he knew that he and Tom could not dispose of them. He knew, too, that they would be a drug in the home market, Uncle Hallet having often declared that he had eaten so many trout since Bob came to his house that it was all he could do to keep from jumping into every puddle of water he saw. The boys were adepts at forest cookery, and hungry enough to do full justice to their dinner. When the meal was over, the only dish they had to wash was the small tin basin in which their tea was made, the squirrels and trout having been broiled over the coals on three-pronged sticks cut from the neighboring bushes. After an hour's rest they put out the fire by drenching it with water, which they dipped from the brook with their drinking-cups. Bob often paused in his work to look up at the high bank above, which was so steep that the top seemed to hang over the bed of the stream, and finally he declared that it would take so much of his breath and strength to get up there that he wouldn't have any left to carry him over the five miles of wind-fall that lay between the gorge and Silas Morgan's wood-pile. "Well, then, we'll follow the brook," said Tom. "It will take us to the lake, if we stick to it long enough, or we can turn out of the gorge when we reach the place where our robber's cave is supposed to be located. What kind of traveling we shall find I don't know, for I have never been down this gulf; but I do know that we shall have farther to walk than if we go back the way we came." Bob at once declared his preference for the "water route," reminding his companion that the longest way around is often the shortest way home. He felt relieved after that, for he dreaded the almost impassable wind-fall over which his tireless friend had led him a few hours before; but whether or not it was worse than some things that happened as the result of his decision, and which he was destined to encounter before the winter was over remains to be seen. CHAPTER XII. A MYSTERY. The traveling in the gorge was quite as difficult as the two friends expected to find it. The bushes on each side were so thick that they could not walk on the bank, and the bed of the stream was covered with rocks and boulders, over which they slipped and stumbled at every step. Now and then the way was obstructed by deep, dark pools which would have gladdened the eye of an angler, for it is in such places that the "sockdolagers" of the brook abide. But Tom and his companion looked upon them as so many obstacles that were to be overcome with as little delay as possible. They floundered through them without stopping to see how deep they were, and before they had left their camp half a mile behind, their high rubber boots were full of water. The gorge was beginning to grow dark when Tom, after taking a survey of the bank over his head, announced that they were just about opposite Silas Morgan's wood-pile, and that it was time for them to find a place to climb out. "I am overjoyed to hear it," said Bob, seating himself on the nearest boulder. "But it's going to be hard work to get up there, the first thing you know, because we've got several pounds more weight to carry than we had when we started. This is worse than the windfall." While Bob was resting, Tom walked slowly down the gorge, hoping to find a spot where the bushes were not so thick, and the bank easy of ascent; but before he had gone a dozen yards, his footsteps were arrested by an occurrence that was as startling as it was unexpected. The thicket in front of him was suddenly and violently agitated, and an instant afterward there arose from it the most blood-curdling sound the boys had ever heard. An Indian war-whoop could not compare with it--they were certain of that. It was not a shriek, a laugh or a groan, but it was a combination of all three; and it was so loud and penetrating that the echoes caught it up and repeated it, until the hideous sound seemed to fill the air all around them. Tom came to a sudden standstill, and the face he turned toward his companion was as white as a sheet. Bob was frightened, too, but he retained his wits and his power of action, and his first thought was to put a safe distance between himself and the thing, whatever it was, that could make a noise like that. Without saying a word he arose from his seat, dived into the bushes and began scrambling up the bank. How he got to the top he never knew (he afterward affirmed that in some places the bank was as straight up and down as the side of a house), but he reached it in an incredibly short space of time, and turned about to find Tom close at his heels. "What in the name of sense and Tom Walker was it?" panted Bob, pulling out his handkerchief and mopping his forehead, on which the perspiration stood in great beads. "I give it up," gasped Tom. "It must be something awful, if one may judge by the screeching it is able to do. I heard a couple of laughing hyenas give a solo and chorus in a menagerie once, and I thought I should never get the sound out of my ears; but that thing in the gulf can beat them out of sight. I'm going home now, but I'll come up here to-morrow with Bugle and Uncle Hallet's Winchester, and if I can make the dog drive him out of the bushes so that I can get a fair sight at him, I'll pump him so full of holes that he'll never make any more of that noise." Tom at once drew a bee line for his uncle's house, and Bob fell in behind him. When they reached the wood-pile, he proposed that they should sit down and rest and compare notes. He was still quite nervous and uneasy, while Bob, who had had leisure to look at the matter in all its bearings, was as serene and unruffled as usual. "Well, what do you think of it by this time?" inquired the latter. "I don't think anything about it," replied Tom; "it is quite beyond me. But this much I know: That thing has got to be 'neutralized' before I will consent to come up here and live as Uncle Hallet's game-warden." "Aha!" exclaimed Bob, with a laugh, "didn't you assure me that we wouldn't hear anything go b-r-r-r?" "Yes, and I'll stick to it; but there's something in these mountains that I don't want to hear screaming around our cabin this winter, now I tell you. What kind of a beast do you think it was, anyway? You heard a panther screech while you were hunting in Michigan last winter. Did he make a noise like that?" "No," answered Bob; "it wasn't a beast, either." "What makes you say that?" "I have two very good reasons. In the first place, if there are any animals in these mountains that are more to be feared than the wolves, they have found hiding-places so secure that the hunters have not been able to discover them for ten years and better. In the next place, if that thing in the gulf is a beast of prey, he would not have given us notice of his presence. He would have waited till we came close to the bushes so that he could jump out and grab one of us." "That's so," said Tom. "Well, go on; what was it?" "You placed our robbers' cave down there, didn't you?" "Oh, get out!" exclaimed Tom; "I'm in no humor for nonsense. I was badly frightened, and I haven't got over it yet." "Neither have I. I am in dead earnest. There's somebody down there in the gulf, and he took that way to let us know that he didn't want us to come any nearer to him." "It was Silas Morgan, for a million dollars!" exclaimed Tom, who needed no more words to convince him that his friend's reasoning was correct. "It's perfectly clear to me now. He didn't waste any time in going after that money, did he?" "Quite the contrary. He has been so very quick about it, that I'm inclined to believe it wasn't Silas at all; but if it was he, why is he camping there?" "Camping?" repeated Tom. "Yes. Just before that horrid shriek came out of the bushes, I thought I could smell burning wood; but I didn't have time to call your attention to it." "Perhaps the mountain is on fire somewhere." "Oh, I guess not. If that was the case, we'd smell the smoke now, wouldn't we?" "That's so," said Tom, again. "Well, who's down there?" "I'm sure I don't know; but I am satisfied that it is some one who has reasons for keeping himself hidden from the world. Now, what's to be done about it?" "I don't see that we are obliged to do anything, unless we want to make ourselves a laughing stock for the whole country," replied Tom, who had had time to form some ideas of his own. "I couldn't be hired to tell Uncle Hallet of it, because he would ask, right away, 'Why didn't you go ahead and find out what it was that frightened you? You are pretty fellows to talk about living up there alone in the woods this winter, are you not?' And he'd never leave off poking fun at us. No doubt there is a party of guests from the hotel down there, and one of them yelled at us just for the fun of seeing us scramble up the bank. I only wish they might stay there long enough to play the same game on Silas Morgan when he comes after the money that is hidden in the cave." The two friends spent half an hour or more in comparing notes after this fashion, but they did not succeed in wholly clearing up the mystery. They both agreed that it was a man, and not a savage beast of prey, that was hidden in the gulf; but who the man was, where he came from, and what he was doing there, were other and deeper questions, which probably never would be answered. "I'll tell you what's a fact, Bob," said Tom, as he arose from the ground and led the way down a well-beaten cow-path that ran toward his uncle's barn, "We are not the only fellows in the world who like to play tricks upon others, and I'll venture to say that there is some one in the gorge at this minute who is laughing at us as heartily as we laughed at Silas Morgan when he found the letter that we put in his wood-pile. The guests at the hotel come up here to have fun, and they don't care much how they get it." "Perhaps you're right," replied Bob, who nevertheless still held to the belief that there was some one in the gorge who was hiding there because he dared not show himself among his fellow-men. "But if I were sure of it, I should be very much ashamed of myself and you, too. However, I don't see how we are to get at the bottom of the matter, unless we go back and interview the party in the gulf; and I can't say that I am anxious to do that." There was still another point on which the boys fully agreed, and that was that they would not say a word to Uncle Hallet about it; but the latter heard of it, all the same, and it turned out that Tom was wide of the mark when he insisted that some one had played a joke upon himself and his companion. The boys reached home just at supper-time, and found that Uncle Hallet had returned from Bellville with good news for them. He had seen Bob's father, and the latter, after declaring that it was one of the wildest things he had ever heard of, and wondering what foolish notion those two boys would get into their heads next, finally decided that since Tom had made up his mind to live in the woods during the winter, Bob might stay and keep him company. "He desired me to tell you that he shall expect to hear a good account of you, both as student and game-warden," said Uncle Hallet, shaking his finger at Bob. "If you don't keep up with your class, or if you neglect your business and allow some pot-hunter to kill off all my English birds, so that there won't be any left for your father to shoot when I invite him up here, he will be sorry that he didn't keep you in school. What's the matter with you two anyway?" suddenly demanded Uncle Hallet, who had a faint suspicion that the boys were not as highly elated as they ought to have been. "This morning you were fairly carried away with this new idea of yours, and now you don't seem to say anything. Have you thought better of it already?" The boys hastened to assure Uncle Hallet that they had not--that they were just as eager to assume the duties of game-wardens as they had ever been, and that that was the last night they expected to pass under his roof for eight long months. It was all true, too; but each of them made a mental reservation. If the man in the gulf was a fugitive from justice, as Bob thought he was, he might prove to be a very unpleasant fellow to have around, and until he had been "neutralized," as Tom expressed it, they could not hope to enjoy themselves. They did not want to enter upon their duties feeling that there was a portion of Mr. Hallet's preserves from which they were shut off by the presence of one who had no business there. "He suspects something," whispered Tom, as he and his friend arose from the supper-table and made their way to their rooms. "Now I'll just tell you what's a fact. I am going wherever I please in my uncle's woods, and any one who tries to turn me back will get himself into trouble." "I am with you," was Bob's reply. "If that howling dervish has settled down there for the winter, how shall we get rid of him?" Tom couldn't answer that question, so he said that perhaps they had better sleep on it, and that was what they decided to do. CHAPTER XIII. DAN IS SCARED. When Mr. Warren's newly-appointed game-warden turned away from Dan and went on down the road to meet his mother, he left behind him one of the maddest boys that had ever been seen in that part of the country. In spite of all he had said to the contrary, Dan had no intention of asking Mr. Hallet to employ him to watch his birds and keep trespassers out of his wood-lot, for he knew very well that if he proffered such a request he would be met by a prompt and emphatic refusal. Mr. Hallet was too well acquainted with his poaching propensities to give his imported game into his keeping, and Dan was painfully aware of the fact. What he wanted more than anything else was that his brother should accept him as a partner, so that he could handle half the earnings, while Joe did all the work and shouldered all the responsibility; that was the plain English of it. But Joe was resolved to paddle his own canoe, and more than that, he had threatened to call upon a powerful friend to make Dan behave himself, if he didn't see fit to do it of his own free will. "I've got be mighty sly about what I do," thought Dan, resting his elbows on his knees and looking down at the ground, after kicking Bony out of his way. "Don't it beat you when you think of the luck that comes to some fellers, while others, who are just as good as they be, and who work just as hard, can't make things go right no way they can fix it? I tell you it bangs me. I ought to have help to drive that Joe of our'n out of them woods, for, to tell you what's the gospel truth, I don't quite like the idee of facing him alone. I can't fight agin him and pap, with old man Warren throwed in." While Dan was talking to himself in this way, he stretched his leg out before him and drew from his pocket the letter he had found in front of the door of the wood-shed. He little dreamed what an astounding revelation it contained. He had not the slightest idea where it came from, and neither could he have told why he picked it up. He proceeded to examine it now, simply because he had nothing else to occupy his mind, except his many and bitter disappointments, and he had already expressed himself very feelingly in regard to them. With great deliberation Dan spread the letter upon his knee, and, with a caution which had become habitual to him, looked up and down the road to make sure that there was no one in sight. Then he addressed himself to the task of reading the "notis" that was scrawled upon the envelope; but no sooner had he, with infinite difficulty, spelled out all the words in it, than the letter fell from his nerveless fingers, and Dan jumped to his feet and whooped and yelled like a wild Indian. "Now don't it bang you what mean luck some fellers do have? Here's a--" Dan checked himself very suddenly when he became aware that he was shouting out these words with all the power of his lungs. Filled with apprehension he looked up and down the road again, but as there was no one in sight, he resumed his seat and went on with his soliloquy; but this time he spoke in a much lower tone of voice. "There's a fortune up there in the mounting, as much as two or three hundred dollars mebbe, but I dassent go after it on account of the hant that's up there," said Dan, to himself. "I've heared 'em say that them hants cuts up powerful bad when anybody comes fooling around where they be, and it ain't no use to think of driving them away, 'cause bullets will go through 'em as slick as you please and never hurt 'em at all. How come this dockyment in front of the wood-shed, do you reckon?" Dan was greatly confused and excited, and it was a long time before he could control himself sufficiently to pick up the envelope, take out the inclosure and read it through to the end--or, to be more exact, nearly to the end; for, as we shall presently see, Dan never had a chance to read the whole of it. He kept up a running fire of comments as he went along, and to have heard him, one would suppose that he had long been looking for something of this sort. That was hardly to be wondered at, for he had often heard his father indulge in the most extravagant speculations concerning the future, and Dan certainly had as good a right to waste his time in that way as Silas had. But when he came to read about the "hant" which bothered the writer so persistently that he was obliged to jump into the lake in order to get rid of him, Dan could stand it no longer. He got upon his feet, at the same time returning the letter to the envelope and making a blind shove with it at his pocket, and drew a bee-line for home. He was so badly frightened that he could not run, and he was afraid to look behind him. He glided over the ground with long, noiseless footsteps, his lank body bent nearly half double, and his wild-looking eyes roving from thicket to thicket on each side of the road in front of him. Presently the climax came. A squirrel, detecting his approach, sought to escape observation by jumping from one tree to another, and he made a great commotion among the light branches as he did so. The noise was too much for Dan's overtaxed nerves. "It's the hant, as sure as I'm a foot high," said he, in a frightened whisper. "He can't pester t'other feller any more, 'cause he's gone and drownded himself in the lake; but he's going to foller whoever has got the letter telling where the fortune is, and that's me. I wonder could I out-run him?" Dan thought this a good idea, and he lost not a moment in acting upon it. He was noted far and near for his lightness of foot, but no one in the Summerdale hills had ever seen him run as he ran that day. He hardly seemed to touch the ground; and the farther he went the faster he went, because his increasing fear lent him wings. He was so hopelessly stampeded that if the road had been crowded with teams or people he would not have seen one of them. He did not slacken his pace until he reached the wood-shed, and then he came to an abrupt halt and looked behind him. There was no one in the road over which he had passed in his headlong flight, and the woods were silent. "Well, I done it, didn't I?" exclaimed Dan, drawing a long breath of relief, and thrusting his hand into the pocket in which he thought he had put the letter. "It ain't no use for anything that gets around on two legs to think of follering me when I turn on the steam. Now, then, where's that there--" "That there what? And who's been a-follering of you?" demanded a familiar voice, almost at his elbow. Dan was frightened again. He looked up, and there stood his father, who had been keeping up a persistent but of course fruitless search for the letter ever since Dan went away. One glance at his angry face was a revelation to the boy. He knew now that Silas had lost the letter where he found it. Dan would have been glad to take it out and hand it over to him--he didn't want anything more to do with it after the experience he had already had with the "hant"--but he found, to his unbounded amazement and alarm, that he could not do it. He had dropped the letter somewhere along the road. "Who's been a-follering of you? and what have you lost?" repeated Silas, who began to have a faint idea that he understood the situation. "There was a hant follering of me," replied Dan, as soon as he could speak. "He was coming for me, 'cause I could hear him slamming through the bushes; but I can run faster'n him, else I wouldn't be here now." "You can't bamboozle your pap with no tale about a hant, for I don't believe in such things," declared Silas, but his face told a different story. He looked fully as wild as Dan did, and he was almost as badly frightened. "Why don't you come to the p'int, and tell me that you have lost the letter that was left in my wood-pile last winter, and which I never seen till this morning? If you will tell me the truth about it, I will tell you something that will make your eyes stick out as big as your fist." "And won't you larrup me for losing of it?" asked Dan, who saw very plainly that it was useless for him to deny that he had once had the letter in his possession. "No, I won't do nothing to you; honor bright. Did you read what was into it?" "Not all of it. I didn't have time, on account of that hant, who rattled the bushes behind me. When I heared that, I just shoved the letter into my pocket and skipped out," replied Dan, who could not for the life of him tell a thing just as it happened. "But it bangs me where that letter is now, 'cause I ain't got it." Dan expected that his father would go into an awful rage when he heard this, and held himself in readiness to take to his heels at the very first sign of a hostile demonstration; consequently he was very much surprised to hear Silas say, without the least show of anger: "It don't much matter, 'cause I had a chance to read all that was into the letter, and take a good look at the map that come with it. I know right where to look for that robbers' cave, but I shan't go down that there rope, I bet you, for I don't want to dump myself into the presence of that hant before I have a look at him. We'll go in at the mouth of the gulf, and work our way up till we come to the hiding-place of the money." "We?" echoed Dan. "Yes, me and you." "Not much we won't," declared Dan, throwing all the emphasis he could into his words. "What for?" demanded Silas. "'Cause why. It's enough for me, to hear hants a chasing of me. I ain't got no call to go where they be, so't I can see 'em. I wouldn't go up to that there cave if I knowed there was a thousand dollars into it." "A thousand dollars!" repeated Silas. "Didn't you read in the letter about the grip-sack with a false bottom to it?" "I don't reckon I did," answered Dan, after thinking a moment. "The hant scared me away before I got that far." "Well, there's a grip-sack there," continued Silas, "and there's twelve thousand dollars in bills and three hundred dollars in gold into it. I was calkerlating all along that me and you would go snucks on it. Now, will you hand over that letter, so't I can take another look at the map and make sure that I know where the cave is?" "Twelve thousand dollars in bills and three hundred more dollars in gold!" gasped Dan, who could hardly believe his ears. "Pap, I would give you the letter in a minute, but it's the gospel truth that I ain't got it." And to prove his words, Dan turned all his pockets inside out, to show that they were empty. "Then I reckon we'll have to go back along the road and look for it," said Silas, desperately. "That's a power of money, more'n I ever thought to have in my family, and sposen somebody should come along and find that there letter, and go up to the cave and steal it away from us? Just think of that, Dannie!" Dan did think of it, and it was the only thing that kept him from beating a hasty retreat when his father spoke of going back to look for the letter. CHAPTER XIV. THE "HANT." "Now, let me tell you what's a fact," said Dan, after he had taken a few minutes in which to consider his father's proposition. "I don't reckon it will be any use for us to go back and try to find that there letter. I'll bet anything that the hant has found it and carried it miles away before this time." "Dannie, what's the use of talking that way?" exclaimed Silas, impatiently, "Don't you know that hants can't tote nothing away, 'cause they're sperits? All they can do is to jump up in front of a feller and frighten him; but they can't do no harm to you. We'll take our guns along, and if he's fool enough to show himself we'll pepper him good fashion." "And never hurt him at all," said Dan. "He'll be just as sassy with his hide full of bird-shot as he was before. Now, pap, you wait and see if I ain't right." Silas did not pay much attention to these words of warning, but they were afterward recalled to his mind in a manner that was most unexpected and startling. What he was thinking of just now was the letter. He was very anxious to find it, for he was afraid that it might fall into the hands of some one who would use it to his injury. When he turned about and led the way into the cabin, Dan followed him with reluctant steps. "You needn't be no ways skeery about going up the road in broad daylight," said Silas, encouragingly. "It ain't likely that that there hant will go away from the cave and roam around the country, scaring folks, for the fun of the thing. He ain't out there in the woods, and you never heard him." "I did, for a fact," protested Dan. "I don't believe it, all the same," answered Silas, as he took down his heavy double-barrel and measured the loads in it with the ramrod. "He's come back to the cave to watch them five hundred pounds of money, and see that nobody don't carry 'em away; and he'll never leave there." "Then how are we going to get that fortune?" inquired Dan. "We'll just walk right in and take it without saying a word to him," said Silas boldly. "I've heard my father tell that them hants can't harm you if you ain't afraid of 'em." "Well, I'll tell you one thing, and that ain't two," said Dan, as he shouldered his gun and followed his father from the cabin. "I ain't a going to run no risk. I'll help you find the cave, but I won't go into it, I bet you. I don't want to hear something screeching at me through the dark, and see great eyes of fire--" "Don't Dannie!" exclaimed Silas, shivering all over, as if some one had drawn an icicle along his back. "Well, that's the way them hants do, ain't it?" asked the boy. "I'd as soon be knocked in the head with a club as to have something scare me to death. Come on, if you're coming. I ain't going ahead, and that's all there is about it." The two brave fellows were by this time fairly in the road, and Silas was prudently slackening his pace, to allow Dan to get in advance of him. The latter's description of the greeting that would be extended to them by the guardian spectre, when they went into the cave after the money that was supposed to be concealed there, had taken all his courage away from him, and, if there was any danger ahead, Silas did not want to be the first to meet it. Dan, who was quick to notice this, also slackened his own pace, and the two walked slower and slower, until they came to a dead stop. "I see what you're up to, old man," said Dan, shaking his clenched hand at his sire, "and you might as well know, first as last, that you can't play no such trick onto me. I'll stick close to you, and face the music as long as you do; but you shan't shove me in front of you not one inch." It was no use for Silas to protest that he had no intention of doing anything of the kind, for the case was too clear against him; so he pushed ahead again, and Dan, true to his promise, kept close at his side. They walked on for a quarter of a mile or more, holding their guns in readiness for instant use, and never saying a word to each other, and at last the deep silence that brooded over the surrounding woods became too much for the ferryman's nerves. He broke it by saying, in a suppressed whisper: "You read far enough in that letter to know that there's five hundred pounds of money into that there cave, didn't you? That's as much as me and you both can pack away on our backs in one trip, and it beats me how that feller could have toted it so far. Now where be we going to hide it? That's what's been a bothering of me. Can't you think up some good--Laws a massy! what's the matter of you?" exclaimed Silas; for Dan suddenly seized his father's arm with a grip that made him wonder. They were just going around the first turn in the road. Instead of replying to his father's question in words, Dan raised his hand and pointed silently toward the bushes a short distance away. Silas looked, and was just in time to catch a glimpse of something which got out of the range of his vision so quickly that he could not tell what it was. He turned to Dan for an explanation. "It's the hant," whispered the latter. "I know it is, for didn't he go into them evergreens without making the least stir among the branches?" Silas couldn't say whether he did or not, and neither did he stop to argue the matter. Forgetting that he had brought his double-barrel with him on purpose to "pepper" the ghost, in case he saw fit to make himself visible, Silas faced about and took to his heels; but before he had taken half a dozen steps, Dan flew past him as if he had been standing still. His father made a desperate effort to catch him as he went by, but Dan sprang out of his reach and bounded onward with increased speed, never stopping to take breath or to look behind him, until he found himself safe in the cabin. When his father stepped across the threshold, a few minutes later, Dan made all haste to close and lock the door. "You're a purty son, you be, to run off and leave your poor old pap to face the danger alone," said the ferryman, sinking into the nearest chair and fairly gasping for breath. "I won't give you none of my fortune when I get it, just to pay you for that mean piece of business." "I don't care," answered Dan, doggedly. "You run first, and I wasn't going to stay behind with that thing there in the bushes. I reckon you're willing to believe now that he was a chasing of me a while ago, ain't you? I tell you, pap, he follers the letter, and he'll never leave off pestering the man that's got it. I'm glad it's lost." "So be I," said Silas, who had not thought of this before. "He bothered his pardner, who was the only one who knew that there was a fortune in the cave, and his pardner had to jump into the lake to get shet of him. It stands to reason, then, that he'll show himself to every one who finds out about that money. I 'most wish that that letter hadn't been put in my wood-pile, 'cause I can't rest easy while that hant is loafing about here." "Now I'll tell you this for a fact," added Dan. "You'd best let the whole thing drop right where it is. The hant will be sure to foller the money wherever it goes, and as often as you step out to your hiding-place to get a dollar or two, you will find him there waiting for you." "Dannie," said Silas, slowly, "I'll bet you have hit centre the first time trying. But it 'pears to me that if he wanted to keep the secret of that cave hid from everybody, he ought by rights to have scared me away when he saw me taking the letter out of my wood-pile." "You can't never get the money, and that's all there is about it," said Dan, confidently. "Yes, we can!" exclaimed Silas, jumping up to put his gun back in its place. "I've just thought of something, and I want you to tell me if you don't think it about the cutest trick that was ever played on a hant or anything else. He'll stay around where that letter is till some one finds it, won't he?" Dan thought it very likely. "Then he'll go with the feller, to keep track of the letter, won't he?" Dan was sure he would. "And if it ain't found right away, he'll hang around so's to keep an eye on it and see where it goes to. Don't you think he will?" Dan replied that he did. "Well, now, that's what I am going to work on," continued Silas, gleefully. "The hant is out of the cave now--we're sure of that, for we both seen him when he went into them bushes--and we must work things so's to keep him out." "You keep saying 'we' all the time," interrupted Dan, "and I tell you, once for all, that I ain't going to have nothing to do with it. You can have all the money, for I won't go nigh the cave." "I don't ask you to," Silas hastened to assure him. "That's the trick I was telling you about. All I want you to do is to walk up and down the road to-morrow--it's getting too late to do anything to-day--and make the hant believe that you're looking for the letter you lost." "Well, I won't do it," said Dan, promptly. "That'll keep him away from the cave," continued the ferryman, paying no attention to the interruption, "and while he is watching you, I'll slip up and gobble that fortune without asking any other help from you. And I'll give you half, the minute I get my hands on to it--the very minute." "Well, I won't do it," said Dan, again. "Why don't you stay and watch the hant, and let me go after the money?" This proposition almost took the ferryman's breath away. He wouldn't have agreed to it if the robber's treasure had been twice twelve thousand dollars. "Why, you don't know where the cave is," he managed to articulate. "No more do you," retorted Dan. "Yes, I do, 'cause I looked at the map. I can go right to it on the darkest of nights." "Here comes mam and that Joe of our'n, and so you'd best hush up," said Dan, in a hurried whisper. "I ain't a going to play 'Hi-spy' all alone with that there hant, and that's all there is about it. But I do hate to give up my good clothes, and breech-loader and j'inted fish-pole," he added, after thinking a moment, "and mebbe I'll go with you up to the cave to-morrow, and make him keep his distance while you go in and bring out the money. Who knows but what the smell of powder and the whistle of shot about his ears will scare him so't he will go away and never come back?" Silas caught the idea at once, and felt greatly encouraged by it; but before he could say anything the door, which Dan had unlocked while he was talking, was thrown open, and Mrs. Morgan and Joe came in. The latter looked cheerful and happy, but it was plain that his mother was worried and anxious. She knew that there would be trouble in that house in just one month from that day. CHAPTER XV. JOE'S NEW HOME. The ferryman and his family always arose at an early hour, and it was probably more from force of habit than for any other reason, for Joe and his mother were the only ones who did any work. The former kindled the fire and laid the table, while Dan and his father loafed around and watched them. But on the morning following the events we have recorded in the last chapter, these two worthies had something to talk about, so they went out and sat under a tree on the bank of the river, and far enough away from the cabin to escape all danger of being overheard. Joe and his mother, however, did not bother their heads about them, for they had their own affairs to talk over. Joe was to enter upon his duties as game-warden that very day. Of course he was impatient to see his new home, and to get his hands upon some of those books that Mr. Warren had promised to lend him; but, above all, he was anxious to earn something for his mother. She needed a good long rest, and Joe was rejoiced to know that he would soon be in a position to give it to her. A night's refreshing sleep had an astonishing effect upon Dan and his father. They did not talk or act much like the frightened man and boy we saw running along the road a few hours before. They were as brave as lions. Twelve thousand dollars in bills and three hundred dollars in gold were well worth working for, and they repeatedly assured each other that they were willing to face any danger in order to obtain them for their own. But there was one thing that Dan held to in spite of all the appeals and arguments that his father could bring to bear upon him, and that was, that the hant must be met and overcome, or outwitted, as circumstances might seem to require, by their united forces. He wasn't going philandering away in one direction, while his father went on a wild-goose chase in another, because that wasn't the way to fight ghosts. "Then we'll stick together," said Silas, at length. "We'll hang around the house till that Joe of our'n goes away, and then we'll fire off our guns and load 'em up with heavier charges of shot, so't we'll be ready for anything that comes along." "I did want powerful bad to live up there in the woods this winter with that Joe," said Dan, with something like a sigh of regret. "What he's going to get he's sure of, but we ain't. I am going into this thing to win, I tell you," he added, sticking out his lips and calling a very reckless and determined look to his face. "I ain't a-going to let no little brother of mine beat me. When I get started for that there money, I'm going to have it before I turn back." "That's the way to talk," said Silas, approvingly. "Joe's going to give all he earns to mam, but I ain't," continued Dan. "I am going to spend all my six thousand dollars for myself. I'm going to have good clothes, and a breech-loading bird gun, and a j'inted fishing-pole, and by this time next summer I'll be so much of a gentleman that the folks who come here to hunt and fish will be glad to hire me for a guide, 'cause they won't know that I am Dan Morgan at all. They'll take me for somebody else." "Course they will!" exclaimed Silas, bringing his heavy hand down upon Dan's shoulder with such force that the boy shook all over. "Just bear that in mind, son, when we find the cave. I'm 'most certain that the hant won't show himself to us, for he'll be down the road somewhere, looking for the letter you lost yesterday; but if he does come out, you just say, 'six thousand dollars' to yourself, and walk right into him with the bird-shot that's in your gun." "And what'll you be doing?" queried Dan. "Oh, I'll be there, and I'll shoot, too," replied Silas; and a stranger would have thought that he was a man who never got frightened at anything. Just then Joe came to the door of the cabin and shouted, "Breakfast!" and that put a stop to the conversation. There was little said while they were seated at the table, for they were all busy with their own thoughts. Silas and Dan wished from the bottom of their hearts that the day was over, and that the robbers' treasure was safely stowed away in a hiding-place of their own selection. Wouldn't they make good use of some of it before many hours had passed away? "That Joe of our'n feels mighty peart this morning," thought Dan, glancing at his brother's radiant face. "He thinks he's smart because he is going to earn a hundred and twenty dollars; but what would he think of himself if he knew that I am going to have six thousand dollars before night comes? Now I'll tell you what's a fact," added Dan, who was firmly resolved that he would not come home empty-handed. "When we get that money I'll make pap count out my share at once, and then I'll take care to see that he don't know where I hide it. He'll bear a heap of watching, pap will." "I wonder what has come over Dan all on a sudden?" said Joe, to himself. "I don't know when I have seen him look so pleasant before. He's got an idea of some kind in his head, and if I am not constantly on my guard I shall hear from him to my sorrow I wonder if there's another boy in the world who has a brother as mean as Dan is?" The latter, who was impatient to begin the serious business of the day and get through with it, and have it off his mind, did not eat a very hearty breakfast. He simply took the sharp edge off his appetite, and then pushed back his chair and arose from the table. Silas groaned inwardly, for now the ordeal was coming. He would have been glad to put it off a little longer, but he knew that if he did he would be accused of cowardice. Everything depended upon keeping up Dan's courage. If the boy saw the least sign of faltering, the whole matter, so far as he was concerned in it, would end then and there. He would refuse to take a step toward the cave, and no amount of money would have tempted Silas to go there alone. So he got upon his feet, took down his gun and game-bag, and followed Dan out of the cabin. Joe looked through the window without leaving his chair, and saw that they were striking a straight course for Mr. Warren's wood-lot. "Now just watch them," said he, bitterly. "They're going to begin the slaughter of those English birds before I have time to get up there and order them away. I don't see why they can't lend me a helping hand, instead of trying by every means in their power to get me into trouble. But I told Dan yesterday, that if I caught him in Mr. Warren's woods I would report him, and he will find that I meant every word of it. I shall not try to shield them any more than I would if they were utter strangers to me. Good-by, mother; I must be off; I am sorry to see you look so downhearted and sorrowful when you ought to be smiling and happy, but I will do everything I can to bring about a different state of affairs. You'll get the money I earn, in spite of all that father and Dan can do to prevent it; you may depend upon that." "It isn't the money I care for, Joe," said Mrs. Morgan between her sobs. "I know it," replied Joe, hastily. "You want father and Dan to behave themselves, and let me alone. So do I; and if they won't do it, I'll make them." Joe caught up the small bundle of clothing that had been made ready for him while he was setting the table, shouldered his long, single-barreled gun, kissed his mother good-by, and hurried away. He did not follow directly after his father and Dan, but took a short cut through the woods, and, at the end of an hour, had his first look at the snug little cabin that was to be his home during the winter--that is, if his brother or some other desperate poacher did not get mad at him and burn it down. Mr. Warren's double team stood in front of the open door, and that gentleman and one of his hired men were busy transferring baskets and armfuls of things from the wagon to the interior of the cabin. "Well, Joe, you're on hand bright and early," was the way in which Mr. Warren greeted his young game-warden, "and you are in light marching order, too," he added, glancing at the boy's bundle, and wondering at the size of it. "Mr. Hallet had to take one of his teams to move Tom and Bob up to their house." "Tom and Bob?" repeated Joe. "Yes. Oh, you didn't know that Hallet had hired them for wardens, did you? Well, he has; so you will have good neighbors, almost within reach of you." "Why, what in the world possessed them--" "What possesses them to do a thousand and one things that nobody else would ever think of," exclaimed, Mr. Warren, who knew what Joe was going to say. "It looks to me like a foolish notion, and I'll venture to say, that they will be glad enough to go home and stay there, after they have stood one snow-storm up here in the mountains. They came well prepared, though. They had two trunks, and they were full to the top. But I like your way the best. When you go into the woods, go light, even if you know that you are going to spend the most of your time in a permanent camp. Come in, and see if we have forgotten anything." Joe followed Mr. Warren into the cabin, and listened attentively while he described the contents of the different bundles and baskets that were scattered about the floor. "Your carpet is in there--it was made to fit, so you will not have any trouble with it--and in one of those baskets you will find a hammer and tacks to put it down with. I have brought a few books and papers, which will keep you busy until you can come down and make a selection from my library to suit yourself. This is your cot, and I guess the bedding is in there. That's a side of bacon, and here are your dishes and a supply of provisions. When you get out, come down to my house and ask for more." As Mr. Warren spoke, he opened the door of a small safe that stood in one corner near the fire-place, and showed Joe an array of well-filled shelves. Among other things, there were a number of paper-bags, which gave promise of better meals than the boy was accustomed to sit down to at home. "That door leads into your wood-shed, which I would advise you to fill up with the least possible delay," continued Mr. Warren, "and there's the axe to do it with. Hallet has given his nephew and that chum of his permission to shoot all the grouse and squirrels they can eat, and I will extend the same privilege to you; but you mustn't make a mistake and knock over one of my English partridges for your dinner. Of course, you know enough to shoot wolves, foxes, minks, and such varmints, without being told, and if you see a half-starved hound in these woods, hunting deer on his own hook, put a bullet into him without a moment's delay." "You mean a charge of buck-shot," said Joe. "No, I mean a bullet; and there's the rifle, right there," replied the gentleman, pointing to a Marlin repeater, which stood in the corner opposite the safe. Mr. Warren continued to talk in this way, while the hired man was unloading the wagon, and when the last bundle had been carried into the cabin, he bade his game-warden good-by, and drove off leaving him to his reflections. CHAPTER XVI. JOE'S "FIRST OFFICIAL ACT." Joe Morgan stood in front of the cabin, watching his employer as long as he remained in sight, and then he went in and picked up the rifle. "My first official act is going to be one that I would rather leave for some one else to perform," said he, to himself. "I must hunt up father and Dan, and tell them to make themselves scarce about here. I could be as happy and contented as I want to be during the next eight months, if they would only let me alone. With a business I like, to keep me occupied while daylight lasts, plenty of books and papers to help me pass the evening hours pleasantly, and a fair prospect of earning money enough to make mother comfortable during the coming winter--what more could a boy ask for? If father and Dan get into serious trouble by trying to upset my arrangements, they must not blame me for it." While Joe communed with himself in this way, he filled the magazine with cartridges, which he took from a box he found on the table, and went out, locking the door behind him. But where should he go? That was the question. Mr. Warren's wood-lot covered a good deal of ground, and the birds he was employed to protect might be at the farthest end of it. If that was the case, Silas and Dan with the aid of the three dogs they had brought with them, could easily find some of the flocks, and create great havoc among them with their heavy guns, before Joe could put a stop to their murderous work. "When snow comes I shall not have any of this trouble," soliloquized the young game-warden. "I shall feed the birds near the cabin twice each day, and that will get them in the habit of staying around so that I can keep an eye on them; and I shall know in a minute if there are any pot-hunters about, for I can see their tracks." For an hour Joe worked hard and faithfully to find the two hunters, who as he believed, had come up there to kill off Mr. Warren's imported game, but he could neither see nor hear anything of them. Finally he told himself that he did not think his father and Dan had come to those woods, because the birds he put up did not act as though they had been frightened before. If they had been shot at, Joe would have heard the report of the gun. "I'd give something to know what it was that took those two off in such haste this morning," thought he. "They're up to some mischief or other, or else the face that Dan brought to the table belied him. Well, it's none of my business what they do, so long as they let my birds alone. Hallo, here! I'm afraid that I am going to have more to do than I thought for. Go back where you came from!" As Joe said this he bent over quickly, caught up a stick, raised it threateningly in the air, whereupon a brace of pointers, which had just emerged from a thicket a short distance away, turned and beat a hasty retreat, giving tongue vociferously as they went. A moment later, suppressed exclamations of surprise arose from a couple of men who were following the dogs, and who forthwith set themselves to work to find out what it was that had sent the pointers back to them in such a hurry. Joe heard them making their way through the bushes in his direction, but he did not say anything until he became aware that the invisible hunters were stalking him with the same caution they would have exhibited if he had been some dangerous beast of prey. Fearing that in their excitement one or the other of them might send a charge of bird-shot at his head without taking the trouble to ascertain who or what he was, Joe called out: "Go easy, there! There's nothing around here for you to shoot at." The reply that came to his ears was the heaviest kind of an oath, and the man who uttered it came through the thicket with such energy that one would have thought he meant to do something desperate as soon as he reached the other side of it. When he came into view, Joe recognized him as a guide who had more than once been arrested and fined for hounding deer and shooting game during the close season. "What air you doing here, Joe Morgan?" he demanded, in savage tones. "You thought to steal them p'inters, I reckon, didn't you? Get out o' this, and be quick a doing of it, too!" "Get out yourself," answered the game-warden. "I've more right here than you have, and I'm going to stay; but if you know when you are well off, you will lose no time in putting yourself on the other side of Mr. Warren's fence. This land is posted, and you are liable for trespass." The guide was both angry and astonished; but before he could make a suitable rejoinder to what he regarded as Joe's insolence, the bushes parted again, and the second hunter came out. He was the guide's employer; Joe saw that at a glance. "What's the trouble here?" were the first words he uttered. "It's a pretty state of affairs, I do think," answered the guide. "Here's this Joe Morgan, who takes it upon himself to say that we shan't stay in these woods." "Why not, I'd like to know?" Brierly--that was the guide's name--turned toward Joe, and intimated that, if he could, he had better explain the situation. "I am Mr. Warren's game-warden," said the boy, taking the hint. "I have been put here to watch his birds, and warn off all trespassers. This land is posted, and you must know it. There's a notice on that tree over there," he added, indicating the exact spot with his finger. "I can see it from here; and when you saw it, you ought to have turned back." "How is this, Brierly?" exclaimed the guide's employer. "I paid you handsomely for a good day's shooting, and you assured me that you knew right where I could get it, without interference from any one." "And you shall get it in these very woods, Mr. Brown," was the guide's reply. "You told me that you didn't care how much them English birds cost, or how bad old man Warren wanted to keep 'em for his own shooting, you would just as soon have them as any other game; and seeing that there ain't no law to pertect 'em, what's to hender you from getting 'em? Send out the p'inters and come on. This fool of a boy ain't got no power to make an arrest, and I'll slap him over if he gives us a word of sass." "I know that I have no authority to take you into custody, but I can report you to one who has, and I'll do it before you are two hours older, if you don't get out of these woods at once," said Joe, resolutely. "You will, eh?" Brierly almost shouted. "Then why don't you report _them_ fellers?" When the guide began speaking, it was with the intention of abusing Joe roundly for his interference with their day's sport, but just then there came an unexpected interruption. It was a regular fusilade--four shots, which were fired as rapidly as the men who handled the guns could draw the triggers. Joe's heart sank within him. His father and Dan were slaughtering Mr. Warren's blue-headed birds at an alarming rate in a distant part of the wood-lot, and he was not there to stop them. The guide must have been able to read the thoughts that were in Joe's mind, for he repeated, with a ring of triumph in his tones: "Why don't you report them fellers, and have them arrested?" "Four shots," said Mr. Brown, admiringly. "They got in their work pretty lively, didn't they? I have heard that these English partridges and quails are the nicest birds in the world to shoot, and I'd give twenty dollars if we could get a chance to empty four barrels at them in that fashion. I wonder if they are good shots, and how many birds they got." When Mr. Brown said that he had given Brierly a handsome sum of money to lead him to a place where he could have a good day's shooting among Mr. Warren's imported game, he had given Joe a pretty good insight into his character; but now, the boy was quite disgusted with him. Could it be expected that ignorant fellows like Brierly would yield willing obedience to the laws, when intelligent men deliberately violated them because they wanted to brag over the size of the bags they had made? "They are good shots, Mr. Brown," said Brierly, with a grin. "I could tell the noise them guns make among a million, and I know the names of the man and boy who were behind them when they were fired. They were Silas and Dan Morgan--this chap's father and brother." "Well, he's a pretty specimen for a game-warden, I must say!" exclaimed Mr. Brown. "No doubt he wants to keep all the fine shooting for his own family. I don't believe a word he has said to us, and I think we can go on with our sport without wasting any more time with him." "I don't care whether you believe me or not," answered Joe, the hot blood mantling his face as he spoke. "If you shoot over these grounds, you will find out before night that I have told you nothing but the truth." "Look a-here, Joe," said Brierly, shaking his fist in the boy's face. "It was your father and Dan who fired them guns a bit ago, wasn't it?" "I don't know--I have no proof of it, and neither have you." "You do know it," replied the guide. "I've got all the proof I want that it was them, 'cause I know them guns of their'n when I hear 'em go off. Now let me tell you what's a fact, Joe Morgan. If you say a word to anybody about seeing me and Mr. Brown up here, I'll report Silas and Dan for trespass and shooting out of season; and if I do, they'll have to go to jail, and salt won't save 'em. There ain't nary one of 'em worth five cents a piece, and where be they going to get the money to pay their fines? Answer me that. Now, will you hold your tongue, or not?" "No, I won't," answered Joe, without the least hesitation. "If I can find any evidence against them, I will report them myself as quick as I will report you if you don't get off these grounds." "I hardly think you will," replied Mr. Brown, with something like a sneer. "It ain't no ways likely, for it don't stand to reason that he would be willing to say the words that would put some of his own kin into the lock-up," assented Brierly. "But I'll do the work for him as soon as we go home, and what's more, I'll report him, too, for--for--" "Neglect of duty," prompted Mr. Brown. "Perzactly. Them's the words I was trying to think of. Then, old man Warren, he'll say to him that he ain't got no use for such a trifling game-warden as he is--that is, if he _is_ one, which I don't believe. Now, Joe, will you hold your jaw?" Joe replied very decidedly that he would not. He knew what his duty was better than they could tell him, and Brierly might as well hold his own jaw, and stop making threats, because he couldn't scare him into saying anything else. "I don't want to get into any trouble with the officers, for it is absolutely necessary that I should start for home bright and early to-morrow morning," said Mr. Brown, who could not help admiring Joe's courage, although he would have been glad to see his guide thrash him soundly for his obstinacy. "It is very provoking to have this boy show up just in time to spoil all our fun. Let's go over to Hallet's woods, and see if we can scare up another so-called game-warden." "Well, you can," said Joe, who wanted to laugh when he saw the look of surprise that settled on the guide's face. "You'll scare up two over there, and, Brierly, one of them is a chap that you will not care to fool with. When you find him, it will be very easy for you to ascertain whether or not I have told you the truth; that is, if you care enough about it to ask him a few questions." "Who is he?" asked Brierly. "Tom Hallet," answered Joe; and, without waiting to listen to the expressions of anger and disgust that came from the lips of the guide, he shouldered his rifle and hurried off. "I wonder what they will conclude to do about it?" thought Joe, as he threaded his way through the thick woods in the direction from which the poachers' guns sounded. "Brierly agreed to give his employer a good day's sport, and now that he can't keep his promise, will he hand back the money that Mr. Brown paid him? I don't think he will." He didn't either, and Joe afterward learned how he got out of it. CHAPTER XVII. WHO FIRED THE FOUR SHOTS? It is hardly necessary to assure the reader that the young game-warden's heart was not in the task he had set himself. He believed that his father and Dan had come upon a bevy of Mr. Warren's imported birds and fired both barrels of their guns into it; and, as they were both good wing-shots, it was not probable that very many of the birds had escaped unhurt. Joe's business was to intercept them if he could, and to report them, regardless of consequences, if he found anything except squirrels in their game-bags. "But I don't expect to find the least evidence against them," said Joe, to himself, "and there's where they are going to take advantage of me. What is to hinder them from doing as much shooting as they please at one end of the wood-lot, while I am skirmishing around the other end? They know well enough that the sound of their guns will draw my attention, and as soon as they have killed the birds they'll gather them up and dig out before I can stop them. It seems as though every business has its drawbacks." And the longer Joe lived the firmer grew this opinion. Half an hour's rapid walking took the young game-warden past his father's wood-pile, which now stood a good chance of staying where it was until it mingled with the mold beneath it, and down a little declivity to the brink of the gorge in which Tom Hallet had located the robbers' cave. Although he made constant use of his eyes and ears, he could not see or hear anything of the poachers, and neither were there any suspicious sounds behind him to indicate that Mr. Brown and his guide had kept on to Mr. Hallet's woods "to scare up another so-called game-warden." "This is the way it is going to be all winter," said Joe, to himself. "Anybody who feels like it can slip in here, shoot all the birds he wants and slip out again before I can get a sight at him. There's Brierly, now; and that's his employer, looking out from behind that big tree on the right. They have followed me to see what I would do if I found father and Dan shooting Mr. Warren's birds." While Joe was walking along the brink of the gorge, wondering if it would pay to scramble down one side of it and up the other, when he was sure that he couldn't catch the poachers if he did, he suddenly became aware that he was an object of interest to a couple of persons who were so anxious to avoid discovery that they kept themselves concealed--all except their heads, and them they concealed, too, when they saw that Joe was looking in their direction. But Joe was wide of the mark when he declared that they were Mr. Brown and his guide, who were watching his movements in the hope of finding some grounds for complaint against him. The concealed parties were watching him, it is true, but for a different purpose, and instead of seeing any reason for finding fault with him, they told each other that Mr. Warren's game-warden was wide awake, and that the fellow who shot any birds on those grounds would have to be lively in getting away with them, or Joe would catch him sure. When they saw the latter looking at them, they moved out from behind their respective trees, and stood forth in full view. They were Tom Hallet and his friend Bob Emerson. "Look here!" shouted Joe, who little dreamed what it was that brought the two boys on his grounds, and so far from their own quarters. "These woods are posted, and you can't get out of them too quick." "You don't say so!" replied Tom. "Come up here and talk to us. You've had visitors already, haven't you? Who fired those four shots a while ago, and what did they shoot at?" Joe slowly mounted to the top of the hill, and shook hands with Tom and Bob, before he made any reply to these questions. Then he said: "I have had visits from two parties. One of them I saw, and the other I didn't see, and they were the fellows who did the shooting. They are on the other side of the gulf, most likely, and when I saw you dodging behind trees, I was trying to make up my mind whether or not I ought to cross over and hunt them out." "What's the use of going to all that trouble?" exclaimed Tom. "I don't believe they got any birds; but if they did, they made all haste to pick them up and run with them. You say you saw the other party. Who were they? Did they have any birds?" Joe answered the last question first. "I took particular pains to see that their game-bags were empty," said he. "The guide was Brierly, and he called his employer Mr. Brown. He's no sportsman, whoever he is; he's a butcher," added Joe, who then went on to give the particulars of the interview, and to rejoice in the fact that Mr. Brown was several dollars out of pocket, having been confiding enough to pay Brierly in advance for the day's sport he thought he was going to have among the imported game that had just been "turned down" in Mr. Warren's woods and Hallet's. "Hallet's!" exclaimed Tom. "Did they have the impudence to go over there after you left them." "Mr. Brown suggested it, but I didn't see them go anywhere," was Joe's reply. "I warned them that they would find two game-wardens there instead of one, adding that if they wanted to know whether I had told the truth regarding myself they had better question you." "Let's go back and see what they are up to," suggested Bob. "I say, Joe," he added suddenly, but not without a certain hesitation and constraint of manner that was too plain to escape the young game-warden's attention, "while you were walking along the gulf, you didn't--er--you didn't see anything at all suspicious, did you?" "I didn't see anything but trees and bushes." "And you didn't hear anything either, I suppose?" continued Bob. "Not a sound. Why do you ask?" "Oh--er--the idea just occurred to me, that's all." "Do you think that the men who fired those guns are hiding in the gulf?" exclaimed Joe. "Perhaps I had better go down there and see." This proposition called forth so emphatic a protest from both the boys, that Joe did not know what to make of it. They declared with one voice that such an idea had never occurred to them--that the poachers were safe out of harm's way long ago, and, besides, it would be putting himself to altogether too much trouble. He'd find it awful hard work to make his way through the thick bushes and briars that covered the steep sides of that gorge, and long before he reached the bottom, he would wish he had let the job out. They knew all about it, for they had tried it. With this piece of advice the boys bade Joe good-by, and hastened away in search of Brierly and his employer. "Do you think Joe suspects anything?" asked Tom, as soon as Mr. Warren's game-warden had been left out of hearing. "I thought he looked at us as if he had a vague idea that we had other reasons than those we gave for telling him to keep out of the gulf." "That's my opinion," answered Bob; and his companion took note of the fact that his voice trembled when he spoke. "I hold to my belief that those guns were fired by Silas Morgan and some one he has taken into his confidence. But of this I am certain: Silas went after that money this morning, and shot at the man who ran us out of the gulf yesterday." "You still think it was a man, and not a wild beast that yelled at us?" said Tom. "I know it as well as if I had been at his side when he did it," replied Bob, positively. "And, Tom, if Silas and his friend have shot somebody-- Great Scott! If I ever take a hand in any more jokes of that sort, I hope I shall be shot myself." "Seems to me, that Tom and Bob don't take any too much interest in their business," thought the young game-warden, as he started down the mountain toward his cabin. "The gorge runs through Mr. Hallet's wood-lot, and if those boys are going to confine their scouting to the covers on the lower side of it, I don't see how they are going to protect the birds. Well, it shan't stop me. As soon as I get around to it, I am going to cut a path down one side and up the other, and after that I shall cross over every day to take a look at things." Joe was hungry when he reached his cabin, and then he found that there was one thing that had been forgotten--a clock. He had already laid out a regular routine of work--setting aside certain things that were to be done at certain hours of the day or evening; but how was he going to follow it without the aid of a timepiece? A few minutes reflection showed him a way out of his quandary. Among the other relics of better days that were to be found in his father's cabin was an old-fashioned bull's-eye watch which had not seen the light of day for many a long year. Joe wasn't sure that it would run, but it wouldn't cost him anything more than a two-hours' walk to find out, and he decided that he would go down and ask his mother for it as soon as he had eaten his dinner. "I can't set my house to rights to-day anyhow," thought he, "because I have wasted too much time in looking for father and Dan; but I'll have it all in order to-morrow, unless some other law-breakers call me up the mountain, and the day after that, I'll begin on my routine, and stick to it as long as I am here." If you had been there, reader, to take a look around Joe's cabin, you would have told yourself that there was another and still more important thing that had been forgotten--a cooking-stove. But Joe didn't miss it, for never in his life had he seen a meal prepared over a stove. He would not have known how to use one if he had had it; but give him a bed of coals in a fire-place, or on the mountain-side, and he could get up as good a dinner as any hungry boy would care to have set before him. He had everything in the way of pots, pans and kettles that he could possibly find use for, but on this particular day he did not call many of them into service--nothing, in fact, but the pot in which he made his tea, and the frying-pan in which he cooked two generous slices of bacon. He found potatoes in one of the baskets and a huge loaf of bread in another, and with the aid of these he made a very good dinner. Then he shouldered his rifle (knowing the thieving propensities of the majority of the poachers who infested the mountains, he could not think of leaving so valuable a piece of property behind him), locked the door and set out for home. CHAPTER XVIII. DAN'S SECRET. Although the young game-warden stepped out lively enough, his heart was as heavy as lead. He was sure that his father and Dan had come back from the mountain with a goodly number of Mr. Warren's valuable birds, which had fallen to their murderous double-barrels, and that they would take pains to keep out of his sight when they saw him approaching the cabin; consequently he was much surprised to find them sitting on the bank of the river, widely separated from each other, and to notice that they did not show the least desire to avoid him. When he stepped across the threshold of his humble home, he was still more surprised to see that his mother appeared very nervous and anxious, and that there was an expression on her pale face that he had never seen there before. "What's the matter?" queried Joe. "What's happened?" "I am sure I don't know," answered Mrs. Morgan, in a faltering voice. "But it must be something terrible. Have you seen your father and Daniel since they left the house this morning?" "Not until this very minute; but I tried to find them, for I heard them shoot, and knew they were after my birds. How many did they bring home with them? This is not a pleasant thing for me to do, mother, but they will get into trouble just as sure--" "I don't think they shot any birds," Mrs. Morgan interposed. "If they did, they have concealed them somewhere. But they must have done something, for I never saw them act so before." "Act how?" inquired Joe. "Why, as if they were frightened out of their wits. When I looked out of the window and saw them coming, they were running at the top of their speed; and the minute they got into the house, they closed the door and fastened it, and began trying to load their guns. But their hands trembled so violently that they spilled the powder all over the floor; and then they sat down and swayed back and forth in their chairs as if they did not have strength enough to hold themselves still. There was not a particle of color in their faces, and they acted for all the world as if they had taken leave of their senses." "What ailed them?" asked Joe, who was profoundly astonished. "I don't know. I couldn't get them to say a word. Whenever I spoke to them they stared at me as if they didn't know what I meant, then shook their heads and went on rocking themselves in their chairs. When they could muster up courage enough to unlock the door and go out, I heard your father say that he had hauled his last load of wood down from the mountain." "Well, that beats me," said Joe, who did not know what else to say. "But there's one comfort, mother; I shall have two pot-hunters less to watch during the winter." "Why, Joseph, you are not going back there?" exclaimed Mrs. Morgan, who trembled visibly at the bare thought of the unknown perils to which he might be exposed. "Of course I am going back," replied Joe, quickly. "Why shouldn't I? There's where I am going to earn the money to keep you from paddling off through the deep snow this winter." "Oh, Joe, let the money go and stay at home with me," said his mother, pleadingly. "I shall be so uneasy every minute you are away. If anything should happen to you--" "Now what in the world is going to happen to me," asked the young game-warden, who told himself that Silas and Dan must have behaved in a most extraordinary manner to frighten and excite his mother in this way. "What is there up there in the hills that's going to hurt me?" "That I can't tell. I do wish I knew just what happened to your father and Dan. The reality couldn't be any worse than this uncertainty and suspense." "I wonder if I couldn't induce Dan to give me a hint of it," said Joe, standing his rifle up in one corner of the room. "I believe it will pay to have a shy at him. He can't keep a secret for any length of time to save his life; and if I work it right, I think I can worm this one out of him." So saying, Joe stepped to the door to take a look at the motionless figures on the river bank. There was only one of them there now. Silas had disappeared and Dan was left alone. Joe thought that nothing could have suited him better. Dan might be inclined to be reticent with his father sitting in plain sight of him; but now there was nothing to restrain him, and he could talk as freely as he pleased. Walking leisurely along, as if he had no particular object in view, Joe went down to the bank and seated himself a short distance away from his brother, who sat with his elbows resting on his knees and both hands supporting his head. He never moved when he heard the sound of Joe's footsteps, and neither did he utter a sound; so Joe began the conversation himself, and with no little anxiety, it must be confessed, as to the result. Dan was an awkward boy to manage, and if Joe had entered at once upon the subject that was uppermost in his mind, his brother would have shut himself up like a clam. "Well, old fellow," said Joe, cheerily, "why didn't you come around and see my new home? I tell you, I've got things nice there; or, rather, I'm going to, as soon as I have time to straighten up a bit. You were up there, because I heard you shoot--you and father. I didn't expect to see you back so soon." Dan slowly raised a very pale face from his hands, and gazed at his brother with a pair of wild-looking eyes. He did not look like himself at all. After staring hard at his brother for full half a minute, and running his eyes up and down the bank to make sure that there was no one else in sight, he said, in hollow tones: "And I didn't look to see you back again so soon, either. I didn't never expect to set eyes on to you no more." "You didn't?" exclaimed Joe. "Why not?" "Did he show himself to you, too?" asked Dan, in reply. "You don't look like you'd seen him." "Seen who? I met some men up there on the mountain, if that is what you mean." "It wan't no man, Joey," said Dan shaking his head solemnly--"it wan't no man. It was something wusser." "Why, Dan, I don't know what you mean," said Joe. And then he checked himself. His brother was in a fair way to reveal something to him, and he did not want to lose the chance of hearing it by exhibiting too much impatience. "How many birds did you get?" "Didn't get none," answered Dan. "Didn't see nary one. They are as safe from me and pap, from this time on, as though they wasn't there." "Then what did you shoot at?" Dan looked behind him, and allowed his eyes to roam up and down the bank, before he replied. "I'm 'most afraid to tell you," said he, in a scarcely audible voice. "Joey," he added, straightening up, and giving emphasis to his words by pounding his knee with his fist--"Joey, I wouldn't live up there in old man Warren's shanty two days--no, nor half of one day--for all the money there is in--" Dan was about to say, "for all the money there is in that robbers' cave," but he caught himself in time, and finished the sentence by adding, "for all there is in Ameriky." "I can't, for the life of me, make out what you are trying to get at," said Joe, rising from the ground and turning his face toward the cabin, "and neither can I waste any more time with you. I came down after father's watch, and as soon as I get it I must hurry back. I don't want the dark to catch me--" "I should say not!" gasped Dan, shivering all over. "Say, Joe," he continued, reaching up and taking his brother by the hand, "don't go up there no more. Go and tell old man Warren that he'll have to get somebody else to be his game-warden." Joe was more amazed than ever. Dan was in sober earnest, there could be no doubt about that, and he could not imagine what he had seen to scare him so badly. "Don't go back," pleaded Dan. "The hant is in the gulf now, but as soon as it gets dark it will come out--that's the way they all do--and come up to your shanty; and when you see it walking around there, all in white, like me and pap seen it, I tell you--Say, Joey, you won't go back, will you?" "Dan, I am surprised at you, and heartily ashamed as well," said Joe, who was more than half inclined to be angry at his brother. "You've heard some foolish story or other, and it's frightened you out of a year's growth. There's no such thing as a 'hant.'" "I tell you there is, too," Dan protested. "I seen it with my own two eyes, and so did pap. If he was here he'd tell you the same thing, pervided he told you anything at all. We heard it yelling at us, too, and such yelling! Oh, laws a massy! I don't never want to listen to the like again," cried Dan, covering his ears with both hands, and rocking himself from side to side, as if he were in the greatest bodily distress. Joe now thought it time to hurry matters a little. He was really anxious to hear his brother's story. "I should like to know just what you and father saw and heard this morning," said he; "but I can't waste any more precious moments with you. You know my time is not my own any longer. It belongs to Mr. Warren." "Do you mean to say that you're going back?" "Yes. I am going to start this very minute." These words seemed to arouse Dan from his lethargy. "Set down, Joey," said he, at the same time casting apprehensive glances on all sides of him. "Come clost to me, so't that hant can't tech me, and I'll tell you everything." "Will you be quick about it?" "Just as quick and fast as I know how, honor bright," replied Dan. "And will you promise, sure as you live and breathe, that you won't lisp a word of it to nobody? 'Cause why, I'm afeared that if you do, he'll show himself to me again, and I don't want to see him no more." "I shall make no promises whatever," answered Joe, who saw very plainly that he could say what he pleased, since Dan would not permit him to depart until he had eased his mind by confiding to him everything there was in it. "If there is any dangerous thing up there in the gulf, I am going to hunt him or it out the very first thing I do." "Joey, don't you try that," exclaimed Dan, who really seemed to be distressed on his brother's account. "You can't hurt a hant. Me and pap fired four charges of No. 8 shot into him, and we never so much as made him wink. He kept on yelling at us just the same, and now and then he would make a lunge for'ard, as if he was coming right at us." "Go on with your story," said Joe, whose patience was all exhausted; "I am listening." Thus adjured, Dan settled himself into a comfortable position, and began his narrative. CHAPTER XIX. DAN TELLS HIS STORY. Having fully determined to get rid of his tremendous secret at once and forever, Dan went deeply into all the details, and did not omit a single thing that had the least bearing upon his story. He could not give a very connected account of the finding of the letter, for that was a matter that Silas had touched upon very lightly. The letter was found in the wood-pile, because his father said so, and that was all that Dan knew about it. He had read the document very carefully after it came into his possession, and some portions of it were so firmly fixed in his memory that he repeated them word for word. Then the muscles around the corners of Joe's mouth began to twitch, and when Dan told, in a frightened whisper, how the man who pushed his "partner" into the gorge had been obliged to jump into the lake in order to free himself from the presence of the "hant," which followed him day and night--when Joe heard about that, he couldn't stand it any longer. He threw himself flat upon the ground, and laughed so loudly that he awoke the echoes far and near. Dan, who had not looked for anything like this, was not only overwhelmed with astonishment, but he was fighting mad in an instant. "Whoop!" he yelled, jumping up and knocking his heels together. "Hold me on the ground, somebody, or I'll larrup this Joe of our'n till I put a little more sense into him nor he's got now. What you laughing at, you big fool?" "Sit down and behave yourself," replied Joe, who was not at all alarmed by these hostile demonstrations. "Let me ask you a few questions, and then we'll find out who is the biggest fool, you or I." "No, I won't," said Dan, shortly, "'cause why I know that already." "All right," replied Joe; "then I'll get the watch and go back to my work." "But you haven't heared all of my story yet," exclaimed Dan. "Wait till I tell you, and I'll bet that you won't never go back there no more." "There are a few things about the story that I don't quite understand," began Joe. "No more do I," interrupted Dan. "But if you will answer a question or two I have in mind, I think we can get at the bottom of the matter." "You needn't ask 'em, cause you'll laugh at me again." "No, I won't," protested Joe; and he kept his promise, although he sometimes found it hard to do so. "The first question is this: Did the letter that father took from his wood-pile look faded and soiled, as if it had been rained and snowed on?" "Not a bit of it, that I could see. It was as spick and span as you please." "That's one point gained," said Joe. "Did the writer say anything about cutting a hole through the ice, so that he could jump into the lake to get away from the 'hant'?" "Nary word." "Did you find the rope that led down to the cave, when you went up there this morning?" "We didn't look for it. We went up the beach till we struck the brook that comes out of the gulf, and we follered that till--till--" "You found the cave?" suggested Joe. "Till we come purty nigh to where the cave is," corrected Dan. "We didn't see the cave, 'cause we run against something that wouldn't let us go no furder." "What was it?" "The hant I was telling you about." "What did it look like? Now go on with your story, and I won't say a word till you get through. What did you see up there in the gulf that frightened you so badly?" These words drove away Dan's anger, and called up all his old fears again; but he sat down and resumed his narrative. It related to a few things which the reader ought to know in order to understand what happened afterward; but Dan told it in such a rambling way, and made so many impossible statements, which he insisted should be received as absolute facts, that Joe found it hard to follow him, and we will not attempt it. His narrative, stripped of all the monstrous exaggerations that his excitement and terror led him to put into it, ran about in this way: When Silas and Dan shouldered their guns that morning and set out to find the robbers' cave, and the treasure that they firmly believed was concealed in it, they told each other that no matter what happened they would not come back until they had accomplished their object. The former, as we know, was not as eager to brave the terrors of the gorge as he pretended to be, but Dan was thoroughly in earnest, and he built so many gorgeous air-castles, and talked in such glowing language about the fine things they could have for their own as soon as the money was found, that finally Silas became worked up to the highest pitch of excitement and impatience, and showed it by striding ahead at such a rate that Dan had to exert himself to keep pace with him. "You needn't be in such a hurry, pap," said Dan, when he found that he was growing short of breath. "It'll keep till we get there, 'cause there ain't nobody else that knows about it, seeing that you got the first grab at the letter." "I know it," was the ferryman's reply, "but I'm powerful oneasy to get a hold of that grip-sack that's got the false bottom into it. We don't care if they do put a bridge down there to our house and bust up the ferrying business, do we, Dannie? And anybody that wants that old scow for their own can have it, can't they?" "I don't care what becomes of it, or where it goes to," said Dan, spitefully. "It ain't a going to bring me no more backaches, I bet you." "Course not," assented Silas. "You'll be a gentleman directly, and then you can buy a nice boat, if you want it." "I don't care so much for boats as I do for breech-loading bird-guns and j'inted fish-poles," observed Dan. "Them's the things that make a feller look nobby when summer comes. Say, pap, what be we follering the beach for? The rope that leads to the cave is way up there in the hills." "Look a-here, Dannie," said Silas, stopping short, and bestowing a very knowing wink upon the boy at his side. "We ain't nobody's fools, if we be poor and ragged. As I told you yesterday, we don't want to slide down that there rope, 'cause why, it'll dump us right down in front of that hant, and he'll bounce us before we can get our guns ready. See the p'int? If we go up the gorge, easy like, and keep our eyes open all the time, we shall see him as soon as he sees us. Understand? But I don't reckon he's up here. I'm a thinking that he's down the road somewhere, watching for the feller that finds that letter." "I hope he is," said Dan, "for then we won't have no trouble in getting hold of the money. Looks powerful dark and lonesome in there; it does for a fact." They had now reached the brook, and were standing in full view of the mouth of the gorge. It did, indeed, look dark and lonely in there; so much so, in fact, that if Dan had shown the least sign of fear, Silas would have faced about at once, and made the best of his way back to the cabin, leaving the treasure to stay where it was until the mildew and rust had eaten it up. "Them thick bushes shuts out all the light of the sun, don't they?" said Silas. "And it's so ridiculous crooked, that we might run right on to the hant in going around some sharp bend, and never see him till we was clost to him. The brook is plumb full of rocks and such, and the cave must be as much as five miles away, I reckon--mebbe more. It'll be hard work to go up there after that money." "But it would be harder to get it by chopping wood for it," said Dan; "so here goes, hant or no hant." "You're the most amazing gritty feller I ever seen," declared Silas, who was really astonished at the boy's hardihood. "You go on ahead, for you ain't as old as I be, and your eyes are sharper, and I'll stick clost to your heels." For a wonder, Dan did not object to this arrangement. "I know well enough that pap's afeard," said he to himself; "but that don't scare me none. If we have to run to save ourselves from the grip of that hant, the hindermost feller is the one who will be in the place of danger, and that'll be pap. With two or three jumps I can put myself so far ahead of him, that he won't never see me again till I get ready to stop and wait for him to come up." With these thoughts to comfort and encourage him, Dan did not hesitate to lead the way into the gulf. The traveling was bad enough at the start, and the farther they went into the gorge, the worse it became. A dozen times or more, in going the first quarter of a mile, were they obliged to climb over or crawl under immense logs which had fallen into the stream from the bluffs above; and when these obstructions had been left behind, foaming cascades, some of them forty feet in height, and which they surmounted by scaling the steep face of the cliffs, took their places. It was a bad location for a surprise and a retreat, in which the hant would have every advantage of them. Beyond a doubt, he could skip from one boulder to another, and plunge headlong over all the falls that came in his way with perfect immunity. But how would it be with them? Dan asked himself. It was a wonder that he did not get disheartened, and declare that he would not go any farther. Silas hoped he would, for he was growing weary, and, in spite of all he could do to prevent it, the disagreeable thought would now and then force itself upon him, that perhaps there wasn't any money up there, after all, and that they were destined to return as empty-handed as they came. Dan also had some misgivings, but he would not allow them a place in his mind. The belief that there was a fortune of six thousand dollars almost within his grasp, had taken full possession of him; and even if he had not been sure of it, his pride would not permit him to say the first discouraging word. He was determined that it should come from his father, so that if their expedition failed he could blame him for it. He pressed steadily and patiently onward, without saying a word, and his father followed silently at his heels. They were now between four and five miles from the lake, and the cliffs on each side were so high, and the bushes and trees that covered them from base to summit were so thick, that twilight always reigned at the bottom of the gorge, let the sun shine never so brightly. On a cloudy day it must have been as dark as a pocket down there. Silas couldn't think of anything that would have induced him to stay alone in that gloomy place for five minutes. "Say, pap," whispered Dan, so suddenly, that his father started and almost dropped his gun, "how long before we'll be abreast of that wood-pile of our'n?" Silas raised his head long enough to look about him and take a glance at the cliffs above, and then the blood all fled from his face, leaving it as pale as death itself. "Laws a massy, Danny," he managed to articulate, "we're abreast of it now." There was something so unnatural in the tones of his father's voice, and in the face he turned on him, that Dan felt the cold chills creeping over him, and it was all he could do to refrain from crying out with terror. CHAPTER XX. A RUN FOR HOME. "Yes, sir," repeated Silas, after he had taken another brief look at his surroundings, to make sure that there was no mistake about it; "we're abreast of our wood-pile at this blessed minute, 'cause why--you see that leaning hickory up there on the top of the bluff? Well, I shot a squirrel off'n there about three weeks ago, and that there tree is only a quarter of a mile from the wood-pile. I wish you wouldn't look so scared-like, Dannie. The best part of this mean job is over now, and we ain't seen nothing to be afeard of yet. Look around, and see if you can find anything of that rope. If you can, there's the cave. Go ahead, Dannie, and when you feel yourself getting trembly all over, just say, 'breech-loading bird-guns and j'inted fish-poles,' and that'll put pluck into you." Silas rattled on in this way simply to gain time, and Dan knew it; but before he could make any reply, the performance of the previous day, which had proved so trying to Tom Hallet's nerves and Bob Emerson's, was repeated for their benefit, followed by a new and startling variation. First, a dismal howl arose on the air, and the echoes took it up and threw it from one cliff to the other, until it seemed to the terrified Dan that every tree and hush within the range of his vision concealed some awful thing that was howling at him with all its might. Gradually the sound grew into a scream; and at the same moment there arose above the bushes, not more than thirty yards in advance of him, a grotesque figure, clad all in white. Its head was concealed by something that looked like a night-cap; but its face was visible, and it was as white as chalk--all except the places where its eyes, nose and mouth were, or ought to have been, and they were as black as ink. It held its arms stiffly by its sides, and when the scream was at its loudest, it made a sudden dart forward as if it were on the point of jumping over the bushes, to take vengeance upon the daring fortune-hunters. "Oh, my soul!" groaned Silas; and his legs refusing to support him any longer, he sat down among the rocks and covered his eyes with his hand. But Dan was made of sterner stuff. For a moment or two he stared at the figure with eyes that seemed ready to start from their sockets, and then his gun came quickly to his shoulder, and two loads of shot went straight for the ghost's head. This aroused his father, who was not a second behind him; but the four charges had no more effect upon the spectre than so many blank cartridges. When the smoke cleared away, there he stood, and his actions seemed to indicate that he was about to assume the offensive. He began growing before their eyes; and when he had risen in the air until his height overtopped that of the tallest man they had ever seen, Dan, who did not care to wait until he had lengthened himself all out, uttered a yell that was almost as loud and unearthly as those that came from the direction of the cave, and turned and took to his heels. He quickly gave his father the place of danger--the rear--and when Silas, lumbering along behind, and stumbling over rocks and barking his shins at almost every step, reached the first bend in the stream, Dan was nowhere in sight. Knowing that it would be of no earthly use to call to him to come back, Silas took one quick glance behind him to make sure that the spectre was not coming in pursuit, and then darted into the bushes which fringed the base of the cliff, and climbed slowly and laboriously to the top. He was a long time in reaching it, for his terror seemed to have robbed him of all his strength and agility, while it had just the opposite effect upon Dan, whom he found at last; sitting on a log near the wood-pile. "Well, we know now for certain that the money's there, don't we?" said Silas, as soon as he could speak. "Yes; and we know that the hant's there too," replied Dan. "If I'd known that he was such a looking feller as that, you can bet your bottom dollar that I wouldn't have gone nigh him. He didn't have them white clothes on yesterday. You needn't set down, thinking that I'm going to wait for you, 'cause I'm going straight home." Tired and weak as he was, Silas was obliged to go, too, for he hadn't the courage to stay there alone until he was rested. He wasn't very steady on his legs, and by no means as sure-footed as he usually was; but he managed to keep along with Dan, who, as fast as his wind came back to him, increased his pace, first to a slow trot, then to a fast trot, and finally to a dead run, every fresh burst of speed calling forth a corresponding exertion on the part of his father, who, struggling gamely to keep up, was so nearly exhausted by the violence of his efforts that he was often on the point of falling in his tracks. [Illustration: A RUN FOR HOME] This was the way they were moving when Mrs. Morgan discovered them approaching the house. She was greatly astonished when she saw the nervous haste with which they closed and locked the door, and witnessed their frantic but unsuccessful attempts to recharge their guns, and she was frightened when she caught a glimpse of their faces; but with all her questioning, she could not get a word out of them. They stared stupidly at her, as they rocked about in their chairs, but did not seem to possess the power of speech. "Our tongues were stiffer'n a couple of boards, and we couldn't nary one of us open our heads," was the way in which Dan wound up his story. "At first I thought the hant had put some kind of a spell or 'nother on to us; but it went away after a while, and now we can both talk as well as we ever could. I reckon you won't go back, will you, Joey?" To Dan's utter amazement, the young game-warden replied with the greatest promptness: "Of course I shall go back. What would Mr. Warren think of me if I should throw up my situation before I had fairly entered upon its duties? I haven't seen anything to get frightened at." "But I have," exclaimed Dan. "I don't doubt it in the least," answered Joe, who had a theory of his own regarding the strange things that had happened in the gorge. "If I don't bother the 'hant' I don't see why he should take the trouble to climb out of his cave to bother me. I don't want the treasure he is guarding. I never expect to get a dollar that I don't work for; and, Dan, if you and father would make up your minds to the same thing, and quit your foolish wishing and go to work in dead earnest, you would be better off six months from now. I wouldn't go near those woods again if I were in your place." "You're right I won't," said Dan, earnestly. "I want my new gun and fish-pole awful bad, and I do despise to have to give 'em up; but I'll wait till that there hant dies or goes away, before I try that gulf again, I bet you. Be you going back to your shanty now?" Joe said he was. "Well, mebbe it's best so," continued Dan, reflectively. "You have got to earn all the money that comes into the family this winter, ain't you?" "I suppose I shall earn all I get," said Joe, who saw very plainly what his brother was driving at, "and I know that you and father will earn every red cent you get." "It sorter bothers me to see how we are going to do it," replied Dan. "Don't it you?" "Not at all. Earn it as you did last winter--cut wood." "Why, that would take us up there clost to the gulf," cried Dan, looking up in amazement. "And didn't I just tell you that I wasn't going there no more?" "Now, Dan, that's only an excuse on your part. You know very well that Mr. Warren and Mr. Hallet are not the only ones who will want cord-wood this winter. I don't blame you for keeping away from the gorge; but you can find plenty to do elsewhere, if you are not too lazy to look for it. Well, good-by." "What a teetotally mean, stingy feller, that Joe of our'n is!" soliloquized Dan, gazing after his brother, who was walking toward the cabin with a light and springy step. "He ain't a going to go halvers with me and pap, is he? I wish in my soul that the hant would run him outen the mounting this very night." The young game-warden carried a very bright and smiling face into his mother's presence, and Mrs. Morgan felt immensely relieved the moment she looked at it. Instead of locking the door, as Dan and his father always did whenever they wished to hold a secret interview with each other, Joe sat down on the threshold so that he could talk to his mother and keep watch of Dan at the same time. The latter was inclined to be "snooping," and it would be just like him, Joe thought, to slip up and crouch under the open window, so that he could hear every word he uttered. Dan had an idea of doing that very thing; but he straightway abandoned it when he looked up and saw his brother sitting at ease in the open door. "Now, mother," said the latter, cheerfully, "throw your fears to the winds. I've got at the bottom of the whole matter, and know there's nothing to be afraid of." Then he went on to repeat the story to which he had just listened, but he did not take up so much time with the narration as Dan did, because he used fewer words. "Dan was so badly frightened that he didn't know whether he stood on his head or his heels," said Joe, in conclusion. "But it is an ill wind that blows nobody good, and this is the best thing that could have happened for me. I told you this morning that if father and Dan didn't behave and let my birds alone, I would find means to make them, but I guess the ghost has taken that most unpleasant job off my hands, and I should really like to thank him for it." "Then you think there is some one hidden in the gulf?" said Mrs. Morgan. "I am sure of it; and the reason that father and Dan did not do any damage with their four charges of bird-shot was, because they sent them into a dummy. If they had held a little lower, and fired into the bushes, there might have been another story to tell." "Have you any idea who the man is?" "Not the slightest; but--but--well I don't care who he is, or why he is hiding there, if he will only make it his business to drive away every market-shooter who goes into those woods." It had been right on the point of Joe's tongue to say that he would know all about the mysterious party who was hiding in the gorges before he came home again; but he didn't say it. His mother was smiling now, and he did not want to bring the old expression of fear and anxiety back to her face. He was none the less determined, however, to sift the matter to the bottom. "I will see Tom and Bob to-morrow," he went on. "By the way, you didn't know that they are Mr. Hallet's game-wardens, did you? Neither did I, until this morning. I couldn't have better fellows for company, could I? You see, mother, the place where all these things happened is on the dividing line that runs between Mr. Warren's woods and Mr. Hallet's, and as the ghost will help Tom and Bob quite as much as he will me, I want to know what they think about letting him stay there." There was another reason why Joe was anxious to have an interview with Mr. Hallet's game-wardens, but he did not think it best to say anything to his mother about it. CHAPTER XXI. A TREACHEROUS GUIDE. Having told his story, and set all his mother's fears at rest, Joe thought it time to speak of his own affairs, and asked for his father's watch; whereupon, that ancient relic and heirloom was duly fished out of a dark corner in one of the bureau drawers, set in motion, and handed over to him, after being regulated by the not altogether reliable clock that ticked loudly on the mantel. The young game-warden went away from home with a very light heart beating under his patched jacket. By some fortunate combination of circumstances, which he did not pretend to understand, he had been relieved of a heavy responsibility. The two market-shooters of whom he stood the most in fear had been most effectually disposed of, for a while at least. It would be a long time, Joe told himself, before his father and Dan could muster up courage enough to come into the woods of which he had charge. If Silas was afraid to draw the wood which was to keep him warm during the winter, it was not at all probable that he would be reckless enough to hunt through Mr. Warren's covers. When Joe reached his cabin, there was barely enough daylight left to aid him in his search for the lamp which he knew was stowed away somewhere among the things that were scattered over the floor. While he was groping about in the gloom, he wondered how much money it would take to induce Dan or his father to come up there and stay alone in that cabin all night. It would not have been at all strange, in view of the harrowing story to which he had listened a few hours before, if his own nerves had been a trifle "trembly;" but they were not. The sighing of the evening breeze through the thick branches of the evergreens that surrounded the cabin on three sides, and the mournful song of a distant whip-poor-will, were sounds that some people do not like to hear, because they make one feel lonely; but they were company for Joe, and he delighted in listening to them. He found the lamp after a protracted search, filled it outside the door just as the last ray of daylight gave way to the increasing darkness, and when he touched a match to the wick and put on the chimney, his surroundings began to assume a more cheerful aspect. It was the work of but a few moments to start a blaze in the fireplace, and while he was waiting for it to gather headway, so that he could pile on the hard wood which was to furnish the coals for the broiling of his bacon, he busied himself in setting things to rights. He didn't bother with the carpet--that would have to wait until to-morrow; but he put up his cot, laid the mattress upon it, and was about to spread the bed-clothes over that, when he heard the snapping of twigs and heavy, lumbering footfalls outside the door, and looked up to see a white, scared face pressed close against one of the window-panes. Joe was startled, and during the instant of time that he stood motionless by his cot, he felt the hot blood rushing to his heart, and knew that his own face must be as white as the one at the window. His first emotion was one of fear, but it speedily gave place to anger and excitement. He wondered if the man who was hiding in the gorge labored under the delusion that he could drive him away with the same ease that he had driven off Dan and Silas. "This thing might as well be settled now as a week from now," thought Joe. "I am here on legitimate business, and I'll ride rough-shod over anybody who attempts to interfere with me." With one bound, Joe sprang clear across the cabin, and when he turned about he held his cocked rifle in his hands. He was ready to shoot, too. But the man at the window had seen the movement, and lost no time in drawing his head out of sight. "Hold on there!" said a frightened voice. Instead of "holding on," Joe jumped for the door, jerked it open, and in an instant more the muzzle of his heavy weapon was covering a crouching figure under the window. "Speak quick," said he. "Who are you?" "Mr. Brown! Mr. Brown!" came the answer, in tones that Joe recognized at once. "What are you pointing that gun at me for? I'm lost, and want help to find my way out of the woods." "Then why didn't you come to the door and say so like a man, instead of trying to scare me by looking in at the window? You ought to know that you put yourself in danger by doing that." "I didn't mean to frighten you," replied Mr. Brown. And Joe could easily believe it. His visitor had risen to an upright position by this time, and Joe saw at a glance that he was too badly frightened himself to think of playing tricks upon others. "Why did you not answer my calls for help?" demanded Mr. Brown, who, now that he was safe, seemed to grow indignant when he remembered how near he had come to spending the night alone on the mountain, with no cheering camp-fire to illumine the darkness. "Because I didn't hear any calls for help," answered Joe, shortly. "Well, I did call, and called again, until I was too hoarse to speak above a whisper," said Mr. Brown, walking into the cabin, and placing a camp-chair in front of the fire. Just then the pointers came into view and went in also, stretching themselves out on the hearth with long-drawn sighs of relief, and the three took up about all the spare room there was in the game-warden's little domicile. "I don't know who has the most impudence, the man or his dogs," thought Joe, as he closed and fastened the door. "They have come here to run things, judging by the way they shut me off from the fire." "This is glorious," continued Mr. Brown, depositing his double-barrel in the chimney-corner, and spreading his benumbed hands out in front of the genial blaze. "The air begins to get cold up here on the mountain just as soon as the sun sinks out of sight, and I am chilled through. Now, how am I to get to the Beach? That's the question." "You will have to answer it for yourself, for I can't," Joe replied. "You had a guide the last time I saw you." These innocent words seemed to irritate the man to whom they were addressed, for he turned upon Joe almost fiercely. "Yes, I did have one," said he. "But where is he now?" "I don't know," answered Joe. And he might have added that he did not care. "You heard me remind him that I had given him a handsome sum of money to put me in the way of a good day's shooting, did you not? I knew him to be perfectly familiar with these woods, and I supposed he could do it. Of course, I was aware that I couldn't take home a bag of grouse; but I knew there was no law protecting the English birds that have just been turned down in these covers, and I looked for jolly good sport, and for twenty-five or thirty brace of birds to distribute among my friends." "Don't you think it was kind of Mr. Warren to pay six dollars a pair for those birds, just to give you the fun of shooting them?" asked Joe. "You ought to thank him for it." Mr. Brown stared hard at the bold speaker, shrugged his shoulders, and turned around on his camp-chair to bring the heat of the fire to bear upon the back of his shooting-jacket. "Well," said he, slowly, "if any man is foolish enough to squander his money in that way, I don't know that it is any business of mine, or yours, either; and neither do I consider it my duty to refrain from shooting birds that are not protected by law, as often as my dogs flush them. Now, let me go on with my story." "But first suppose that you send the dogs under the table, and move back out of my way, so that I can cook supper," suggested Joe. But Mr. Brown and his four-footed companions were very comfortable there in front of the fire, and not until Joe, losing all patience, jerked the door wide open and caught up a broom, could any of them muster up energy sufficient to move out of his way. Then the pointers, which were really well trained and obedient, were easily induced to get under the table, while Mr. Brown retreated into the chimney-corner. "Now I am ready to listen," said Joe, after he had piled an armful of hard wood upon the fire. "Where is your guide, and why didn't he show you the way to the Beach?" "He is at home, I suppose," said Mr. Brown, growing spiteful again. "When I learned that these birds were protected, and that Brierly, instead of giving me a day's shooting had rendered both himself and me liable to trespass, I told him that he had better hand back the twenty-five dollars I had given him--" "Twenty-five dollars for a single day's shooting!" exclaimed Joe. "That is what I paid him," said Mr. Brown. "But do you imagine that he gave it back, even when he knew that he could not fulfil his promise? No, sir! He got out of it by leading me away off into the woods and losing me there. I had a fearful time working my way out, and it was only by the merest accident that I blundered within sight of the light that streamed from your window." "Good for Brierly!" was Joe's mental comment. "I wish he would serve every law-breaking pot-hunter who takes him for a guide in the same way." Then, aloud, he asked, "Did it frighten you to think that you had a fair prospect of lying out all night?" "It was by no means a pleasant reflection, but that wasn't what frightened me. I ran across a couple of men up there," said Mr. Brown, giving his head a backward jerk. "Their stealthy actions seemed to indicate that they were abroad for no good purpose, and I was not sorry to see the last of them." "Did they say anything to you?" asked Joe. "Not a word. They made all haste to lose themselves among the thickets, and so did I. It was the prospect of passing the night alone on the mountain while there were prowlers around that tested my nerves, and I was glad indeed to come within sight of your light." This piece of news was not at all quieting to the feelings of the young game-warden. It aroused in his mind the suspicion that there was more than one man hiding in the gorge, and that they made a business of roaming around after dark to see what they could find that was worth picking up. If this suspicion was correct, Mr. Warren's woods might prove a very unpleasant place for him to live for eight long months, Joe told himself. He could not remain on guard duty at the cabin all the time, for the work he came there to do would take him to the remotest nooks and corners of the wood-lot; and how easy it would be for those men to slip up during his absence and carry away everything he possessed! "If they are outlaws, and I really believe they are," thought Joe, as he poked up the fire, which had by this time almost burned itself down to a glowing bed of coals, "they ought to be hunted out of that gorge without loss of time. I will find Tom and Bob the first thing in the morning, and ask them what they think of it." CHAPTER XXII. MR. BROWN TAKES HIS DEPARTURE. "How far is it to the beach?" inquired Mr. Brown, who had got pretty well thawed out by this time. "Eight long miles," replied Joe, "and the most of the way lies through the thickest woods that are to be found among these hills. I can't direct you so that you could keep a straight course, and indeed I don't think I could keep it myself on a dark night like this. You had better give up the idea of going there to-night, and stay here until morning." "You seem to have but one bed," said Mr. Brown, doubtfully. "Well, you may take that, and I'll look out for myself." Most men would have expressed their regrets that circumstances compelled them to trespass upon the young game-warden's hospitality; but Mr. Brown wasn't that sort. He had a cheerful fire to sit by, a clean, if not luxurious bed to sleep in, a substantial meal in prospect, and what more could a belated hunter ask for? If his presence put Joe to any inconvenience, why, that was no concern of his. The supper that Joe served up to his uninvited guest was plain but well cooked, and no sooner had it been disposed of than Mr. Brown threw himself upon the cot, boots and all, and speedily went off into the land of dreams. Joe spent the evening in looking over the books and papers with which Mr. Warren had provided him, and when his watch told him that it was ten o'clock, he lay down before the fire, with his coat for a pillow, and went to sleep. The first gray streaks of dawn that came in through the uncurtained window awoke him, but his guest still slumbered heavily, and Joe did not disturb him until he had made the coffee and slapjacks, and fried the bacon and eggs. Mr. Brown did not take the trouble to respond to the boy's hearty good-morning, but seated himself at the table, after performing a hasty toilet, and attacked the savory viands without ceremony. When he had eaten rather more than his share of them, his tongue became loosened, and he asked if it were possible for him to reach the Beach in time to take the stage for Bellville. Joe said it was, provided he did not waste too much time in making a start, and then he began railing at Brierly for the mean trick he had served him. "I wish I could prosecute him and compel him to give up my money," said he, "but I don't see that I can make out a case against him. More than that, I can't wait to go through a law-suit, and neither do I want to give Mr. Warren a chance at me. He might take a notion to have a hand in the business." "Very likely he would," said Joe, dryly. "You knew well enough that these grounds are posted, and you ought to have cleared out when you saw the first notice." "You will guide me to the Beach, of course?" said Mr. Brown, who did not appear anxious to discuss this point. "I will put you on the road, but I can't promise to go all the way with you," was Joe's reply. "I am paid to stay here." Mr. Brown was not quite satisfied with this arrangement--he was very much afraid that he might get lost again--but he was obliged to put up with it. An hour later, Joe stood by his father's wood-pile, taking a last look at his departing guest, who was hurrying down the dim wagon-road toward the valley below. All he had received in return for his services was a slight farewell bow. "I have seen a good many sportsmen first and last," thought the young game-warden, as he shouldered his rifle and retraced his steps down the mountain, "but Mr. Brown beats me. If he ever spends another night in my house, he will take off his boots before he goes to bed, and pay me in advance for his meals and lodging." Remembering the prowlers of whom Mr. Brown had Spoken, Joe went straight back to his cabin, took a good look around to make sure that everything there was just as he had left it, and then started off in search of Tom and Bob. He found them setting their house in order. A note of warning from Tom's little beagle brought them both to the door, where they remained until Joe came up. They were somewhat surprised at his actions. Instead of replying to their greetings, he leaned on the muzzle of his rifle and looked quizzically at them. "Halloa! What has come over you all of a sudden?" exclaimed Bob. Still Joe did not speak. He shut his left eye, and looked at Bob through the half-closed lids of the other. "What do you mean by that pantomime?" chimed in Tom. By way of reply, Joe shut his right eye and looked at Tom with the left; whereupon all the boys broke out into a hearty laugh. "Say," said Joe at length, "I wish you would tell me just how much you know about the ghost that has taken up his abode down there in the gorge." "What ghost?" asked Bob, staring hard at his friend Tom, and trying to look surprised. "Down where in what gorge?" inquired Tom, returning Bob's stare with interest. "Of course you don't know anything about it," said Joe, with a look which said that they knew _all_ about it; "but if you are as ignorant as you pretend to be, why were you so anxious to keep me out of the gorge yesterday?" "Why--er--you see, we didn't want you to walk yourself to death for nothing," said Tom, wondering if Joe had anything better than mere suspicion to back him. "We knew there were a couple of fellows down there, for we heard them shoot, and we advised you to keep out of the gorge because we were satisfied that you couldn't catch them, and that it would be a waste of breath and strength for you to make the attempt." "Was that the only reason you had for giving me that advice?" asked Joe, with a smile. "You might as well confess that there was something down there you did not want me to see. There were two fellows in the gorge yesterday, but they were not hunting birds. They were after the twelve thousand dollars in bills and three hundred dollars in gold that you said were hidden there." "We never said so!" exclaimed both the boys, in a breath. "But the letter you wrote said so," insisted Joe. "And what do you think those trespassers did while they were there?" he continued, with great impressiveness. "They sent four charges of shot into the head of that ghost, which wasn't a ghost at all, if you only knew it." "Great Moses!" ejaculated Bob, who was really surprised now, as well as alarmed. The way in which Joe spoke was calculated to excite the gravest suspicions in his mind and Tom's. "Did--did they hit him?" Tom managed to ask. "I should say they did!" answered Joe, solemnly. "They could not miss him very well, seeing that he was only thirty yards away from the muzzles of their guns." "Was--was it a man?" Tom ventured to ask. "Animals don't generally have 'hants,' do they?" asked Joe, in reply. "There was a man there, and he howled and screamed--" "Oh, great Scott!" groaned Tom, while Bob rubbed his hands together, and gazed down the mountain, as if he were meditating instant flight. "And he kept it up after he received those four charges of shot in his head, and--" These words had a magical effect upon Tom and Bob, who were really afraid that their practical joke had resulted in a terrible tragedy. They looked at Joe so steadily that the latter could control himself no longer. He sat down on a convenient log, threw back his head, and laughed till the tears rolled down his cheeks. "You shot closer to the mark than you thought for when you made that letter say there was something in the gorge," said Joe, at last. "There's a man down there--two of them, according to my way of thinking." "Well," said Bob, who was immensely relieved by this sudden and unexpected turn of affairs, "we knew it. We went into the gorge day before yesterday, to catch a trout for dinner, and when we came home we followed the stream, thinking it would be easier than to climb up the bluff. That was the way we found it out. When we came to the place where we had located our robbers' cave our ears were saluted by such sounds as we never listened to before, but we didn't see anything." "What sort of an object was it that Dan shot at?" asked Tom, who was glad to see that Joe was not inclined to be angry over the trick that had been played upon his father and brother. "Was it a dummy?" "If it had been anything else I might have had a different story to tell you," was Joe's reply. "There are at least two outlaws in hiding there, and they have taken that way to make inquisitive hunters keep at a distance." "What makes you think there are two of them?" "Because Mr. Brown ran against two prowlers in the woods last night." "Who is Mr. Brown?" Joe replied that he was one of the men he had been obliged to order out of Mr. Warren's woods on the previous day, and then he went on to tell of the visit he had had from him the night before, and how frightened he was when he saw the man's face at the window. When he described how Brierly had managed to evade his employer's demand for the return of the twenty-five dollars that had been paid him, Tom and Bob laughed heartily, and declared that Brierly had served him just right. Joe did not neglect to tell how Mr. Brown had abused his hospitality, and his account of it aroused the ire of the two listeners, who declared that if that man ever got lost in their woods, he need not trouble himself to hunt up their cabin, for they would not take him in. "What kind of a looking thing was that dummy?" inquired Bob, coming back to the matter in which he was interested more than he was in Mr. Brown and his fortunes. Joe was obliged to confess that he could not answer that question, because Dan's description of the thing that he and his father shot at, surpassed all belief. Whether it was the appearance of the ghost itself, or the fact that the four loads of shot that had been fired at it had had no perceptible effect upon it, or the terrifying shrieks that awoke the echoes of the gorge--whether it was one or all of these that had frightened Silas into saying that he would not haul any more wood down from the mountain, Joe could not tell; but he thought those men ought to be made to give an account of themselves. If they had not violated the law in some way, why did they take so much pains to keep out of sight? "We were at first inclined to believe that some of the mischief-loving guests at the Beach had a hand in it," observed Tom. "When a lot of city people turn themselves loose in the country, they will go for anything that has fun in it, no matter what it is." "You mean that that was _your_ explanation of it," corrected Bob. "I thought when the thing happened, that it was an outlaw who yelled at us until we were glad to get out of hearing of him, and I think so now." "So do I," said Joe. "And I shall hold fast to that opinion until we go down there and get at the bottom of the mystery. I am ready to start at once. What do you say?" CHAPTER XXIII. EXPLORING THE CAVE. Ever since the mysterious inhabitant of the gorge had driven them from his presence by his unearthly howling, there had been a tacit understanding between Tom and Bob that some day, after they had time to get a good ready, they would return and drive him out of his hiding-place; or, if they failed in that, find out who he was, and what brought him there. It was the hope of being able to carry out one or the other of these ideas that had prompted them, on the previous day, to seize their guns and run for the gorge when they heard those four shots fired there. When they found Joe, and learned that he was more than half inclined to go in search of the poachers, who, he thought, were pursuing their nefarious work on the other side of the gulf, they endeavored to dissuade him, because they were afraid he might encounter something he would not care to see. But it turned out that Joe knew more about the matter than they did, and furthermore that he wouldn't rest easy until he knew _all_ about it. Tom was the first to speak. "I wonder if a stranger thing than this ever happened?" said he. "We wrote a letter and put it into your father's wood-pile, just for the fun of the thing--" "And by that means unearthed a brace of thieves, or something worse," said Joe. "You needn't look at me in that way. I don't bear you the least ill-will for what you did. On the contrary I thank you for it, and if I were sure that those parties in the gorge would let us alone this winter, I should be strongly in favor of letting them alone, too; for, as long as they stay there, we are safe from two of the worst game-law breakers in the country." "But the mystery of that gulf is known to but few," said Tom. "It will be known to more by this time next week," answered Joe. "Dan will tell it to every man and boy he meets, and in that way it will become noised abroad. But here's the difficulty: they won't let us alone. I have not the slightest doubt that they frightened Mr. Brown last night. If you could have seen the face he put against my window, you wouldn't doubt it either; and that seems to prove that, although they keep closely hidden during the day, they go out on foraging expeditions as soon as darkness comes to conceal their movements. If that is the case, what is there to hinder them from robbing our cabins at any time? You have the advantage of me, for one of you can stay here on guard while the other is attending to business; but when you see Joe Morgan, you see all there is of my party, and I can't be in two places at the same time. That's why I am so anxious to have those fellows out of there." "I understood you to say that you got your information from Dan," observed Bob. "What did he say? Did he tell you everything that happened in the gulf?" "Yes, and more, too," said Joe, with a laugh. "I went home yesterday after a time-piece, and Dan concluded to take me into his confidence." "Well, tell us the story, just as he told it to you, so that we may know." "Oh, I couldn't begin to do that, and besides, you wouldn't believe me if I did!" exclaimed Joe. "Then tell it in your own way, so that we may know just what we shall have to face, if we decide to go down there," said Tom. "Wait until I get something for us to sit down on, and then we'll take it easy." Tom went into the cabin, reappearing almost immediately with three camp-chairs in his hands. When each boy had appropriated one, Joe began his story, making no effort to follow Dan's narration, but telling it in such a way that his auditors saw through it as plainly as he did himself. Indeed, the whole thing was so very transparent that Tom and Bob marveled at Dan's stupidity. "It seems to me that a child ought to have seen through it without half trying," said Joe, in conclusion. "But simple as the trick was, it is going to end in something besides fun; mind that, both of you." "Then they wouldn't use the rope, because they were afraid that they would dump themselves down in front of the 'hant' before they could get a chance to shoot him," said Bob. "Well, they saved time by not looking for it, because it wasn't there. I never thought of the rope after I spoke about it in the letter. Well, Tom, what do you say? I am ready to face the spectre of the cave if you are." "Talk enough," was Tom's reply. And to show that he was in earnest about it, he picked up his camp-chair and went into the cabin. When he came out again, he carried his double-barrel in his hands and his cartridge belt was buckled about his waist. No one could have accused these three boys of cowardice if they had decided that they would not go near the gorge at all. It was plain that the men who were in hiding there--they were satisfied now that there were at least two of them--were fugitives from justice, and such characters ought to be left to the care of the officers of the law. It is true that their presence in the gorge was a continual menace to the peace and comfort of the young game-wardens. They seemed to say, by their actions, "We are here to stay, and you can't get us out." The boys took the events of the last two days as a challenge to them to come on and see what they could make by it, and the promptness with which Joe Morgan proposed the expedition, and the nervous eagerness exhibited by Tom and Bob in preparing to take part in it, indicated that they meant to do something before they came back. "There's one thing about it," said Bob, after he had armed himself, and closed and locked the door, "we are not to be turned from our purpose by a dozen dummy ghosts, and neither will those horrid yells have the same effect upon us that they did the first time we heard them. If Dan had fired into the bushes, instead of aiming at the 'hant's' head--" "I hope you don't intend to do that!" cried Joe, in alarm. "If you do, you will get into trouble as sure as the world. Beyond a doubt, there was a man behind the bushes." "Of course there was," assented Bob. "But you need not worry about me. I shall not allow my excitement to lead me into anything reckless." Tom Hallet, who was leading the way, took a short cut through the woods, and his route did not take him and his companions within a mile of Joe Morgan's cabin. If they had gone there, instead of holding a straight course for the gorge, they might have been in time to see something surprising. They did not know that the enemy was operating in the rear while they were marching upon his stronghold, but they found it out afterward. They moved along as silently as so many Indians, and when they reached the gorge, spread themselves out along the brink, looking for a place that gave promise of an easy descent to the bottom. Before they had made many steps, Joe uttered an exclamation of astonishment, and with a motion of his hand, called his companions to his side. "This is the spot we are looking for," said he, in a suppressed whisper. "Push the bushes aside and you will see it." Tom did so, and, sure enough, there was a clearly-defined path, which seemed to run straight down to the brook below. It looked more like an archway than anything else to which we can compare it, for the tops of the bushes were entwined above it, and they were so dense and matted that they shut out every ray of the sun. "Now what's to be done?" whispered Bob. "No doubt the path leads straight down to their hiding-place, and I am free to confess that I don't want to come upon them before I know it." Joe's reply was characteristic of the boy. He did not say a word, but worked his way through the bushes, and moved down the path with slow and cautious footsteps. "That looks like business," whispered Bob, who lost not a moment in following his daring leader, Tom and Bugle being equally prompt to bring up the rear. In this order they moved at a snail's pace toward the bottom of the gorge, stopping every few feet to listen, and all the while holding themselves in readiness to fight or run, as circumstances might seem to require, and to their great surprise they came to the foot of the path without encountering the least opposition, or hearing any alarming sound. The deep silence that brooded over the gorge aroused their suspicions at once. What if the enemy had heard their approach, in spite of all the pains they had taken to keep them in ignorance of it, and prepared an ambush for them? Joe thought of that, and the instant he found himself in the gorge, he moved promptly to one side, so that his companions could form in line of battle on his left--a manoeuvre which they executed at double quick time. "Great Scott! There's our cave," whispered Tom, who was so nearly overcome with amazement that he could scarcely speak plainly. "And there's the ghost," chimed in Joe, pointing to a scarecrow in white raiment that lay prone on the rocks under a dense thicket. "Just take a look at its head! Those four loads of shot tore it almost to pieces." But Tom and Bob did not stop to look at the ghost, for they were too busy taking notes of their surroundings while awaiting an onset from the owners of the camp. For it was a camp in which they found themselves, and everything in and about it seemed to indicate that it had been occupied for some length of time--two or three weeks at least. Tom's cave proved, upon closer inspection, to be something else--a rude but very comfortable shelter, in the building of which nature's handiwork had been improved upon by the ingenuity of man. The slanting roof, which for ten feet or more from the entrance was quite high enough to permit a tall man to stand upright, was the bottom of a huge rock, firmly embedded in the face of the overhanging bluff. The walls of the cabin, or whatever you choose to call it, were made of evergreens, which had been piled against the rock, top downward, to shed the rain; and that one little thing showed to the experienced eyes of the boys that the men who lived there were old campers. In front of the wide, open entrance were the smouldering remains of a camp-fire, over which a hasty breakfast had been cooked and eaten. The boys were sure that the meal had been a hurried one, because the dishes were left unwashed; and that is a disagreeable duty that no old-time "outer" ever neglects, unless circumstances compel him to do so. When the fire was in full blast, and the flames were roaring and crackling and the sparks ascending toward the clouds, it was probable that the interior of the cabin was bright and cheerful; but now it looked dark and forbidding, thought the boys, as they stretched their necks, twisted their bodies at all sorts of angles, and strained their eyes in the vain effort to see through the gloom that seemed to have settled over the other end of it. It was a fine place for an ambuscade, but if the enemy had concealed themselves there, why did they not come out? Now was the time for them to make their presence known and felt. All this while Tom Hallet's little beagle, upon which the boys had been depending to warn them of the proximity of any danger that their less acute senses might not enable them to detect, had been acting in a most unusual manner. He was generally foremost in every expedition in which his master took part, but in this one he was quite contented to remain in the rear. He went into the camp boldly enough, but after he had taken one look at its surroundings, and caught a single sniff of the tainted air, he stuck up the bristles on the back of his neck, dropped his tail between his legs, and ran behind his master for protection. "I really believe they are in there. 'St--boy! Go in and hunt them out! Sick 'em!" whispered Tom, pointing to the cabin. But Bugle was in no hurry to go. He was usually prompt to obey the slightest motion of his master's hand; but now he refused to budge an inch--except toward the rear. He ran to the foot of the path and stood there, saying as plainly as a dog could that he would go back to the top of the bluff before he would advance a step nearer to the cabin. The boys closely watched all his movements, and told themselves, privately, that perhaps they had done a foolhardy thing in coming down there. CHAPTER XXIV. ROBBERS. "You're a coward!" exclaimed Tom, shaking his fist at the frightened beagle, and forgetting in his anger that this was the first time the animal had ever refused to yield ready obedience to his slightest wish. "I'll trade you off for the meanest yellow cur in Bellville, and hire a cheap boy to steal the cur. Come back here and see what there is in the cabin, I tell you!" "Don't scold him," interposed Joe. "I don't much like the idea of venturing in there myself, but here goes." As he spoke he drew back the hammer of his rifle, and, with steady, unfaltering steps, walked into the cabin, little dreaming of the astounding things that were to grow out of this simple act. Tom and Bob promptly moved up to support him, but the sequel proved that it wasn't necessary, for there was no one in the cabin to oppose them. When Joe announced this fact, which he did as soon as his eyes became accustomed to the darkness, so that he could see what there was in front of him, Tom wanted to know where the robbers were, but that was a point on which his companions could not enlighten him. "They have gone off on a plundering expedition, of course," continued Tom, "and there's no telling when they will be back. We don't want to let them catch us here." "And neither do we want to leave until we have found out something about them," answered Joe. "Come in here, one of you. I have discovered a lot of plunder of some sort, and if we give it an overhauling we may be able to find out who it belongs to, and what brought them here. The other had better stay outside and keep watch." Tom volunteered to stand guard, and so Bob went into the cabin. It was large enough to accommodate half a dozen men, he found when he got into it, but the "shake downs," which were spread upon the floor at the farther end of it, indicated that probably not more than two or three persons were accustomed to seek shelter there. Bob had not been gone more than a minute when he called out to his friend at the entrance: "Say, Tom, here's our grip-sack." Tom was amused as well as surprised. He and Bob had made that letter up all out of their own heads, and with not the slightest suspicion in their minds that there was anything to be found in that particular gorge, except, perhaps, a solitary grouse or two, which had hidden there to get out of the way of the shooters who made their headquarters at the Beach, and yet they had located a concealed habitation, and described at least one of the things that were to be found in it. It was a little short of wonderful, and again Tom asked himself if such a thing had ever happened before. "Has it got a false bottom in it?" he inquired. "Don't know," answered Bob. "Here it comes. Examine it yourself, if you can open it, and let us know what you find in it." The valise was locked when it left Bob's hand and went sailing toward the entrance, but the force with which it struck the rocks burst it open, giving Tom a view of its contents. While he was taking a look at them, Joe and Bob were giving the cabin a most thorough overhauling, tearing the beds to pieces, and peering into every dark corner they could discover, and at every turn they found something to strengthen them in the belief that they had stumbled upon a den of thieves, sure enough. In the way of provender, they found a whole ham, a bushel of potatoes, and an armful of corn; and Joe declared that the last two must have been stolen the night before, because the dirt was not dry on the potatoes, and the husks on the ears of corn were perfectly fresh. "Mr. Hallet's fields furnished those things, and I should not wonder if the ham came from his smoke-house," said Joe. "But what could have been their object in stealing these sheets and pillow-cases? Campers don't generally care to have such things around, because they can't be kept clean." "Don't you think they used them to dress up their ghost?" inquired Bob. "That dummy out there under the bushes has got a sheet on." "So it has," replied Joe. "I'd give something to know what it was that suggested to them the idea of scaring folks away with that thing. They must know that everybody can't be frightened by white scare-crows. What is it? Found a false bottom in that grip-sack?" "Or the twelve thousand dollars in bills, and three hundred in gold?" chimed in Bob. These questions were addressed to Tom Hallet, who just then called attention to himself by uttering an exclamation indicative of the profoundest amazement. By way of reply he shook a handful of greenbacks at them, and then dropped it to pick up a large roll of postage stamps. By the time they got out to him he had exchanged the stamps for two elegant gold watches. "This grip-sack is full to the brim of valuables, money, and securities," said Tom, in a scarcely audible whisper, "and I--stop your noise!" he added, turning fiercely upon Bugle, who just then uttered a sound that was between a whine and a bark, and came running from the foot of the path where he had laid himself down to wait until the boys were ready to leave the camp. "Shut your mouth, you coward!" The beagle crowded close to his master's side, in spite of the efforts the angry boy made to push him away, looked toward the path, and whined and growled, and exhibited other signs of terror and excitement. With a warning gesture to his companions, Joe moved farther away from the cabin, and stood in a listening attitude. In a second more, he turned about, jumped back to the valise and began throwing the things into it in the greatest haste. [Illustration: TREASURE TROVE] "Hurry up, all of us!" said he in a thrilling whisper. "The men are coming down the path. I don't know whether or not they have seen anything to arouse their suspicions, but they are moving very cautiously, and talking in low tones. There you are," he added, when all the things that Tom had taken out of the valise had been crowded promiscuously into it again. "Grab it up and run with it before Bugle gives tongue to let them know that we are here. Bob and I will cover your retreat." Tom lost not a moment in acting upon this suggestion. In less time than it takes to tell it, they had all disappeared in the bushes. Tom made good time toward the first bend in the brook, hoping to get out of sight before the men had opportunity to discover that their camp had been disturbed during their absence, and he accomplished his object. As soon as he passed the first bend, and left the camp out of sight, Tom turned into the bushes and scrambled up the bluff, his watchful guard following close behind him. Knowing full well that the robbers were thoroughly armed, and that it would be an easy matter for them to bushwack them during their retreat, the boys did not relax their vigilance in the slightest degree when they reached the top of the cliff, and neither did they neglect to cover their flight by making use of every tree, rock and bush that came in their way. The experience they had gained in stalking the wild game of the hills stood them in good stead now, and so stealthy were they in their movements that the dry leaves that covered the ground scarcely rustled beneath their tread. Tom held a straight course for Joe's cabin, which was the nearest haven of refuge, but no sooner did he get a glimpse of it than he came to a sudden halt, and motioned to Joe to hasten to his side. "What's the matter?" asked Joe. "There are no enemies in front of us, I hope." "Did you forget to close and lock your door when you left home this morning?" inquired Tom. "Of course I didn't. I took particular pains to-- Now can anybody tell me what that means? The door is standing wide open, as sure as I live." "Has Mr. Warren got two keys to that lock?" queried Bob. "Not that I know of," answered Joe. "Then that open door means this," continued Bob: "While we were prowling about the robbers' camp, they, or some of their kind, seized the opportunity to come here and see what you--" Joe waited to hear no more. Without giving his friends a hint of his intentions, he ran toward the cabin at the top of his speed, hoping to corner somebody there, and cover him with his rifle so that he could not escape. But in this he was disappointed. It was plain that some one had been there while he was gone, for the window was open, as well as the door, and the cabin was in the greatest confusion. It had been ransacked as thoroughly as Joe and his companions had ransacked the robbers' camp. Knowing that he could not do the matter justice in English, the young game-warden leaned on the muzzle of his rifle and said nothing. "Who did it? Anything missing? This is a pretty state of affairs, I must say!" were a few of the exclamations to which Tom and Bob gave utterance, as they crowded into the cabin and took a hurried survey of things. Had it not been for Dan's encounter with the ghost on the previous day, Joe would have thought at once that his brother was the guilty party; but he did not suspect him now, because he knew that Dan would not dare to come up there alone to take revenge upon him for his refusal to admit him to a full partnership in his business. Silas was afraid to come up there, too; and even if he were not, it wasn't likely that he would do anything of this kind, because he wanted Joe to stay there and earn the hundred and twenty dollars, so that he could take it away from him. "If the blame doesn't rest with Hobson or some of that clique, it rests with the men to whom that grip-sack belongs," said Joe, confidently. "I don't know whether they have stolen any of my things or not. I must look them over first." Tom offering to assist him in his work, Bob volunteered to stand guard over them, adding: "It begins to look to me as though this thing of playing game-warden has its drawbacks, as well as going to school. Tom and I thought we were going to have the finest kind of times up here this winter, growing fat on grouse and squirrels, and enjoying the freedom of camp-life; but I have my doubts. We came here only yesterday morning, and just look at the fuss we have had already. What is it, Joe?" "Do you see my shotgun anywhere, either of you?" asked Joe in reply. "I am afraid it is gone. Yes, sir, it has been stolen," he added, after he had looked in every place where so large an article could find concealment. "I wish they might have left me that; but they didn't, and with it they took my game-bag, powder-flask and shot-pouch. I know that the whole outfit isn't worth any great sum; but I worked hard for it, and somehow I don't like to lose it." "I should say not," exclaimed Tom, who would hardly have exhibited greater anger if his fine double-barrel had been carried off by the thieves. "Look here, fellows," he added, suddenly, "that grip-sack was found on Mr. Warren's grounds, and I suppose we ought to hand it over to him, hadn't we? Well, then, shall we tell him about the ghost, or shall we skip that?" Bob and Joe didn't know how to answer this question. They hadn't thought of it before. CHAPTER XXV. WHAT THE GRIP-SACK CONTAINED. "And look here, fellows," said Tom, again, "If we forget to tell about the ghost, how shall we account for the extraordinary interest we have taken in the parties who live in the gorge? Answer me that, if you can." "The manly way is the best way," observed Joe. Tom and Bob knew that as well as Joe did. They were quite willing to tell Mr. Warren, when they gave the valise into his keeping, that the events of the day (all except the robbery of Joe's cabin, of course) had been brought about by their fondness for practical joking, but they could not make up their minds to do it, because they did not know how Joe would feel about it. If Silas and Dan were their father and brother, they wouldn't care to have every one in the country for miles around know what fools they had made of themselves over the letter which the former found in his wood-pile. "It isn't my fault that father and Dan believed the story that letter told them," continued the young game-warden, "and I don't see that I am under any obligation to keep their secret from my employer. I shall not ask him to keep it still, although I shall expect him to do so; but if the robbers are captured, as I hope they will be, the whole thing will come to light just as soon as the lawyers get hold of it." "Have you any idea where the things in this grip-sack came from?" said Bob, looking in at the door. "Have you heard of a heavy robbery being committed in these parts lately? Seen any account of it in the papers, Tom?" "No," replied the latter. "You have kept me so busy since you came up here that I haven't had a chance to look at a newspaper." "Neither have I," said Joe, with a smile; "not because I have been too busy, but for the reason that we can't afford to take one. I have no show whatever to keep posted in matters that happen outside the Summerdale hills." "Well, if you don't keep posted this winter, it will be your own fault," said Tom, banging the table with a package of illustrated papers which he had picked up from the floor. "Bob and I look to Uncle Hallet to keep us supplied with reading matter, and you are welcome to anything he gives us." "Thank you," said Joe. "I have the promise of all the books I want from Mr. Warren's library, and I should judge by the looks of that package that he intends to provide me with papers, also. Have you seen anything in the shape of grub, Tom?" "Nary thing," was the answer. "Have much of a supply?" "Enough to last a week, I should think." "It isn't here now," said Tom, looking around. "It has gone off to keep company with the shot-gun, most likely." "I am afraid it has, and that I shall be obliged to pack up a fresh supply on my back." "Coming up here again to-night?" asked Tom. "Of course I am," exclaimed Joe, who seemed surprised at the question. "I belong here, don't I? Are you not coming back?" "Certainly. But there are two of us, and only one of you; and, besides, you have no watch-dog to warn you of--oh, you needn't laugh! I know that Bugle acted the part of a coward to-day, but he is a good watch-dog for all that. He will be sure to awaken us if any one comes prowling around our cabin, and that is all we ask of him. There sir, your cot is all right again." "It's a wonder to me that they didn't steal my blankets," said Joe. "But, after all, they've got a pretty good supply, and probably they don't want any more to carry about the country with them, when they find themselves obliged to break up housekeeping in the gulf, and strike for new quarters. Now, I think we might as well go on to Mr. Warren's. I haven't missed anything yet except my provisions and shooting rig." Bob caught up the valise, Joe fastened the door by replacing the staple that had been pulled out of it, and the three boys struck through the evergreens toward the cow-path before spoken of, which ran from Silas Morgan's wood-pile to Mr. Warren's barn. They were still much excited, and showed it plainly in their actions and speech. Although they had no reason to believe that the robbers were anywhere near them, they did not forget to stop and listen now and then, and look along the path behind; and if a squirrel jumped from one tree to another, or the wind caused a sudden rustling among the neighboring bushes, they were prompt to drop their guns into the hollow of their arms and face in the direction from which the sound came. "I declare I am as nervous as any old woman," said Bob, at length. "I act and feel as if I had been frightened half out of my wits, and yet I haven't seen a single thing." "But you heard the robbers coming down the path, didn't you? And you know that they would be only too glad to have revenge on the parties who took their ill-gotten gains away from them," said Joe. "Now that I think of it, what right had we to touch this grip-sack?" "We took it 'on general principles,' as the policemen say when they arrest a person against whom they have no evidence, but who they think is getting ready to do something he ought not," was Bob's answer. "If those men came honestly by the things that are in that valise, we are liable to get ourselves into a pretty pickle for laying hands on it; but I'll bet you anything you please that they'll not come down to Mr. Warren's house after their property. 'Cause why, they haven't a shadow of a right to it." When the boys came within sight of the barn, they left the cow-path, crawled through a pair of bars, and turned into the wide carriage-way that ran around the house and past the front door. Their vigorous pull at the bell brought out Mr. Warren himself. "What are you doing here?" he asked, trying to look surprised and to bring a frown to his jolly, good-natured face. "Is this what you young gentlemen are paid for--to run about the country, while the market-shooters slip up to those wood-lots and shoot all the birds?" "If market-shooters were the only things we had to look out for, we'd have a fine time this winter," replied Bob, as the gentleman shook hands with him. "Do you see this grip-sack? Well, there's a tale hanging to it." Mr. Warren said he couldn't see any, and asked the boys to come in. "That's because the tale is in our heads," replied Bob, seating himself in the chair that was pointed out to him. "Will you be kind enough to dump the things out of this valise and tell us what you think of them. "What's in it?" inquired Mr. Warren, who looked puzzled. Bob, by way of response, waved his hand toward Tom, who said, in answer to the gentleman's inquiring glance: "I didn't have time to make a very thorough examination of its contents, for the robbers didn't stay away long enough; but--" "The robbers!" exclaimed Mr. Warren. "Yes; the men who are camping in the gorge. But I can't make you understand it, unless I go at it right," said Tom, who then went on to tell his story, to which Mr. Warren listened with the closest attention. When Tom ceased speaking, he said: "And so you knew that there was something in the gorge before you took possession of your cabin, did you? Well, your Uncle Hallet suspected it." "I don't know what right he had to suspect anything," said Tom. "We never told him of our experience in the gorge." "I know you didn't, and the reason was because you were afraid he would laugh at you. But he knew very well that you were keeping something from him. When the idea of playing game-wardens first took hold of you, you were very enthusiastic over it; but when you returned from your trip down the gorge, and learned that Mr. Emerson had given Bob permission to stay in the woods with you during the winter, you didn't dance about and go into ecstasies, as you ought to have done. That's why your Uncle suspects something; but, I declare, he didn't look for anything like this," exclaimed Mr. Warren, gazing in surprise at the contents of the valise, which he had turned out upon the carpet. "You have done a good piece of detective work, for these things were stolen, beyond a doubt, and if they came from the place I think they did, you are entitled to a reward of ten thousand dollars." "Great Scott!" exclaimed Tom and Bob, while Joe Morgan fairly gasped for breath, and his mind suddenly became so confused that he could not calculate how much his share of that reward would amount to. But he had a dim idea that it would be something over three thousand dollars; and wouldn't that place his mother above want for a good many years to come? The young game-warden never once thought of himself, until his father's scowling visage and Dan's arose before his mental vision, and then he wondered what tactics they would resort to, and what new system of persecution they would adopt, in order to squeeze the last cent of those three thousand dollars out of him. While he was thinking about it, he sat down on the floor beside Tom and Bob, who were kneeling in front of Mr. Warren. When the latter laid one of the watches aside, with the remark that it was a valuable timepiece, and no doubt the rightful owner would be glad to get it back, Bob picked it up and opened it. An inscription on the inside of the back part of the case caught his eye, and he read it aloud as follows: "Geo. Y. Seely, Esq. With the regards of his grateful friend, Joel Burnett." "What's that?" cried Mr. Warren. "Read that again, please." Bob complied, and then handed over the watch, so that Joe's employer could read it for himself. "I know both those men," said the latter, at length. "I went to school with them in the old academy at Bellville, and so did your father and uncle," nodding at Tom and Bob. "Seely helped Burnett out of a tight place, when his business was about to go to ruin, and Burnett gave him this watch to show his gratitude." "Then those things must have some from Hammondsport," exclaimed Tom. "Say, Bob, don't you remember reading an account of the disappearance of a lot of securities from the county treasurer's office in Hammondsport, on the same night that several burglaries were committed there?" "I believe I do," replied Bob, after thinking a moment. "If my memory serves me, the treasurer himself was suspected of having a hand in it--that is, in the loss of the bonds; but they couldn't prove anything against him." "Of course, they couldn't," said Mr. Warren, indignantly. "The missing papers are right here. I never did believe in his guilt, for I have known him for years, and I never saw the least thing wrong with him. He is under a cloud now, but it will break away as soon as your exploit becomes known through the country. You have rendered him a most important service, if you did but know it." "I am glad that we have been of some use in the world," said Bob. "Well, that was what you were put here for, wasn't it? How much do you think these things are worth?" said Mr. Warren, as he put the various packages back into the valise. The boys couldn't tell; but they remembered now that the thieves had taken a good deal of property out of Hammondsport on the night of their raid, and Tom and Bob thought that perhaps they had secured as much as forty or fifty thousand dollars' worth. "You boys don't know much," replied Mr. Warren. "That valise, just as it stands, couldn't be bought for a cent less than a hundred and fifty thousand dollars. The bonds and securities are worth a pile of money, I tell you; and there must be two or three thousands in greenbacks in there, to say nothing of the watches. Boys, you have done something to be proud of; and it's a lucky thing for Tom and Bob that they did not try to find out where the howls that frightened them came from. The robbers were at home then, and if they had not succeeded in driving you away, they would have shot you down without ceremony." "Then we had a perfect right to take that grip-sack, didn't we, Mr. Warren?" said Joe, whose mind was not quite easy on that score. "I should say you had," replied Mr. Warren, with a laugh. "You have made yourselves wealthy, too, for you are fairly entitled to the reward." "Well, what are we going to do about arresting those thieves?" said Tom. When all the packages had been put back into the valise, he and his two companions had got upon their feet and shouldered their guns, supposing, of course, that Mr. Warren would bestir himself as if he meant to do something; but, instead of that, he settled back into his chair and put his hands into his pockets. CHAPTER XXVI. MR. HALLET HEARS THE NEWS. "What are you going to do about it?" repeated Tom, who was impatient to begin operations at once. "The robbers have by this time discovered that their ill-gotten gains have slipped through their fingers, and of course they are not going to stay there in the gulf till the sheriff comes and gobbles them up. While we are idling here, they may be taking themselves safe off." "They may, and then again they may not," said Mr. Warren. "If they are at all acquainted with these hills--and if they are not, I don't see why they came here in the first place--they must know that there's not another spot in the whole country, of the same size, that affords so many excellent hiding-places. But we'll talk about them by-and-by. Joe is the fellow I am thinking about just now." The young game-warden looked his surprise, but did not speak. "Yes," continued Mr. Warren, "somehow I don't like to think about the visit they made to his cabin while you boys were in the gorge. Did they take any of your things, Tom?" That was the first time it had ever occurred to Tom and his friend that the robbers might have given their own house an overhauling, and that possibly Joe Morgan was not the only one who had suffered at their hands. They looked blankly at each other, and at last Bob managed to say that they had not been near their cabin since they left it in Joe's company, early in the morning. "Then perhaps it would be worth while for you to go up there and look into things," said Mr. Warren, "while I go down and talk to Hallet. It is possible that we shall decide to take this valise to Hammondsport before I come back. I am sure I don't want to keep it in the house over night, for if those robbers should by any means get on the track of it, they wouldn't be at all backward about coming here after it." "I don't see how they could get on the track of it," Joe remarked. "Did it ever occur to you that they might have followed you at a distance when you came down from the mountain?" inquired Mr. Warren. Yes, the boys had thought of that, and it had kept them on nettles. But they were never off their guard, held their guns ready for instant use, and faced about whenever they head the slightest sound. If the men were on their trail, why did they not rush up and grab the valise? "Because they did not care to face the bullets and bird-shot that were in those guns--that's the reason," answered Mr. Warren. "They will not do anything openly; I am not at all afraid of that. But I _am_ afraid that they will be full of life and action when night comes. Perhaps, after all, you boys had better bring your things down and stay at home, until the sheriff has had opportunity to take those fellows into custody. Joe, I give you an order to that effect." "I don't much like the idea of deserting my post on account of imaginary dangers," replied Joe. "That's the idea; neither do I!" exclaimed Tom. "It's my opinion that your Uncle Hallet will be quite positive on that point," said Mr. Warren, who laughed heartily when he saw the expression of disappointment and disgust that overspread the faces of the young game-wardens. "If he is, I'll kick, I bet you!" declared Tom. "And much good will that do you. Now, Tom, be a good boy, and do a little errand for me. Go out to the barn and tell Fred to hitch the blacks to the canopy top. Then we'll all ride down to Uncle Hallet's and see what he thinks of this morning's work." Depositing his double barrel in one corner of the hall, Tom hastened out to comply with this request, and Mr. Warren addressed himself to Bob and Joe. "This beats anything I ever heard of," said he. "Who would have imagined that your love of mischief was destined to bring rogues to justice, clear an honest man's reputation, and make you rich into the bargain? Joseph, I am sorry you lost your gun; but you shall not go hungry because they carried off your provisions." "The gun wasn't worth much," was Joe's reply, "and perhaps I haven't lost it yet. I shall live in hopes of having it returned to me when those men are arrested. Do you really think I had better stop at home?" "Of nights? Yes, I do." "I am not at all afraid," began Joe. "I haven't so much as hinted that you were," interrupted his employer, "but I can't see the use of your putting yourself in the way of danger for nothing. If there was any real need that you should stay up there, the case would be different. My object, and Hallet's, in building those cabins, was to provide comfortable quarters for our wardens, so that they would not have to wade through the deep snow in going to and from their work. If you will spend the day in walking around the woods and looking out for market-shooters, it is all I shall ask of you, until those robbers have been shut up. Even after that you may have trouble, for you have got Brierly down on you." "I don't see why Brierly should be down on him," said Bob. "By turning him back, Joe helped him get twenty-five dollars for nothing." "I am well enough acquainted with him to know that he will never forgive Joe for threatening to report him," said Mr. Warren. "The first good chance he gets, he will be even with him for that." While they were talking in this way, Tom Hallet came bounding up the steps, and a few minutes later the canopy top was driven up to the door. The boys got in, in obedience to a sign from Mr. Warren; but one of them, at least would have objected, if he had thought that he could gain anything by it. That one was Joe Morgan, who scarcely knew whether he stood on his head or his feet. Mr. Warren's confident assertions regarding the value of the property which he and his two friends had found in the robbers' hiding place had turned him completely upside down--at least, that was what he told himself. His share of the ten thousand dollars, if he ever got it (and his employer did not seem to have any misgivings on that point), would make a great change in his circumstances. It would put it in his power to obtain the schooling he wanted, and give his mother the good long rest of which everybody, except Silas and Dan, could see that she stood so much in need. "But won't they be hopping mad when they hear of it?" Joe asked himself, over and over again. "And what would they have done with the things that are in that valise, if they had found them? The money they could have spent, of course; but they would not dare wear the watches and jewelry, and the papers they would have destroyed, and with them their only chance of putting in a claim for the reward. As things have turned out, mother will receive the most benefit from this morning's work, unless it be the county treasurer, who was unjustly accused of crookedness. He can thank Bob and Tom for that, and if I ever see him, I shall take pains to tell him so. If they had not played that joke on father and Dan, he might have remained under a cloud all his life." The young game-warden was so fully occupied with these thoughts that he did not know what was going on around him, until Bob Emerson seized him by the arm and shook him out of his reverie. "Isn't that so?" he demanded. "Certainly; it's all true," replied Joe. "It was a nice place, wasn't it?" continued Bob. "Splendid," said Joe, who had no idea what particular place Bob was referring to. But the latter did not notice his abstraction. He and Tom were telling Mr. Warren what a nice camp the robbers had made for themselves under the bluff, and dilating upon the amount of work they must have done in making so good a path through those dense thickets. "In front of the cabin--that's the way we always speak of it, for it wasn't really a cave, you know--there was a cleared half-circle that was fully as large as your parlor," said Bob. "In this circle we saw a few battered cooking utensils, the smoking ashes of a camp-fire, and the ghost that frightened Dan Morgan so badly that he dared not carry the secret to bed with him. I said from the first that it was a man and not an animal that yelled at us when Tom and I came down that gorge day before yesterday, and I finally succeeded in making Tom think so, too; but he insisted that it wasn't an outlaw, but some one who took it into his head to play a trick on us, just for the fun of seeing us run. Not until Joe told us his story, and gave us his ideas regarding matters and things, did we know just what we would have to face if we went into that gorge." "You say the ghost seemed to grow in height while Dan looked at it," observed Mr. Warren. "Did Dan's fears make him say that, or was it a part of the trick?" "Of course I am not positive on that point," was Bob's reply, "but I think it was a part of the trick. I gave but one hasty glance at the dummy, but I took note of the fact that it was rigged on a very long pole, and it would have been easy for the man who was managing it to raise it higher and higher above the bushes, if he wanted to do it. I also noticed that the face was made of a stuffed pillow-case, which had been blackened with a piece of coal to show where the eyes, nose and mouth ought to be." "What do you think suggested to them the idea of making use of a dummy to frighten folks away from their hiding-place?" "I don't know, unless it was the success that attended their efforts to keep Tom and me from going there," answered Bob. But the sequel proved that, although he had guessed pretty closely on some things, he had shot wide of the mark when he guessed at this one. "As good luck would have it, you went into the gorge while the robbers were absent on a plundering expedition," said Mr. Warren. "But suppose you had found them at home, and ready to receive you--what then?" "But we didn't, you see!" exclaimed Tom, triumphantly. "We had the camp all to ourselves." "I must say that you are a reckless lot," declared Mr. Warren, "and it would be serving you just right if Uncle Hallet should order you to be ready to start for school when the next term begins." Bob looked blank, but Tom hastened to quiet his fears by saying: "He will never think of such a thing. He is a firm friend of Mr. Shippen," (that was the name of the county official who was suspected of making way with the bonds and other valuable documents that had been placed in his hands for safe keeping), "and when Uncle Hallet knows that we can clear him, he will be so delighted that he won't think of scolding us. There he is now. He has been out to get some flowers for his library table." Mr. Hallet was surprised to see his neighbor drive into his yard with the three game-wardens, who ought to have been far away on the mountain attending to business, and almost overwhelmed with amazement when he heard the story they told him while seated on the porch. When Mr. Warren showed him the recovered securities, at the same time remarking that their mutual friend Shippen would be cleared of all suspicion the moment those papers were produced in Hammondsport, Uncle Hallet went into the hall after his hat and duster, declaring that it was a matter of the gravest importance, and must be attended to at once. Then he added something that gave his nephew the opportunity to "kick." "I am going over to the county-seat with Mr. Warren, and you two boys had better stay here until I return," was what he said. "Now, just look here--" began Tom. "I know all about it," interrupted his uncle, turning his head on one side and waving his hands up and down in the air, "and I am in too great a hurry to listen to any argument. Joe Morgan has seen one white face looking at him through his window, and if you stay up there to-night you will see two; but they will be white with anger, and not with fear. You have got yourselves in a box by your prying and meddling," added Uncle Hallet, who was delighted with the exploit the boys had performed and proud of their pluck, "and I want you to keep away from those hills after dark, I tell you." "Well," said Tom, with a long-drawn sigh, "I suppose I shall have to submit." "I think I would, if I were in your place," said Mr. Warren. And as he spoke he brought so comical a look to his face that every one on the porch broke out in a hearty laugh. CHAPTER XXVII. JOE'S PLANS. When they had had their laugh out, Mr. Warren said to Uncle Hallet: "Don't you think it would be a good plan for the boys to bring their outfit to a place of safety until the sheriff has had time to go up there and take care of those robbers? If they take it into their heads to burn the cabins, we don't want them to burn everything there is in them." "Of course not," assented Mr. Hallet. "Tom, tell Hawley to hitch up and move you down at once--you and Joe. Mind, now, I want him to go with you." "We don't need him," protested Tom. "We can take care of ourselves." Uncle Hallet did not think it necessary to discuss this point. He had given his orders, and he knew that they would be strictly obeyed. He stepped into Mr. Warren's wagon, and the latter drove out of the yard, leaving the boys to themselves. "He didn't say that we couldn't go back again as soon as the robbers have been caught, did he?" observed Bob, whose fears on that score were now set at rest. "It's going to be a bother to walk up there and back every day, when we might just as well remain in our cabins, but it seems that we've got to do it." Tom replied that it certainly looked that way; adding, that it would be of no use for them to "kick," because he knew by the expression that was on Uncle Hallet's face when he laid down the law to them, that he meant every word he said. They went out to the barn, and found Hawley, the hostler, gardener, and man-of-all-work, who could hardly believe the story they told him while he was hitching up; and it needed the sight of Mr. Warren's blacks, stepping out for Hammondsport at their best pace, and an examination of the broken fastenings of Joe's cabin, to convince him that the boys had not dreamed it all, and that there had really been something going on up there on the mountain. "I wouldn't sleep in one of these shanties as long as those robbers are at liberty for twice fifteen dollars a month, and I think Uncle Hallet did just right in telling you to keep away from here after dark," said Hawley. And he was in such haste to get the things into his wagon and start for home, that the boys were surprised, and wondered if he would be of any use to them if they got into any trouble. "There," said Tom, at length; "Joe's cabin is as empty as it was two days ago. Now, let us go over to our own domicile, and see how things look there. We can move faster than you can, Hawley, so we will go on ahead." "Well, I guess you'd better not," was the man's reply. "I judged from what you said that it was your uncle's wish that I should keep an eye on you. And how am I going to do it if you don't stay with me?" "We are in a great hurry to find out whether or not our house was robbed at the same time that Joe's was," replied Bob, "and we can look out for ourselves. Come on boys!" "He acts as if he were afraid to be left alone," whispered Joe Morgan. "And I believe he is," answered Bob. "Events may prove that we are in more danger up here than we think for." Bob didn't know how close he shot to the mark when he uttered these careless words, but he found it out afterwards. Paying no heed to Hawley's remonstrances, the boys hastened on in advance of him, and in due time came within sight of Tom's cabin. Nothing there had been disturbed. If the robbers knew of its existence, they probably did not think it safe to go there, because it was so far from their hiding-place. "We don't want those things to go," said Tom, when Hawley drove up and jumped out of his wagon. "We've kept out grub enough for our dinner." "Ain't you going back with me?" inquired the man. "What's the use? We would have to come up here again, and we don't care to prance up and down this mountain any more times than we are obliged to. It is understood that we are to stay here during the day. If we didn't, these wood-lots would be black with shooters in less than twenty-four hours." "Well, I wouldn't stay, day or night," said Hawley. "Them birds ain't worth the danger that you fellows put yourselves in every minute you spend here." Hawley's anxiety to get through with his work and start for home, was so apparent, that it is a wonder the young game-wardens did not grow frightened and decide to go back with him; but they didn't think of it. They helped him load his wagon, and saw him depart without any misgivings. "Now, what arrangements shall we make about dinner?" said Bob, as soon as Hawley was out of sight. "I say, let's eat it at once, and be done with it; then we will save ourselves the trouble of packing it around through the woods for an hour and a half." The boys were all hungry, and knowing by experience that a loaded haversack or game-bag is an awkward thing to carry through bushes, they agreed to Bob's proposition, and set to work immediately. By their united efforts a substantial meal was quickly made ready and as quickly disposed of, and then they bade one another good-by and separated. "Joe's got good pluck, I must say," exclaimed Tom Hallet, turning about to take a last look at Mr. Warren's warden, who was just disappearing in the gloom of the woods. "I don't think I should be afraid to be left here alone, but I am very well satisfied to have you with me." And Joe Morgan would have been better satisfied if he, too, had had a companion to talk to, instead of being obliged to roam about by himself. But he was working for money, of which his mother stood in need, and he did his duty, although (candor compels us to say it) he gave the gorge a wide berth. The startling events of the morning and the many warnings he had received were of too recent occurrence to be forgotten, and he didn't care if he never saw that gorge again; still, he would have gone even there if he had seen or heard the least thing to indicate that poachers were at work in that vicinity. He kept a sharp eye on his watch, and when the clumsy-looking hands told him that he had just time enough left to get home before dark, he bent his steps toward the wood-pile, which he always took as his point of departure, carrying a light heart in his breast, and the happy consciousness that he had left nothing undone. "On the contrary, it's the best day's work I ever did," said Joe, to himself. "Three thousand three hundred dollars, and a little more for my share of the reward! Wh-e-w! I do wish I could think of some way to keep it from father's knowledge and Dan's; but they are bound to hear of it, and make me all the trouble they can concerning it, and I don't know but I might as well face the music to-night as any other time." The future looked as bright to the young game-warden as it did to Silas Morgan the first time we saw him moving down that road. But there was this difference between the two: Joe had something tangible upon which to build his hopes, while his father had nothing but the letter he held in his hand. His mother was the first to greet him when he reached home; indeed, she was the only one of the family there was in sight. She was surprised and startled to see him, but she saw at a glance that there was no cause for alarm. "Where's father and Dan?" inquired Joe, taking the precaution to open the door, which had been closed behind him. He did not want either of the two worthies whose names he had just mentioned to slip up and hear what he had to say to his mother. "I don't know where they are now," was Mrs. Morgan's answer. "Daniel has been sitting there on the bank almost ever since you went away; but your father, would you believe it, Joe?--he has been down to the Beach to give up the setters that he has had in his keeping so long." "Good enough!" exclaimed Joe, who was delighted to hear it. "I have been afraid that those dogs would get him into trouble sooner or later, and they would, too, if he had held fast to them much longer. Did he find the owner?" "No; but he gave them to the landlord, to be kept until they were called for. I don't know what sort of a story he told regarding them, but he seemed to feel better when he came back." "Have you any idea what induced him to take that step?" "I think it was the fright he had." "Good enough!" said Joe, again. "Those hants--for there are two of them--are the best friends we ever had. Now, don't say a word, for I want to tell you something before anybody comes to interrupt me. I repeat, they are good friends of ours. They have led father into making restitution of property that he never ought to have had in his hands, and they have been the means of--" Before he told what the hants had been the means of doing, Joe stepped to the door and looked out. It was pitch dark now, but the light that streamed from the door of the cabin was bright enough to show him that there was no eavesdropper in sight. Why didn't he think to go around the corner and look behind the chimney? "They have made us rich, mother," continued Joe, stepping to Mrs. Morgan's side, and speaking in low but distinct tones. "I made three thousand three hundred dollars this morning by doing less than two hours' work. Hold on till I get through. I know you are astonished, and so am I; but it's all true. Sit down, for I've a long story to tell." The young game-warden, who stood in constant fear of interruption, talked rapidly, but he went into all the details, and, by the time he got through, his mother knew as much about it as he did himself; but she said she was afraid it was too good to be true. "No, it isn't," exclaimed Joe. "When Tom told our story to Mr. Hallet's hired man, he declared that we had been asleep and dreamed it all. But it isn't reasonable to suppose that we could all dream the same thing, is it? When other folks begin talking about it, you will find that it is true, every word of it. I wish there was some one here to hold me on the ground," cried Joe, jumping from his chair and swinging his arms around his head. "Mother, your hard days are all over, and I can go to school, can't I? I am going to study hard this winter, and whenever I get stumped, I'll ask Tom and Bob to help me out." Having worked off a little of his surplus enthusiasm, Joe sat down again and talked coolly and sensibly with his mother regarding his prospects for the future. So deeply interested did he become in what he was saying, that he did not hear the very slight rustling behind the cabin that was occasioned by his brother Dan, who withdrew his ear from the crack between the boards against which it had been closely pressed, and stole off into the darkness. But Dan was there and heard it all; and he pounded his head with both his fists as he walked away. CHAPTER XXVIII. CAPTURE OF BOB EMERSON. Although the young game-warden did not see them, Silas Morgan and his hopeful son Dan were both sitting on the river bank, in plain view of the cabin, when he came home. They were both surprised to see him, and Dan gave it as his private opinion that one night alone in the woods had effectually taken away all Joe's desire to act as Mr. Warren's game protector during the winter. "And I'm just glad of it," said Dan, spitefully. "I hope in my soul that that hant came and looked in at his winder, and howled and screeched at him like he did at us." "Well, I hope he didn't," answered Silas. "If Joe is drove away from there, I don't know what we will do for grub and such when winter comes. I ain't a going up to old man Warren's wood-lot to work, I bet you!" "Neither be I," said Dan. "Then where's the money to come from? We can't live without money, you know." "Well, Joe ain't going to give you none of his'n, 'cause he told me so. He's going to give every cent of it to mam, and you and me can go hungry for all he cares." "No, I don't reckon we'll go hungry. I know when pay-day comes as well as he does; and when I know that he's got the month's wages in his pocket, can't I easy steal it outen your mam's possession after he hands it over to her? Didn't think of that, did you?" "Well, you won't never steal any money outen mam's pocket, nuther," replied Dan. "Whenever she wants anything from the store, Joe he'll give her an order on old man Warren, and mam won't tech none of his earnings. He told me so. You're mighty sharp, pap, but that Joe of our'n is one ahead of you this time." Dan looked to see his father go into a fearful rage when he said this, but Silas did not do anything of the sort. He sat with his elbows resting on his knees and his hands supporting his head, gazing off into the darkness toward the opposite side of the river. "What do you reckon that stingy Joe of our'n has come back here to tell mam?" continued Dan. Silas was obliged to confess that he didn't know, and followed it up with the suggestion that it might be a good plan for him to creep up and find out. "Creep up yourself, if you want to know wusser'n I do," was Dan's reply. "Can't you see that the door is wide open?" "What of it?" said Silas. "Can't you creep up behind the chimbly! There's a crack there atween the boards that you've often listened at, 'cause I've seen you. Who knows but Joe may be telling her something about the money that's in the cave?" Dan said it was not likely that Joe knew anything about the cave, beyond what he himself had told him; but still his father's words aroused his curiosity, and awakened within him a desire to learn what Joe had to say to his mother. He waited a moment or two to bring his courage up to the sticking point, and then threw himself upon his hands and knees and crept away from his father's sight. He was gone about twenty minutes, and when he returned, he acted so much like a crazy boy that Silas was really afraid of him. "What's the matter of you?" he demanded, in an angry whisper. "Did Joe say anything so't you could hear it?" "You're right he did," Dan managed to say, at last. "Oh, pap, we'll never in this world have another chance like that. We had the best kind of a show to get rich, and we let it slip through our fingers, fools that we was." Silas fairly gasped for breath. He stared fixedly at Dan, who sat on the bank, rocking himself from side to side; but he was too amazed to speak. "The money was there all the time," Dan went on, "and that Joe of our'n he went and got it, dog-gone the luck!" "And all along of your telling him about it, you idiot," snarled Silas. "If you had kept your mouth shet, that Joe of our'n wouldn't never have known that the money was there. I have the best notion in the world to--" "Now, can't you wait until I tell you?" exclaimed Dan, whose senses came back to him very speedily when he saw that his father was pushing up his sleeves. "It wasn't all along of my telling him, nuther, that Joe found out about the cave. Tom and Bob told him, for they were the ones that writ the letter you took outen your wood-pile." The ferryman's astonishment quickly got the better of his rage, and he listened in a dreamy sort of way to the story that Dan had to tell him; but when the latter reached the end of it, and Silas found out that he had really been within a few yards of a valise whose contents could not be purchased for less than one hundred and fifty thousand dollars, and that the white thing that frightened him was not a ghost, after all, but a dummy, managed by a man who might have been disabled by a single charge from his double-barrel--when Silas heard this, he was ready to boil over again. The fact that a third of the handsome reward that had been offered for the recovery of the stolen bonds would come into his family did not serve as a balm for his wounded feelings. He wanted the money himself; and the reflection that after coming so near to securing it, he had allowed himself to be frightened away by-- "Oh, my soul!" groaned Silas, jumping to his feet, and striding up and down the bank, with both hands tightly clenched in his hair. "Here's me and you, as poor as Job's turkey, while that Joe of our'n has got more'n twice as much as he oughter have. He's rich, and after this he won't do nothing but loaf around and spend his money, while me and you-- Now, wait till I tell you! Did you ever hear of such amazing mean luck before? Toot away!" he cried, shaking both his fists at the opposite bank. "I wouldn't go over after you if I knew I'd get five dollars for it. What's five dollars alongside the ten thousand we might have had if we hadn't been such fools? Oh, Dannie, why didn't we shoot a little lower?" While Silas was talking, the blast of a horn sounded from the other side of the river. It was a notice to the ferryman that there was some one over there who wanted to cross the stream, but Silas was in no humor to respond to it. Again and again the signal was given, and finally a hail came through the darkness. "Hallo, there!" shouted a familiar voice. "Is Joe Morgan at home?" "No, he ain't!" growled Dan in reply. "Yes, he is!" shouted the owner of that name, who had come out to assist in taking the flat across the river. "Is that you, Tom Hallet?" "Yes. Have you seen anything of Bob?" "Not since dinner," was Joe's answer. "What's the matter with him?" "We hope there isn't anything the matter with him," shouted Tom; "but we begin to think-- Say, Joe, come over, and bring a lantern. I have something to show you." "I don't know how he's going to get over, unless he is able to manage the flat all by himself," said Dan, in an undertone. "I won't help him, I bet you." Silas was about to say the same, but his curiosity, of which he had considerably more than two men's share, got the better of him. "What do you reckon he wants to show you?" said he, addressing himself to Joe; "and what's become of Bob?" "I am sure I can't tell," answered Joe. "But if you will help me to take the flat over, we will find out all about it. I am sure you will hear something worth listening to if you will lend a hand." "All right; I'm there," said Silas, jumping up with alacrity. "But I ain't," said Dan, doggedly. "Who said anything to you?" demanded his father, almost fiercely. "Set where you are if you feel like it. Me and Joe can get along without none of your help; and furder'n that," he added, in a lower tone, as Joe ran to the house to bring a candle and some matches--there being no such thing as a lantern in the ferryman's humble abode--"me and Joe will go snucks on his share of the reward, and you shan't see a cent of it. So there, now!" These words were sufficient to infuse a good deal of life and energy into Dan. He believed that his father would yet contrive some way to swindle Joe out of every dollar that came into his possession, and if he (Dan) hoped to get any of it for his own, he must be very careful how he went contrary to his father's wishes. When Joe came back with the candle, Silas and Dan were standing in the flat, all ready to shove off. The young game-warden could not remember when he had carried so heavy a heart across the river as he did on this particular evening. He did not say anything, for he knew that his father and Dan could not understand his feelings, but his brain was exceedingly busy. Bob Emerson had disappeared in some unaccountable way. He knew that much, and somehow Joe could not help connecting this circumstance with some words the missing boy had let fall the last time he was in his company. "We may be in more danger while we are up here than we think for," and, "This thing is going to end in something besides fun." These words, which Bob had uttered without giving much heed to what he was saying, now seemed to Joe to be prophetic of disaster. Of course, this reflection made him uneasy, and he exerted himself to get the heavy flat over to the other side with as little delay as possible. So did Dan, for a wonder, and the result was, that they made a much quicker passage than they usually did. When the flat came within sight of the bank, Silas, who was at the steering-oar, leaned forward and informed Joe, in a whisper, that Tom was not alone--that his uncle Hallet, old man Warren, and both their hired men were with him, as well as two strangers whom he didn't remember to have seen before. But a moment later, he added, in tones of excitement: "Yes, I have seen 'em, too. They're the sheriff and one of his deputies. Well, they can't do nothing to me. Ain't it a lucky thing for me, Joey, that I give up them setter dogs to-day?" "I am glad you did," replied Joe, "but I shall always be sorry that you ever had anything to do with them in the first place." With a few long sweeps of his steering-oar, Silas brought the flat broadside to the bank, and Joe Morgan sprang out. Tom Hallet was the first one to speak to him. "Did I understand you to say that you have not seen Bob since we ate dinner together?" said he in a trembling voice. "That is just what I said," answered Joe, whose worst fears were now fully confirmed. "You and he went off together, and I haven't seen him since. Where is he?" "I wish I knew," replied Tom. "We felt sorry for you, when we saw you going away alone; but you got back safe and sound, while we didn't. You see-- Where's your lantern?" Joe replied that he had brought a candle, and proceeded to light it. Then Bob handed him a slip of paper on which were written the following fateful words: "If you will bring back the property you stole from us, and put it where you found it, we will give up our prisoner. If you don't, or if you attempt to play tricks upon us, you will never see him again." This portion of the note was written in a strange hand, but under it was a postscript which Tom declared had been penned by nobody but Bob Emerson. It ran thus: "They've got me, Tom, and that's all there is about it. For goodness sake, bring back that valise! And be quick about it, for they threaten to do all sorts of dreadful things to me, if their demands are not complied with in less than twenty-four hours." Joe handed back the piece of paper, and looked at Tom without speaking. CHAPTER XXIX. THE HUNT FOR THE ROBBERS. "Bob was right when he declared that this thing was destined to end in something besides fun, wasn't he?" observed Tom, giving utterance to the very thoughts that were passing through Joe Morgan's mind. "But I don't believe he ever dreamed that anything like this was going to happen." "Do you think the robbers have got hold of him?" faltered Joe, who knew that Tom expected him to say something. "I know it?" was the answer. "Where were you when they captured him?" "I don't know. The way it happened was this: After you left us we decided to make the entire round of uncle's wood-lot, and as we couldn't do it if we stayed together, we separated, and that was the last I saw of Bob Emerson. Before parting we agreed to meet at the cabin at six o'clock, sharp. I was there at the minute, but Bob wasn't, and while I was waiting for him, I happened to see this notice, which was fastened to the door of the shanty with a wooden pin. That's all there is of it." "Why don't you go down to the gorge?" "We went there the first thing, and we've been everywhere else that we could think of," replied Tom. "They left their camp in a great hurry; but where they went is a mystery. But we will have them before many hours have passed away," added Tom, confidently. "These officers have come up from Hammondsport on purpose to arrest them, and they are not going back without them. We are taking them down to the Beach now, to raise a "hue and cry" among the guides there, and by daylight to-morrow morning the mountains will be full of men. There is an additional reward offered for the arrest of the thieves, you know, and it is big enough to stimulate everybody to extra exertion." While Tom and Joe were talking in this way, the rest of the party had gathered about Silas, whom they were trying to induce to join in the general hunt that was to be made on the following day. Dan, being left to himself, listened with one ear to what Tom was saying to his brother, and with the other tried to keep track of the conversation that was going on in his father's neighborhood. When he heard Tom say that a reward had been offered for the apprehension of the robbers, as well as for the recovery of the property they had stolen, he stepped closer to him, and whispered: "Do you know how much it is?" "Five thousand dollars for both of them, or half of it for one," answered Tom. "Now, Dan, there's a chance for you to make yourself rich." "But that there hant--" began Dan. "Is no hant at all," replied Tom. "Why, man alive, there are no such things, and I thought everybody knew it. I took a good look at this one while we were up there to-night, and found that it was nothing but a long pole with a stuffed pillow-case on one end of it for a head, and a short cross-piece for the shoulders. The man who managed it and made it act as if it were about to spring at you was behind the bushes out of sight. He and his companion did the yelling, and you never hurt either one of them, although your four charges of shot tore the pillow-case all to pieces." "Yes," replied Dan, "Pap 'lowed that we'd oughter fired into the bresh." "Exactly. If you had showed a little more pluck, you and your father might have had ten thousand dollars to divide between you. As it turned out, Joe is entitled to only a third of it, but he'll get that, sure." "Dog-gone such luck!" exclaimed Dan, in a tone of deep disgust. "Well, it was a windfall to your family, anyway," observed Tom, "and you can add more to it to-morrow, if you're smart." "And what will poor Bob be doing while we are hunting for him?" inquired Joe. "He seems to be frightened, for he wants you to give up the valise, and be quick about it." "Oh, nonsense!" exclaimed Tom; "you don't know Bob Emerson as well as I do. He wrote that postscript, of course, and so would you if you had been in his place. But Bob would be the maddest boy you ever saw if we should pay the least attention to it." At this moment Uncle Hallet and Mr. Warren turned toward the place where the boys were standing, the former saying, with some impatience in his tones: "Well, Silas, if you are afraid to come you can stay at home; but I would have a little more pluck if I were in your place. You'll come, won't you, Joe, and help us hunt down those villains who have kidnapped Bob Emerson?" "Indeed I will," answered Joe, promptly. "I knew that would be your reply," continued Mr. Hallet. "Now, if you will bring the flat to the bank and drop the apron, we'll get our team aboard and go on to the Beach." The ferryman and his boys went to work with a will, and when the flat reached the other side of the river, the passengers got into their wagon and drove toward the Beach, after telling Silas that they would go home by way of the bridge, and he need not stay up to ferry them back; while Joe hurried off to tell his mother what he had learned during his short interview with Tom Hallet. "It's the greatest outrage I ever heard of," said he, indignantly; "but they needn't think they are going to make anything by it. Don't I wish I might be lucky enough to gobble at least one of those robbers!" "Oh, Joseph, I don't know whether I want you to go up there or not," said his mother, growing frightened again. "I must!" replied Joe, decidedly. "I have promised to be at Tom's cabin to-morrow morning at daylight, and that settles it. I wonder if father and Dan will go?" That was the very question that Silas and his worthy son were propounding to each other as they sat side by side on the river's bank. The terrible fright they had sustained on the day they went after the money was still fresh in their minds; but then, there was the reward, which was a sure thing this time, provided they could be fortunate enough to capture the robbers. They were both willing, and even eager, to join in the "hue-and-cry" that was to be raised against the thieves, provided they could do it in their own way; and the plans they were revolving in their minds, but of which they did not speak, were the same in every particular. For example, Dan wanted his father to stay at home, and after he got into the mountains, he wanted nobody but Joe for company. The latter had showed himself to be bold as well as lucky, and if they two should happen to catch one of the robbers, Dan would not feel that he was under the slightest obligation to share the reward with his brother, because Joe had more than three thousand dollars of his own already. But if his father went with him, he would lay claim to half the money, and he would be likely to get it, too, for he had the right to take every cent Dan made. This was the way Dan looked at the matter; and it was the very way his father looked at it. The result was, that although they spent an hour or more in looking it over, they went to bed without deciding whether they would go or not. Nevertheless, they had well-defined plans in their heads, and each one resolved that he would carry them out regardless of the wishes of the other. Silas, in order to throw Dan off his guard, began operations by saying to his wife, the moment he entered the cabin: "I ain't a-going to jine in the rumpus the sheriff kicks up after them fellers to-morrow. It's mighty comical to me how easy some people can talk to you about putting yourself in the way of getting a charge of bird-shot sent into you, while they keep outen range themselves. I ain't got no call to resk my life a finding of Bob Emerson, and I shan't do it to please nobody." Dan was secretly delighted to see his father work himself into a rage over the supposition that somebody would be pleased to see him go in the way of danger. "If he will only stick to that, I'm all right," said he, to himself. "Pap sleeps sounder'n a dozen men oughter, and if Joe don't call him in the morning, you can bet your bottom dollar _I_ won't." Knowing his failing in this particular, Silas made the mental resolution that he would not go to sleep at all. The young game-warden, who was one of those lucky fellows who can wake at any hour they please, could be relied on to make an early start, and Silas told himself that he would lie perfectly still and wide awake until breakfast was ready, when he would jump up, eat his full share of the bacon and potatoes, and set out for the mountain when Joe did. But even while he was thinking about it, he went off into a deep slumber. He did not awake when Joe got up, and neither did the rattling of the dishes nor the savory odors of the bacon and coffee arouse him to a consciousness of what was going on in the cabin. Having heard him say that he did not intend to join the sheriff's posse, Mrs. Morgan and Joe did not think it worth while to disturb him, and Dan would not do anything to interfere with his own plans, which thus far were working as smoothly as he could have desired. "But I've got a sneaking idee that there'll be trouble in this here house when pap does wake up, and finds me and Joe gone," thought Dan. "No matter. I won't be here to listen to his r'aring and pitching, so he can go on all he wants to. And if me and Joe should catch one of them robbers--whoop-pee! Then I'll have the reward all to myself; 'cause I ain't a going to put myself in the way of getting shot at, and then go snucks with a feller that's got more'n three thousand dollars a'ready. I'll see him furder first." The hours dragged along all too slowly for the tired, patient woman who sat in the open door with her sewing in her lap, and her tear-dimmed eyes fastened upon the hills among which the only member of the family who cared for her, or who tried in any way to smooth her pathway and make her burdens easier to bear, might at that very moment be rushing to his destruction. She wished he might have stayed at home and let some one else go in his place; but Joe was loyal to his friend, and Mrs. Morgan had not tried to turn him from his purpose. She wished, too, that the weary day was over, so that the young game-warden could come back and say something comforting to her. Just then somebody did say something, but the voice belonged to one who was not often guilty of saying or doing anything to comfort her. "Na-r-r-r!" came from a distant corner of the cabin, and Silas Morgan threw off the blankets and started up in bed, to find that it was broad daylight, that breakfast had been cooked and eaten, and that the boy he had hoped to outwit was gone. He saw it all at a glance, but he wanted an explanation. "Where be they?" he demanded. "They have been gone almost three hours," was the meek response. "And you let 'em go without saying a word to me?" roared the angry and disappointed man. "Why, father, you told me last night that you didn't intend to go," said his wife. "And you didn't have any better sense than to believe it!" shouted Silas. "Did they go off together? Well, old woman, you have cooked your goose this time--you have for a fact. I wanted to go with Joe myself, and leave Dan to home, 'cause he ain't no account when there's any shooting and such going on. He's too much of a coward to stand fire, Dan is. I had kind o' made it up in my mind that me and Joe would captur' one, and mebbe both, of them bugglars, and I kalkerlated to give you the most of my share of the money; but now you won't get none, and it serves you just right for letting me sleep when you oughter called me up. But I'll tell you one thing for a fact--the three thousand that Joe has made already, and the hundred and twenty he's going to earn this winter, is mine; likewise all the reward him and Dan get to-day, if they get any." So saying, Silas shouldered his double-barrel and left the cabin, paying no sort of attention to his wife's entreaties that before he set out for the mountain he would take a cup of coffee and a bite of the breakfast she had kept warm for him. CHAPTER XXX. BRIERLY'S SQUAD CAPTURES A ROBBER. When Morgan arose from his "shake-down" on the morning of this particular day, he was promptly joined by his brother Dan, whose actions told him as plainly as words that he had reasons of his own for not wishing to disturb his father's slumbers. Dan was generally the last one of the family to bestir himself in the morning, and even after he got upon his feet, it took him a good while to wake up; but it was not so in this instance. His senses came to him the moment he opened his eyes, and, for a wonder, he brought in the wood, and lent a hand at setting the table. He moved about the room with noiseless footsteps, spoke in scarcely audible whispers, and cast frequent and anxious glances toward his father's couch. "Well, sir, we done it, didn't we?" said he, when breakfast had been eaten and he and Joe were hurrying along the road toward the place of meeting. "Did what?" inquired his brother. "Got away without waking pap up," said Dan, who was in high glee. "I knew he said last night that he didn't mean to go, but I wasn't such a fool as to believe it. He wanted to go with you; and then do you know what would have happened if you and him had captured one of them bugglars? Well, sir, he would have laid claim to the whole of the reward, and never give you a cent of it. I'm onto his little games. And he's going to make you hand over them three thousand dollars you made yesterday. He's a mighty mean, stingy feller, pap is, and you want to watch out for him." Dan talked to keep up his courage, which began to ooze out of the ends of his fingers when he found himself drawing near to the gorge; but Joe was so deeply engrossed with his own thoughts that he did not hear a dozen words of it. The young game-warden was not building air-castles. He was by no means as confident as Dan appeared to be, that it would be his luck to assist in the capture of one of the robbers, and, if the truth must be told, he hoped that that dangerous duty would fall to somebody else. He had more money now than he had ever expected to possess, and his brains were busy with plans for keeping it out of his father's reach. While he was turning them over in his mind, they came within sight of his cabin. Dan insisted on seeing the inside of it, so Joe pulled out the loosened staple, and threw open the door. "Ain't you mighty glad that you wasn't here when them robbers come up and stole your grub and things?" said he, after he had taken a look around. "Say, Joey, you'll keep old man Warren's rifle, to take the place of the scatter-gun you lost, won't you?" "Of course not," was Joe's indignant reply. "Why, Dan, this rifle is worth forty or fifty dollars!" "So much the better," answered Dan, who evidently thought that a fair exchange with Mr. Warren could not by any means be looked upon in the light of a robbery. "You lost your gun while you was working for him, and through no fault of your'n, and I say he'd oughter give you another. Them's my sentiments." "Well, they are not mine," said Joe, closing the door, and replacing the staple. "I wouldn't have the face to look at a man again if I should ever mention the matter to him." Dan did not know how to combat these sentiments, which were so widely at variance with his own, and as there was no longer any necessity that he should talk to keep his courage up, seeing that there was a large number of officers and guides almost within the sound of their voices, he said nothing. A quarter of an hour's walk brought them to Tom's cabin, where they found a score or more of men, who were leaning on their rifles, or lounging around on the ground in various attitudes. These, they afterward learned, comprised but a small portion of the crowd that had assembled there that morning in obedience to the summons of the sheriff and his deputy, the others having gone off in squads of four men each to begin the search. Mr. Warren told Joe that Tom Hallet was so impatient to be doing something for his friend, that he had left with the first squad that went out. He said, also, that a good many more men had gone, or were going, out from Bellville and Hammondsport; so the capture of the robbers was a foregone conclusion. "By dividing into small parties we shall be able to give all the ravines and every piece of woods in the country, for miles around, a thorough overhauling before night," added Mr. Warren, "and we thought that four men were enough for each squad. They won't care to have the reward divided among too many, you know. I am going with the sheriff, and shall be glad to have you make one of our party." "And I shall be glad to do it," replied Joe. As Mr. Warren walked away to speak to the officer, Dan pulled his brother's coat-sleeve, and whispered: "He didn't say that he'd be glad to have me make one of his party, did he? Well, I'm going, all the same. Say, Joey, if our squad gobbles both them bugglars, how much'll that be for each of us?" "Twelve hundred and fifty dollars," was the reply. "Well, now, sposen our squad catches one of 'em, and some other squad away off somewheres else catches t'other one--how much will that be for each feller?" "A little over three hundred dollars." "Is that all?" said Dan. And, to have heard him speak, you would have thought that he was in the habit of carrying a good deal more money than that loose in his pockets every day. "And you've got more'n three thousand dollars a coming to you! Dog-gone such luck as I do have, any way!" It was probable that Dan had more to say on this point. He usually had a good deal to say whenever he fell to talking about his bad luck; but just then Mr. Warren beckoned to Joe, who promptly stepped forward to join his squad, Dan keeping close to his heels. "I wish I could think up some plan to get even with old man Warren for the way he's acting," thought Dan, who was indignant because the gentleman did not show him a little more respect. "I don't reckon he wants me along, but I don't care whether he does or not. I'm here to stay, no odds if there is five men instead of four in the party, and if we catch them bugglars I'll make 'em hand over my share. That'll be--lemme see." After an infinite deal of trouble and much hard thinking, Dan arrived at the conclusion that his share of the reward, if any were earned by that squad, would be just one-fifth of five thousand dollars. But Joe would come in for a share, also, and then he would have four thousand dollars, while Dan would have but one. Did anybody ever hear of such luck? Joe was ahead, and Dan didn't see any way to catch up with him. The sheriff's squad walked far and hunted faithfully all that day. There was no thicket too dense for them to penetrate, and no gorge so dark and gloomy that they were afraid to go down into it; but they saw nothing of the robbers, and neither did they happen to come upon either of the other searching parties. They stopped for lunch on the banks of a trout brook, and the sheriff was filling his pipe for a smoke, when all on a sudden he struck a listening attitude, at the same time enjoining silence upon his companions by a motion of his hand. "That's two," said he, in a low voice. "Now wait. That's three. Now wait a little longer, and perhaps we shall hear some gratifying news." The others held their breath to listen, and presently, faint and far off, and rendered somewhat indistinct by intervening hills, and by the echoes that mixed themselves up with the sound, they heard three reports of heavily-loaded shotguns. "Hurrah for law and order," cried the sheriff. "Our work is half done, and some lucky squad will have twenty-five hundred dollars to divide among its members." "We don't get none of it, do we?" whispered Dan to his brother. "Did we have any hand in making the capture?" asked Joe, in reply. "Of course, we don't." "Dog-gone such luck!" murmured the disappointed Dan. "One of the outlaws has come to grief," continued the sheriff, "and that proves that they must have separated. I should much like to know what they did with their prisoner. It seems to me, from where I stand, that they were guilty of an act of folly when they gobbled Bob. They ought to have known that by doing a thing of that kind, they would get every able-bodied man in the country after them." The officer and his squad were so anxious to have a hand in completing the work so well begun, that they did not remain long in camp, although they might have passed the rest of the day there for all the good they did. Every now and then they stopped to listen, but they never heard any signals to indicate that the other robber had been apprehended. That, however, was no sign that such signals had not been given; for the Summerdale hills covered a good deal of territory, and the searching parties were so widely scattered that it would have taken a field-piece to signal to all of them. Finally, the sheriff announced, with a good deal of reluctance, that it was time to go home; and it was with equal reluctance that the members of his squad turned their steps towards Tom Hallet's cabin. It was almost dark when they came in sight of it, but still there was light enough for Joe Morgan to see that the cabin had been visited during their absence, and that there was a communication of some sort awaiting them. It was fastened to the door, and Joe ran ahead of the squad and took it down. Then he found that it was not intended for any one in particular, but had been left for the information of everybody who had taken part in the search. "Shall I read it, Mr. Warren?" asked Joe, when his employer came up. "It is in Tom Hallet's own hand." "Let us hear it at once," replied Mr. Warren. And Joe read as follows: "Good and bad news.--Robber No. 1 was captured by Brierly's squad at half-past twelve. Bob Emerson is with me now, and none the worse for his adventure. That's the good news. "Nothing has been seen or heard of robber No. 2, who doubtless fled deeper into the hills than any of our searching parties had time to go. The Bellville and Hammondsport squads say they will try him again to-morrow. That's the bad news." "And it isn't so very bad, either," said the sheriff. "If he gets lost, as I hope he will, we'll have him to-morrow, sure; but if he works his way out of the hills, we shall have to call upon the telegraph to help us. So Brierly has made himself wealthy by this day's work. I should think that he could afford to let your blue-headed birds alone, now, Mr. Warren." "Did any living person ever hear of such luck?" muttered Dan. "Everybody is getting wealthy, 'cepting me." The squad broke up here, Mr. Warren and two companions turning into the cow-path that led down the mountain by the shortest route, and Joe and Dan striking for home, where a most astonishing discovery awaited them. CHAPTER XXXI. SILAS IN LUCK AT LAST. Dan Morgan did not have as much to say on the way home as he did while he and his brother were passing over that same road in the morning. Another one of his air-castles had fallen about his ears, and a portion of the money he had hoped to earn would go into Brierly's pocket. One of the robbers had been captured, but the other had taken himself safely off, and that was the end of all his dreams. Did anybody ever hear of such luck? It made him very angry to see how light-hearted Joe seemed to be. "I reckon you're glad 'cause I ain't got a cent to bless myself with, ain't you?" said he, savagely. "Then, what do you keep up such a whistling for? You can afford to be happy, when you know that you can have a pile of money by asking for it; but I ain't a going to be treated this here way no longer." The young game-warden did not pay the least attention to his brother's ravings, because he had something of more importance to think about--his future. He was sadly in need of such training as he could get at the Bellville academy, and he had sense enough to know it; and the point he was trying to decide was: Should he ask his employer to release him from his contract, so that he could go to school during the winter? or would it be better to make sure of the hundred and twenty dollars he could earn during the next eight months, and look to Tom and Bob to help him along with his studies? While he was thinking about it, the cabin hove in sight, and at the same time an exclamation from Dan called him back to earth again. Joe looked up, and saw his father sitting motionless on a chair in front of the cabin. His double-barrel lay upon the ground within easy reach of him, his elbows were resting upon his knees, and his chin was upheld by the palms of his hands. He appeared to be gazing steadily at some object that was hidden from Joe's view by the corner of the house. "How do you reckon he feels over the trick we played on him this morning?" said Dan, with a grin. "He thinks he's a sharp one, pap does, but he ain't got no business along of me." "If there was any trick played upon him, you did it, and not I," answered Joe. "Father hasn't worked half as hard as we have, and yet he is just as well--What in the name of wonder is that?" While Joe was speaking, he and Dan moved around the corner of the house, and then the object at which Silas was looking so fixedly was disclosed to view. It was a man who was sitting on a bench beside the door, and who was so closely wrapped up in a clothes-line that he could scarcely stir one of his fingers. [Illustration: SILAS AND THE BANK ROBBER] Hearing the sound of their footsteps, the man, whoever he was, slowly turned his head toward the corner of the cabin, whereupon Silas shouted out, in a savage voice: "None of that there, I tell you! You can't get away, 'cause you're worth a power of money to me, and I'm bound to hold fast to you till--Human natur'!" yelled Silas, jumping to his feet, with both barrels of his gun cocked. "Oh, it's you, is it? I kinder thought it was t'other robber coming to turn his pardner loose." Silas was so completely wrapped up in his own affairs that the boys got close to him before he was aware of their presence, and it is the greatest wonder in the world that he did not shoot one of them in his excitement. He was really alarmed; but when he had taken a good look at the newcomers, in order to make sure of their identity, he laid his gun across the chair, pushed up his sleeves, and shook both his fists at Dan. "So you thought you would fool your poor old pap this morning, did you, you little snipe?" he shouted. "Well, you see what you made by it, don't you?" "I never tried to make a fool of you," stammered Dan, who had a faint idea that he understood the situation. "I never in this wide world!" "Hush your noise when I tell you I know better," yelled Silas; and one would have thought, by the way he acted and looked, that he was very angry, instead of very much delighted, at the way things had turned out. "Here you have been and tramped all over them mountings, and never got a cent for it, while I have made a clean twenty-five hundred dollars, if I counted it up right on my fingers; and I reckon I did, 'cause your mam put in a figger to help me now and then." "Why, how did it happen?" exclaimed Joe, who, up to this moment, had not been able to do anything but stand still and look astonished. He knew that his father had captured one of the robbers without help from any one, and that was more than fifty other men had been able to do, with all their weary tramping. "The way it happened was just this," said Silas, who could not stand in one place for a single moment. "Hold on there!" he added, turning fiercely upon his prisoner, who just then moved uneasily upon the bench, as if he were trying to find a softer spot to sit on. "I've got my eyes onto you, and you might as--" "Why, father, he can't get away," Joe interposed. "You've got him tied up too tight. Why don't you let out that rope a little?" "'Cause he's worth a pile of money--that's why!" exclaimed Silas; "and I won't let the rope out not one inch, nuther. You, Joe, keep away from there." "I really wish you would undo some of this rope," said the prisoner, who, like Byron's Corsair, seemed to be a mild-mannered man. "I have been tied up ever since two o'clock, and am numb all over. I couldn't run a step if I should try." "Don't you believe a word of that!" exclaimed Silas. "Come away from there and let that rope be, I tell you." "Say, father," said Joe, suddenly, "what are you going to do with your captive? Do you intend to sit up and watch him all night long?" "I was just a studying about that when you come up and scared me," replied Silas, dropping the butt of his gun to the ground, and leaning heavily upon the muzzle. He never could stand alone for any length of time; he always wanted something to support him. "What do you think I had better do about it? I don't much like to keep him here, 'cause--Why just look a here, Joey," added Silas, moving up to the door, and pointing to some object inside the cabin. "See them tools I took away from him?" The boys stepped to their father's side, and saw lying upon the table, where Silas had placed it, a belt containing a brace of heavy revolvers and a murderous-looking knife. "Now, them's dangerous," continued Silas, "and if this feller's pardner should happen along--" "But he won't happen along," interrupted Dan. "Brierly's squad gobbled him." The ferryman looked surprised, then disgusted, and finally he turned an inquiring glance upon Joe, who said that Dan told the truth. "You don't like it, do you?" said the latter to himself. "It sorter hurts you to know that there is them in the world that are just as lucky and smart as you be, don't it? Yes, that's what's the matter with pap. He don't want no one else to be as well off as he is." And when Dan said that, he hit the nail fairly on the head. "The other robber is not in a condition to attempt a rescue," said Joe; "but, all the same, I don't think you ought to keep this man here all night. The sheriff is now at Mr. Warren's house, and it is your duty to hand the prisoner over to him at once. Be careful how you point those guns this way." This last remark was called forth by an action on the part of Silas and Dan that made Joe feel the least bit uncomfortable. While the latter was talking, his hands were busy with the rope; and when the prisoner arose from the bench and stamped his feet to set the blood in circulation again, his excited and watchful guards at once covered his head and Joe's with the muzzles of their guns. "Turn those weapons the other way," repeated Joe, angrily. "You don't think this man is foolish enough to try to run off while his hands are tied, do you? Now, father, how did you happen to catch him?" "It was just as easy as falling off a log," replied Silas, resuming his seat and resting his double-barrel across his knees. "When you and Dan went away this morning, I just naturally shouldered my gun, walked up the road to the foot of the mounting, and set down on a log to wait for game to come a running past me, just the same as if I was watching for deer, you know." This was all true; but there was one thing he did that he forgot to mention. The only "game" Silas expected to see was Dan Morgan, when he returned from the mountain at night, and the ferryman was prepared to give him a warm reception. Before he devoted himself to the task of holding down that log by the roadside, he took the trouble to cut a long hickory switch, and to place it beside the log, out of sight. He meant to give Dan such a thrashing that he would never play any more tricks upon him. "Well, about one o'clock, or a little after, while I was a setting there and waiting for the game to come along, I heared a noise in the brush, and, all on a sudden, out popped this feller. He was running like he'd been sent for, and that's why I suspicioned him. Of course I didn't know him from Adam, but I asked him would he stop a bit. And he 'lowed he would, when he seed my gun looking him square in the eye. I brung him home, and your mam she passed out the clothes-line, and I tied him up." "Where is mother now?" asked Joe. "Gone off after more sewing, I reckon," replied Silas, in a tone which seemed to say that it was a matter that was not worth talking about. "She helped me figger up what I would get for catching him, and then she dug out. I'm worth almost as much as you be now, Joey, and that there mean Dan, who wouldn't stay by and help me, he ain't got a cent. Now, don't you wish you hadn't played that trick on me this morning." "Never mind that," interposed Joe, who did not care to stand by and listen to an angry altercation which might end in a fight or a foot-race between his father and Dan. "If we are going to deliver this man to the sheriff to-night, we had better be moving." "Do you reckon the sheriff will hand over the twenty-five hundred when I give up the prisoner?" inquired Silas, as the party walked down the bank toward the flat. "Of course he won't." "What for won't he?" "Because he hasn't got it with him. Perhaps it was never put into his hands at all. I haven't received my share yet." "Then I reckon I'd best hold fast to him till I'm sure of my money," said Silas, reflectively. "I guess I won't take him down to old man Warren's to-night." "I guess you will, unless you want to get into trouble with the law," said Joe, decidedly. "If you don't give him up of your own free will, the sheriff will take him away from you." Silas protested that he couldn't see any sense in such a law as that, but he lent his aid in pushing off the flat. Dan, who was almost too angry to breathe, had more than half a mind to stay at home; but his curiosity to hear and see all that was said and done when the prisoner was turned over to the officers of the law impelled him to think better of it. When the flat was shoved off, he jumped in and picked up one of the oars. CHAPTER XXXII. BOB EMERSON'S STORY. We have said that Tom Hallet was so anxious to help his unlucky friend Bob in some way that he joined the very first squad that went out in search of him. The man who had the name of being the leader of it was the sheriff's deputy; but the two stalwart young farmers who belonged to his party were longer of limb than he was, and they pushed ahead at such a rate that the deputy speedily fell to the rear, and stayed there during most of the day. "Me and Cyrus have come out to win that there reward," said one of the young men, when Tom remonstrated with them for leaving the officer so far behind, "and we can't do it by loafing along like that sheriff does. We've got a mortgage to pay off on the farm, and we don't know any easier way to raise the money for it than to capture one of them rogues." But this sanguine young fellow was not the only one who was destined to have his trouble for his pains; and what made his disappointment and his brother's harder to bear, was the reflection that if they had left Tom's cabin half an hour earlier than they did, they might have succeeded in earning a portion of the money of which they stood so much in need. They were not more than a quarter of a mile away, when Brierly's signal guns announced that one of the robbers had been captured. They ran forward at the top of their speed, hoping to reach the scene of action before the arrest was fairly consummated, but in this they were also disappointed. When they came in sight of the successful party, they found the robber securely bound, and Brierly wearing the belt that contained his weapons. "Too late, boys!" exclaimed the guide, who was highly elated over his good fortune. "You can't lay claim to any of our money, if that's what brung you up here in such haste." "We don't care for the money," panted Tom. "Where's Bob?" "That's so," said Brierly, who had not bestowed a single thought upon the prisoner during the whole forenoon. "Where is he? Say, feller, what have you done with him?" "I have not seen him for two hours," replied the prisoner. "As soon as we found out that the hills were full of men, we set him at liberty, and I suppose he made the best of his way home. We didn't want to keep him with us, for fear that he would set up a yelp to show where we were hiding." Just then the deputy, who had been sitting on a log to recover his breath, managed to inquire: "What have you done with your partners?" "There were only two of us, and the other man has gone off that way," answered the captive, nodding his head toward an indefinite point of the compass. Tom Hallet had no further interest in the hunt. He stood by and watched the officer as he unbound the prisoner and substituted a pair of handcuffs for the rope with which his arms had been confined, and when Brierly's party started off with their captive, Tom fell in behind them. He went as straight to his cabin as he could go, and there he found Bob Emerson, who was rummaging around in the hope of finding something to eat. "I haven't had a bite of anything since last night, and you'd better believe that I am hungry," said Bob, after he and Tom had greeted each other as though they had been separated for years. "But I am not a bit of a hero. I haven't had an adventure worth the telling." "There's nothing in there," said Tom, seeing that his friend was casting longing eyes toward his game-bag. "I didn't take much of a lunch with me, and I was hungry enough to eat it all. Can you stand it till we get home?" "I'll have to," replied Bob. "By-the-way, did you ever see that before?" As he spoke, he put his hand into his pocket and drew out a soiled and crumpled letter, which looked as though it might have been through the war. It was the same precious document that he and Tom had left in Silas Morgan's wood-pile. "One of the robbers gave it to me last night," continued Bob, in reply to his companion's inquiring look. "You will remember that Dan Morgan lost the letter within a few feet of the log on which he sat when he read it, and that when he and Silas went back to find it, they were frightened away by something that dodged into the bushes, before they could get a sight at it, and which they took to be a ghost. Well, it wasn't a ghost at all, but one of the thieves, who had been to the Beach after supplies. He found the letter and read it. Of course he was greatly alarmed, and so was his companion; for they couldn't help believing that some one had got wind of their hiding-place. They could hardly believe me, when I told them that you and I made that letter up out of the whole cloth, and that we never dreamed there was any one living in the gorge." "But we did know it," said Tom. "Of course we did, after they frightened us, but not before. They spoke about that, too. We took them completely by surprise the day we came down the gorge. We were close upon their camp before they knew it, and for a minute or two they didn't know what to do. Then one of them conceived the idea of making that hideous noise, and when the other saw how well it worked, he joined in with him." "But didn't they know that we would be back sooner or later to look into the matter?" asked Tom. "Of course they did, and that was another thing that frightened them. They saw very plainly that their hiding-place was broken up, and were making preparations to leave it when Silas and Dan put in their appearance. The robbers saw and heard them long before they got to the camp, and the one who found the letter recognized them at once. It was at his suggestion that that ghost was rigged up." "But they must have known that they could not scare everybody with that dummy," observed Tom. "To be sure they did, and they were in a great hurry to get away from there; but they needed provisions, and by stopping to get them they fell into trouble. They took Joe Morgan's house for a woodchopper's cabin and while we were robbing them, they were foraging on Joe. I tell you, Tom, it's a lucky thing for us that we got out of that gorge when we did. They were mad enough to shoot us on sight." "I don't wonder at it," replied Tom. "It would make most anybody mad to lose a hundred and fifty thousand dollars in money and securities, no matter how he came by them. Where did they catch you? Did they treat you well?" "They treated me well enough," was Bob's reply, "but I believe that if they had not stood in fear of immediate capture I should have a different story to tell, if, indeed, I were able to tell any. I told you nothing but the truth in the postscript I added to their note." "I knew they made you write it, and that you did not express your honest sentiments when you told us to be in a hurry about giving back that valise." "I was sure you would understand it; but what could a fellow do with a cocked revolver flourished before his eyes by a man who was in just the right humor to use it on him?" "He would do as he is told, of course," answered Tom. "But do you suppose they thought they could get that valise back by threatening you?" "I don't know what they thought, for they acted as if they were crazy. They caught me in less than half an hour after I left you, and it was through my own fault. I ran on to them before I knew it, and do you imagine I thought 'robbers' once? As true as you live I didn't. I took them for poachers, and told them, very politely, that these grounds were posted and they couldn't be allowed to shoot there, when all on a sudden it popped into my head what I was doing. They saw the start I gave, and in a second more they had me covered. If I could have got away without letting them see that I suspected them, they wouldn't have said a word to me." "Well, they covered you with their revolvers; then what?" "Beyond a doubt, they made a prisoner of me before they thought what they were doing, and when they came to look at it they found that they had got an elephant on their hands. Then they would have been glad to get rid of me; but they did not see just how they could do it with safety to themselves, so they made up their minds to use me." "At first they thought they would wait and see if anything would come of the notice they left on the door of the cabin, and then they thought they wouldn't--that they would hunt up another hiding-place as soon as possible; so they ordered me to take them where nobody would ever think of looking for them. And I could do nothing but obey." "Were you acting as their guide when they released you?" Bob replied that he was. "Why didn't you veer around a bit, and lead them toward the railroad?" "If I had I shouldn't be here now," answered Bob, significantly. "They warned me to be careful about that, and they were so well acquainted with the hills that I was afraid to attempt any tricks. We camped over on Dungeon Brook last night, and set out again at an early hour this morning, but before we had been in motion an hour, we found ourselves cut off from the upper end of the hills, and that was the time they made up their minds to let me go. They didn't say so, but still I had an idea that they didn't want me around for fear I would make too much noise to suit them." "I know they were afraid of it," said Tom. "The robber that Brierly's squad captured said so." "Is one of them taken?" exclaimed Bob, who hadn't heard of it before. "That's good news. Where's the other?" "Don't know. They separated after they let you go, and Brierly captured one of them. Perhaps we shall hear something about the other one now," added Tom, directing his companion's attention to a large party of men who were at that moment discovered approaching the cabin. "We went out in squads of four, and there are a dozen men in that crowd." "But I don't see any prisoner among them," said Bob. "They have all got guns on their shoulders, and that proves that they have not seen anything of robber number two." As the party came nearer, the boys saw that it was made up of citizens of Bellville and Hammondsport, who had abandoned the search for the day, and were now on their way home. They were surprised to see Bob Emerson there, safe and sound, and forthwith desired a full history of the letter which had been the means of bringing about so remarkable a series of events. Bob protested that he was too hungry to talk, but when he saw the generous supply of bread and meat which one of the men drew from his haversack, he sat down on a log in front of the cabin and told his story. His auditors declared that the way things had turned out was little short of wonderful, adding, as they arose to go, that they were coming out again, bright and early the next morning, to resume the search for robber number two. They were not going to remain idle at home, they said, as long as there were twenty-five hundred dollars running around loose in the woods. When the bread and meat were all gone, and the boys were once more alone, Tom wrote the notice which Joe Morgan found pinned to the door of the cabin, and then he and Bob set out for Uncle Hallet's. CHAPTER XXXIII. TURNING OVER A NEW LEAF. Although Silas Morgan had received the most convincing proof that he had nothing more to fear from the "hant" which had so long occupied all his waking thoughts and disturbed his dreams at night, he would not have taken one step toward Mr. Warren's house before morning, had he not been urged on by the hope that the sheriff would be ready to pay over his money as soon as the robber was given up to him. The desire to handle the reward to which he was entitled was stronger than his fear of the dark. "And what shall I do with them twenty-five hundred after I get 'em, Joey?" said he. "That's what's a bothering of me now." And it was the very thing that was bothering Joe, also. His father had always been in the habit of spending his money as fast as he got it, and the boy fully expected to see this large sum slip through his fingers without doing the least good to him or anybody else. "I'll tell you what I _wouldn't_ do with it," said Joe, after a little hesitation. "I wouldn't give Hobson any of it." "You're right I won't!" exclaimed Silas. "He's got more'n his share already. What be you going to do with yours, when you get it?" "I think now that I shall put it in the bank at Hammondsport," answered Joe. "It will be safe there, and if I am careful of it, it will last me until I get through going to school. You don't want to go to school, but you might go into business and increase your capital." "That's it--that's it, Joey!" exclaimed Silas, who grew enthusiastic at once. "I never thought of that. But what sort of business? It must be something easy, 'cause I've worked hard enough already." "Mr. Warren says that there is no easy way of making a living," began Joe; but his father interrupted him with an exclamation of impatience. "What does old man Warren know about it?" he demanded. "He never had to do a hand's turn in his life." "But he don't know what it is to be idle, and he is busy at something every day," said Joe. "I'll tell you what I have often thought I would do if I had a little money, and I may do it yet, if you don't decide to go into it. The new road that is coming through here is bound to bring a good many people to the Beach, sooner or later. As the trout are nearly all gone, the guests will have to devote their attention to the bass in the lake, and consequently there will be a big demand for boats." "So there will!" exclaimed Silas, who saw at once what Joe was trying to get at. "That's the business I've been looking for, Joey, and it's an easy one, too. Of course, I can let all my boats at so much an hour, and I won't have nothing to do but sit on the beach and take in my money." "And what'll I be doing?" inquired Dan, who had not spoken before. "You!" cried Silas, who seemed to have forgotten that Dan was one of the party. "You will keep on chopping cord wood, to pay you for the mean trick you played on me this morning. You see what you made by it, don't you? I reckon you wish you'd stayed by me now, don't you? How much will them boats cost me, Joey?" "I should think that ten or a dozen skiffs would be enough to begin with," answered Joe, "and they will cost you between three and four hundred dollars; but you would have enough left to rent a piece of ground of Mr. Warren and put up a snug little house on it." "Then I'll be a gentlemen like the rest of 'em, won't I?" exclaimed Silas, gleefully. "No, you won't," said Dan, to himself. "That bridge ain't been built yet, and I don't reckon Hobson means to have it there. He is going to bust it up some way or 'nother, and I'm just the man to help him, if he'll pay me for it. Everybody is getting rich 'cepting me, and I ain't going to be treated this way no longer!" Silas was so completely carried away by Joe's plan for making money without work that he could think of nothing else. He forgot how determined and vindictive Dan was, and how easy it would be for him to place a multitude of obstacles in his way, but Joe didn't. The latter knew well enough that Dan intended to make trouble if he were left out in the cold, but what could be done for so lazy and unreliable a fellow as he was? That was the question. While Joe was turning it over in his mind, he led the way through Mr. Warren's gate and up to the porch, where he found his employer sitting in company with the sheriff and both Uncle Hallet's game wardens. The deputy was in an upper room, keeping guard over the other prisoner. Of course, Tom and Bob, who were greatly surprised as well as delighted to see Joe and his party, wanted to know just how the capture of robber number two had been brought about, and while Joe was telling the story, the sheriff marched the captive into the house and turned him over to his deputy. Then he came back and sat down; but he did not put his hand into his pocket and pull out the reward as Silas hoped he would. "This has been a good day's work all around," said Tom, who was in high spirits. "The next time there is any detective work to be done in this county, Bob and I will volunteer to do it. We can catch more criminals by sitting still and writing letters than the officers can by bringing all their skill into play." The sheriff laughed, and said that was the way the thing looked from where he sat. "The fun is all over now," continued Tom, "and to-morrow we will go to work in earnest. You will be on hand, of course?" Joe replied that he would. "By-the-way," chimed in Bob, "did this robber of yours have a gun of any description in his hands when he was captured?" "No." "Then, Joe, you and I are just that much out of pocket. The guns are gone up." "What has become of them?" "They are out in the hills somewhere," answered Bob. "When the robbers made up their minds that they had better let me go, one of them had my gun and the other had yours; but the robber Brierly captured says that the weapon impeded his flight, and so he threw it away. Whereabouts he was in the hills when he got rid of it he can't tell. No doubt your gun was thrown away also, and the chances are not one in a thousand that we shall ever find them again." While this conversation was going on, Silas Morgan, who stood at the foot of the steps that led to the porch, kept pulling Joe by the coat-sleeve, and whispering to him: "Never mind the guns. Tell the sheriff that I'm powerful anxious to see the color of them twenty-five hundred." Joe paid no sort of attention to him, and finally Silas became so very much in earnest in his endeavors to attract the boy's notice, that the officer saw it; and when there was a little pause in the conversation, he said carelessly: "Oh, about the reward, Silas--" "That's the idee," replied the ferryman, who thought sure that he was going to get it now. "That's what I'm here for. You have got the burglars in your own hands now, and I don't reckon you would mind passing it over, would you?" "I?" exclaimed the sheriff. "I haven't got it. I have never had a cent of it in my possession." "Then who's going to give it to me?" demanded Silas, who wondered if the officer was going to cheat him out of his money. "Well, you see, Silas," said the sheriff, "the reward is conditioned upon the arrest and conviction of the burglars. They have been arrested, and their conviction is only a matter of time; but you can't get your money until they are sentenced." "And how long will that be?" "The court will sit again in about six weeks. As some of the money was offered by the county, and the rest by the men who lost the jewelry and things that were found in that valise, you will get your reward from different parties, unless they hand it over to me to be paid to you in a lump." "That's the way I want it," said Silas, who was very much disappointed. "I'm going into business." "What sort of business?" inquired Mr. Warren. "I am going to keep a boat-house down to the Beach." "Well now, Silas, that's the most sensible thing I have heard from you in a long time," said Mr. Warren. "I'll rent you a piece of ground big enough for a garden, and you can set yourself up in business in good shape, build a nice house, and have money left in the bank. If you manage the thing rightly, you and Dan ought to make a good living of it." "Who said anything about Dan?" exclaimed Silas. "I did. Of course, you can't ignore him, because you are wealthy. He wants a chance to earn an honest living, and he needs it, too. He's a strong boy, a first-rate hand with a boat, knows all the best fishing-grounds on the lake, and would be just the fellow to send out with a party who wanted a guide and boatman. You can easily afford to pay him a dollar a day for such work as that." "Well, I won't do it," said Silas, promptly. "He's a lazy, good-for-nothing scamp, Dan is, and I won't take him into business along with me." "But you will hire him, and give him a chance to quit breaking the game-law, and make an honest living," said the sheriff. "By-the-way, Silas, I guess you had better bring up those setters, and save me the trouble of going after them." "What setters?" exclaimed Silas, who acted as if he were on the point of taking to his heels. "I ain't got none. I took 'em down to the hotel and give 'em up." "I am glad to hear it, because it will save me some trouble," replied the officer, "I have had my eyes on those dogs ever since you got hold of them, and I should have been after them long ago, if I had known where to find the owner. Don't do that again, Silas. Honesty is the best policy, every day in the week." "If you will leave your business in my hands I will attend to it for you, and you will not have to go to Hammondsport at all," continued Mr. Warren. And Joe was glad to hear him say it, because it showed him that the gentleman did not intend that his father should squander all his money, if he could help it. "It is too late in the season for you to do anything with your boats this year, but I will give you and Dan a steady job at chopping wood, and if you take care of the money you earn, instead of spending it at Hobson's bar, you can live well during the winter. If the reward is not paid over to you by the time spring opens, I will advance you enough to start you in business and build your house. Then I think you had better give Dan a chance." "So do I," whispered Tom to his friend Bob. "Dan has lived by his wits long enough, and if Silas doesn't begin to take some interest in him, the sheriff will have a word or two to say about those setters. I can see plainly enough that he intends to hold that affair over Silas as a whip to make him behave himself." "Do you think Silas will ever have the reward paid him in a lump?" asked Bob. "No, I don't, because he doesn't know enough to take care of so much money. Joe can get his any time he wants it, for Mr. Warren knows that he will make every cent of it count." Then, aloud, Tom said: "Well, Bob, seeing that we've got to get up in the morning, we had better be going home. Come over bright and early, Joe, and we will take your things back to your cabin." "And I will send up another supply of provisions," said Mr. Warren. Joe thanked his employer, bade him good-night, and led the way out of the yard. For a time he and his party walked along in silence, and then Silas, who began to have a vague idea that he had been imposed upon in some way, broke out fiercely: "What did old man Warren mean by saying that if I didn't get all my money by the time spring comes, he would advance enough to set me up in business?" Silas almost shouted. "Looks to me like he'd 'p'inted himself my guardeen, and that he means to keep a tight grip on them twenty-five hundred, so't I can't spend it to suit myself. That's what I think he means to do, dog-gone the luck!" Joe thought so, too, and he was glad of it. If that was Mr. Warren's intention, Joe's mother would be likely to reap some benefit from the reward; otherwise, she would not. CHAPTER XXXIV. THE TRANSFORMATION. Silas Morgan was one of the proudest men that the sun ever shone upon, and he would have been supremely happy if it had not been for two things, over which he could exercise no control. One was that Mr. Warren and the sheriff intended to keep a sharp eye on him, and see that he did not squander any of the money he had earned by capturing the robber. The other was that Dan claimed recognition, and was determined to have it, too, in spite of the mean trick he had played upon his father. When Silas arose the next morning the first thought that came into his mind was that he was a rich man. It excited him to such a degree that he could not eat any breakfast. He managed to drink a single cup of coffee, and then shouldered his gun and set out for Hobson's, to exhibit himself to the loafers who made the Half-way House their headquarters, while Joe hastened off to Mr. Hallet's to assist Tom and Bob. Dan was left to pass the time as he pleased, and it suited him to sun himself on the bank of the river and bemoan his hard luck. The first man Silas saw as he drew near to Hobson's place of business was Brierly, who dropped some hints that set him to thinking. After congratulating Silas on his good fortune, he inquired what use he intended to make of the reward when he got it. "I ain't just made up my mind yet," was Silas Morgan's guarded reply. "I don't reckon I'm going to get it right away, 'cause old man Warren he's went and 'p'inted himself to be my guardeen, and I say that ain't right. I ketched that there bugglar without no help from anybody. The reward belongs to me, and I had oughter have it!" To his utter astonishment Brierly promptly answered: "No, you hadn't. You don't know how to take care of so much money, more'n I do, and it's the properest thing that somebody should look out for it. I tell you, Silas, I ain't the man I was when that Joe of your'n ordered me out of old man's Warren's wood lot. Do you know what I did the minute I got home yesterday? Well, I went down to the hotel and give the landlord the twenty-five dollars that I had cheated Mr. Brown out of. The landlord knows where he lives, and will send it to him." "Joe tells me that Mr. Brown was a mighty scared man after you lost him in the woods," observed Silas. "It was a mighty mean trick," declared Brierly; "but the fact of it was I was hard up for money, and didn't care much how I got it. I think different now. I've got a chance to be something better'n the lazy, ragged vagabone I have always been, and I am going to keep it. I am, for a fact! I have been waiting for it, and now that I have got it, I intend to make the most of it. I think I shall let the heft of my money stay where it is this winter, and get my grub and clothes by chopping wood for old man Warren. You want to look out for Hobson. He's got an eye on them dollars of your'n. He tried to shove lots of things onto me this morning, but I wouldn't take 'em." Silas Morgan never expected to hear such counsel as this from Brierly, who, like himself, had always been in the habit of squandering his slim earnings as fast as he could get hold of them, and it excited a serious train of reflections in his mind. Being on his guard, Hobson's blandishments had no effect upon him. "You're the luckiest man I ever heard of!" exclaimed the proprietor of the Half-way House, coming out from behind his counter and greeting Silas with great cordiality. "Warren's hired man told the stage driver all about it, and he told us. Want anything in my line this morning?" "There's plenty of things I want," replied Silas; "but I ain't got a cent of money." "No matter for that. Your credit is good." "And what's more, I don't reckon I can get any of that reward under six weeks," continued Silas. "The court don't sit till then, you know, and I won't see the color of them dollars till the bugglars gets their sentence." "But Joe's pay-day will come sooner than that," suggested Hobson. "Well, now, look here," said Silas, slowly. "Don't you think it would be mighty mean for a man who is worth twenty-five hundred dollars to take the money his little boy makes by living up there alone in the woods? I do. And I've about made up my mind that I won't do it." "Didn't you tell me that you thought the head of the family ought to have the handling of all the money that came into the house?" demanded Hobson, who was really astonished to hear such sentiments as these come from Silas Morgan. "I did think so once, but I don't now," was the reply. "And furder'n that, I don't reckon I'll get my money all in a lump, like I thought I was going to, 'cause old man Warren he's gone and made himself my guardeen; and if I run in debt now, I'll have to give you an order on him for the money. Of course he would want to see the bill, and mebbe he'd take particular notice of the items that's into it." "Do you mean to let him boss you around in that way?" exclaimed Hobson. "I thought you had more pluck than that. You are old enough to be your own master, if you are ever going to be." "Well," said Silas, again, "there's one thing that I ain't master of, and I know it. That's money. Whenever I get a dollar bill in my hands, it burns me so't I have to drop it somewheres. I reckon I won't touch that reward this winter." Hobson was so angry and disgusted that he could not say a word in reply. He went around behind his counter, and when Silas turned to go out, he informed him, in a savage tone of voice, that there was a little difference of a dollar and a half between them, and he would be glad to have him settle up then and there. "Didn't I tell you when I first come in that I ain't got a cent to bless myself with?" reminded Silas. "But me and Dan are going to work for old man Warren this very afternoon, and I'll be around next Saturday, sure pop." "I'll bear that in mind," said Hobson. "If you are not on hand, I shall ride down to your house to see what is the matter." "That's always the way with them kind of fellows," said Brierly, in a low tone. "As long as you've got plenty of money, and spend it free with them, you're a first-rate chap; but the very minute you turn over a new leaf, and try to be honest and sober, they ain't got no use for you. I'm done with 'em." Silas walked home in a brown study. The first thing he did after he crossed the threshold of his humble abode was to put his gun in its place over the door, and the second, to take an axe and whetstone out of the chimney corner. With these in his hand, he went out on the bank where Dan was still sunning himself. "It's a long time since you seen this here little tool, ain't it?" said Silas, cheerfully; but there was something in the tone of his voice that made the boy tremble. "Looks kinder like it used to last winter, don't it? Now, sharpen it up so't you can drive it clear in to the eye every clip, and after dinner me and you will toddle down to old man Warren's, and ask him where he wants us to cut that wood; won't we, Dannie?" "No, we won't," shouted Dan. "Won't, eh?" said his father, calmly. "Well, them that don't work can't eat, and a boy that won't help himself when he's got a chance, can't get no dollar a day out of me when I go into that boat business. He won't be worth it, and Mr. Warren will think so too, when he hears of it. I reckon the best thing you can do is to put that there axe in shape and be ready to go with your pap after dinner." When he had taken time to think about it, Dan came to the same conclusion. It cost him a struggle to do it, but when his father shouldered his axe and set out for Mr. Warren's house, Dan went with him. The gentleman was glad to hear that Silas did not intend to remain idle simply because he had twenty-five hundred dollars in prospect, gave him some good advice, and told him where to go to cut the wood. The road they followed to get to it took them close by the cabin of the young game-warden, whom they found busily engaged in setting things to rights. Of course, it made Dan angry to see his brother surrounded by so many comforts, and in a position to make his money so easily, but there was no help for it. His father was on Joe's side now; Dan could see that easily enough, and an attempt on his part to annoy the young game-warden in any way would bring upon him certain and speedy punishment. After that, things went smoothly with Joe Morgan. During that fall and winter Mr. Warren's imported game was never interfered with, and the reason was because all the worst poachers in the country, including Brierly and his gang, as well as Joe's own father, had given up the precarious business of market-shooting. More than that, when Silas paid his bill at Hobson's, which he did, according to promise, he gave the loungers about the Halfway House to understand that he had taken Joe under his protection, and that any one who troubled either him or Mr. Warren's blue-headed birds, might expect to answer to him for it. As Silas Morgan's prowess in battle was well known to every body for miles around, the market-shooters took him at his word, and kept away from Mr. Warren's wood-lot. The savage, half-starved dogs in the settlement which had become so fond of hunting deer that they sometimes chased them on their own responsibility, were either chained up or given away, and the only hounds that gave tongue among the Summerdale hills during the winter were those which, like Tom Hallet's beagle, were trained to hunt foxes and coons. While the pleasant weather continued, the young game-wardens searched the woods thoroughly, in the hope of finding the guns that the robbers had thrown away during their flight, but their efforts were unrewarded, and finally the snows of winter came and covered them up. One day, just before Christmas, Mr. Warren's hired man came up, bringing, among other things, a few magazines and papers, a supply of provisions for Joe's use, some grain for the birds, and a long, shallow box which he placed carefully upon the table. "Mr. Warren says that you will want to go home on Christmas, and there's a little something for your folks to eat," said he, handing Joe a nice fat turkey, all dressed and ready for the oven. "In that box you will find a present from St. Nick. Look at it, and see if you ain't glad you lost your rusty old single-barrel." "I know what it is," replied Joe. "Is it mine to keep, or to use while I am acting as game-warden?" "It is yours to keep. It is intended to replace the one the robbers stole from you." The sight that met the boy's gaze when he unlocked the box made his eyes open wide with wonder and delight. Inside, was a breech-loader, with pistol-grip and all the necessary loading tools. Of course, it was a fine weapon. Mr. Warren never did things by halves. It was the first Christmas present Joe had ever received. Contrary to Mrs. Morgan's expectations, there was not the least trouble in the house over the young game-warden's money. She had enough and to spare, and so had Silas and Dan. The former worked faithfully, because his ambition had been aroused, and Dan toiled steadily by his side, because he knew if he didn't, he would lose the dollar a day he was looking forward to. He got it, too. The robbers were duly convicted and sentenced, and, when spring came, Silas had his twenty-five hundred dollars intact; or, to speak more correctly, somebody had it for him. Silas did not know just where it was, whether in Mr. Warren's hands or the sheriff's, and indeed he did not care. All the bills he made in buying his boat, building his new house and fencing the piece of ground that Mr. Warren leased to him, were promptly met by that gentleman, and Silas highly elated at the prospect of having a paying business of his own, worked to such good purpose that when the guests began to arrive he was ready to serve them. For the first time in his life, Dan Morgan looked as "spick and span as anybody" in his blue uniform, with a wide collar and sailor necktie, all bought with his own money, too; and he often walked up and down in front of the hotel to show himself to the people who were sitting on the veranda. He proved to be a good boatman, and easily earned the dollar a day his father paid him for his services. Joe held to his resolution, and entered the Bellville Academy when the spring term opened. He is there now; and he often says that he likes his school duties much better than those he was called on to perform while he was acting as Mr. Warren's game-warden. THE END. 
21241	----	The Rifle Rangers Adventures in South Mexico By Captain Mayne Reid ________________________________________________________________________ Quite a lively story! At one point the hero is to die by hanging by the heels over a precipice! At another he and his companions are attacked by a pack of snarling bloodhounds! And many other tense situations. As usual with this prolific author the text is well interlarded with Spanish words, and those from other languages, French, German, Latin, Greek. We have done our best to get these words right, but beg to be forgiven if you spot an error here and there. In addition to our difficulties with the Spanish, there is an Irish member of the cast whose words are so mis-pronounced that they practically constitute a language of their own. Here again we have tried to get the spellings as they appear in the book, but you can quite see how difficult that has been. This book first appeared in the 1850s, and went through several editions in a few years. Forty years later there was a revival, and again several editions appeared. There are people even nowadays who revere "Captain" Mayne Reid as the first author to start this genre: authentic books about the wilder parts of North America, and its history. NH ________________________________________________________________________ THE RIFLE RANGERS ADVENTURES IN SOUTH MEXICO BY CAPTAIN MAYNE REID CHAPTER ONE. THE LAND OF ANAHUAC. Away over the dark, wild waves of the rolling Atlantic--away beyond the summer islands of the Western Ind--lies a lovely land. Its surface-aspect carries the hue of the emerald; its sky is sapphire; its sun is a globe of gold. It is the land of Anahuac! The tourist turns his face to the Orient--the poet sings the gone glories of Greece--the painter elaborates the hackneyed pictures of Apennine and Alp--the novelist turns the skulking thief of Italy into a picturesque bandit, or, Don Quixote-like, betaking himself into the misty middle age, entertains the romantic miss and milliner's apprentice with stories of raven steeds, of plumed and impossible heroes. All-- painter, poet, tourist, and novelist--in search of the bright and beautiful, the poetic and the picturesque--turn their backs upon this lovely land. Shall we? No! Westward, like the Genoese, we boldly venture--over the dark wild waves of the rolling Atlantic; through among the sunny islands of Ind--westward to the land of Anahuac. Let us debark upon its shores; let us pierce the secret depths of its forests; let us climb its mighty mountains, and traverse its table-plains. Go with us, tourist! Fear not. You shall look upon scenes grand and gloomy, bright and beautiful. Poet! you shall find themes for poesy worthy its loftiest strains. Painter! for you there are pictures fresh from the hand of God. Writer! there are stories still untold by the author-artist--legends of love and hate, of gratitude and revenge, of falsehood and devotion, of noble virtue and ignoble crime--legends redolent of romance, rich in reality. Thither we steer, over the dark wild waves of the rolling Atlantic; through the summer islands of the Western Ind; onward--onward to the shores of Anahuac! Varied is the aspect of that picture-land, abounding in scenes that change like the tints of the opal. Varied is the surface which these pictures adorn. Valleys that open deep into the earth; mountains that lead the eye far up into heaven; plains that stretch to the horizon's verge, until the rim of the blue canopy seems to rest upon their limitless level; "rolling" landscapes, whose softly-turned ridges remind one of the wavy billows of the ocean. Alas! word-painting can give but a faint idea of these scenes. The pen can but feebly portray the grand and sublime effect produced upon the mind of him who gazes down into the deep valleys, or glances upward to the mighty mountains of Mexico. Though feeble be the effort, I shall attempt a series of sketches from memory. They are the panoramic views that present themselves during a single "Jornada." I stand upon the shores of the Mexican Gulf. The waves lip gently up to my feet upon a beach of silvery sand. The water is pure and translucent, of azure blue, here and there crested with the pearly froth of coral breakers. I look to the eastward, and behold a summer sea that seems to invite navigation. But where are the messengers of commerce with their white wings? The solitary skiff of the savage "pescador" is making its way through the surf; a lone "polacca" beats up the coast with its half-smuggler crew; a "piragua" swings at anchor in a neighbouring cove: this is all! Far as eye or glass can reach, no other sail is in sight. The beautiful sea before me is almost unfurrowed by the keels of commerce. From this I draw ideas of the land and its inhabitants--unfavourable ideas of their moral and material condition. No commerce--no industry-- no prosperity. Stay! What see I yonder? Perhaps I have been wronging them. A dark, tower-like object looms up against the horizon. It is the smoke of a steamer--sign of advanced civilisation--emblem of active life. She nears the shore. Ha! a foreign flag--the flag of another land trails over her taffrail; a foreign flag floats at her peak; foreign faces appear above her bulwarks, and foreign words issue from the lips of her commander. She is not of the land. My first conjecture was right. She makes for the principal port. She lands a small parcel of letters and papers, a few bales of merchandise, half a dozen slightly-formed cadaverous men; and then, putting about, a gun is fired, and she is off again. She soon disappears away upon the wide ocean; and the waves once more roll silently in--their glistening surface broken only by the flapping of the albatross or the plunge of the osprey. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I direct my eyes northward. I behold a belt of white sand skirting the blue water. I turn towards the south, and in this direction perceive a similar belt. To both points it extends beyond the reach of vision-- hundreds of miles beyond--forming, like a ribbon of silver, the selvage of the Mexican Sea. It separates the turquoise blue of the water from the emerald green of the forest, contrasting with each by its dazzling whiteness. Its surface is far from being level, as is usual with the ocean-strand. On the contrary, its millions of sparkling atoms, rendered light by the burning sun of the tropic, have been lifted on the wings of the wind, and thrown into hills and ridges hundreds of feet in height, and trending in every direction like the wreaths of a great snow-drift. I advance with difficulty over these naked ridges, where no vegetation finds nourishment in the inorganic heap. I drag myself wearily along, sinking deeply at every step. I climb sand-hills of strange and fantastic shapes, cones, and domes, and roof-like ridges, where the sportive wind seems to have played with the plastic mass, as children with potter's clay. I encounter huge basins like the craters of volcanoes, formed by the circling swirl; deep chasms and valleys, whose sides are walls of sand, steep, often vertical, and not unfrequently impending with comb-like escarpments. All these features may be changed in a single night, by the magical breath of the "norther". The hill to-day may become the valley to-morrow, and the elevated ridge have given place to the sunken chasm. Upon the summits of these sand-heights I am fanned by the cool breeze from the Gulf. I descend into the sheltered gorges, and am burned by a tropic sun, whose beams, reflected from a thousand crystals, torture my eyes and brain. In these parts the traveller is often the victim of the _coup-de-soleil_. Yonder comes the "_norte_" Along the northern horizon the sky suddenly changes from light blue to a dark lead colour. Sometimes rumbling thunder with arrowy lightning portends the change; but if neither seen nor heard, it is soon felt. The hot atmosphere, that, but a moment before, encased me in its glowing embrace, is suddenly pierced by a chill breeze, that causes my skin to creep and my frame to shiver. In its icy breath there is fever--there is death; for it carries on its wings the dreaded "vomito". The breeze becomes a strong wind--a tempest. The sand is lifted upwards, and floats through the air in dun clouds, here settling down, and there rising up again. I dare not face it, any more than I would the blast of the simoom. I should be blinded if I did, or blistered by the "scud" of the angular atoms. The "norther" continues for hours, sometimes for days. It departs as suddenly as it came, carrying its baneful influence to lands farther south. It is past, and the sand-hills have assumed a different shape. The ridges trend differently. Some have disappeared, and valleys yawn open where they stood! Such are the shores of Anahuac--the shores of the Mexican Sea. Without commerce--almost harbourless--a waste of sand; but a waste of striking appearance and picturesque beauty. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ To horse and inwards! Adieu to the bright blue waters of the Gulf! We have crossed the sand-ridges of the coast, and are riding through the shadowy aisles of the forest. It is a tropical forest. The outlines of the leaves, their breadth, their glowing colours all reveal this. The eye roams with delight over a frondage that partakes equally of the gold and the green. It revels along waxen leaves, as those of the magnolia, the plantain, and the banana. It is led upward by the rounded trunks of the palms, that like columns appear to support the leafy canopy above. It penetrates the network of vines, or follows the diagonal direction of gigantic llianas, that creep like monster serpents from tree to tree. It gazes with pleased wonder upon the huge bamboo-briars and tree-ferns. Wherever it turns, flowers open their corollas to meet its delighted glance--tropical tree-flowers, blossoms of the scarlet vine, and trumpet-shaped tubes of the bignonia. I turn my eyes to every side, and gaze upon a flora to me strange and interesting. I behold the tall stems of the _palma real_, rising one hundred feet without leaf or branch, and supporting a parachute of feathery fronds that wave to the slightest impulse of the breeze. Beside it I see its constant companion, the Indian cane--a small palm-tree, whose slender trunk and low stature contrast oddly with the colossal proportions of its lordly protector. I behold the _corozo_--of the same genus with the _palma real_--its light feathery frondage streaming outwards and bending downwards, as if to protect from the hot sun the globe-shaped nuts that hang in grape-like clusters beneath. I see the _abanico_, with its enormous fan-shaped leaves; the wax-palm distilling its resinous gum; and the _acrocomia_, with its thorny trunk and enormous racemes of golden fruits. By the side of the stream I guide my horse among the columnar stems of the noble _coeva_, which has been enthusiastically but appropriately termed the "bread of life" (_pan de vida_). I gaze with wonder upon the ferns, those strange creatures of the vegetable world, that upon the hillsides of my own far island-home scarce reach the knee in height. Here they are arborescent-- tree-ferns--rivalling their cousins the palms in stature, and like them, with their tall, straight stems and lobed leaves, contributing to the picturesqueness of the landscape. I admire the beautiful mammey with its great oval fruit and saffron pulp. I ride under the spreading limbs of the mahogany-tree, marking its oval pinnate leaves, and the egg-like seed capsules that hang from its branches; thinking as well of the brilliant surfaces that lie concealed within its dark and knotty trunk. Onward I ride, through glistening foliage and glowing flowers, that, under the beams of a tropic sun, present the varying hues of the rainbow. There is no wind--scarcely a breath stirring; yet here and there the leaves are in motion. The wings of bright birds flash before the eye, passing from tree to tree. The gaudy tanagers, that cannot be tamed-- the noisy lories, the resplendent trogons, the toucans with their huge clumsy bills, and the tiny bee-birds (the _trochili_ and _colibri_)--all glance through the sunny vistas. The carpenter-bird--the great woodpecker--hangs against the decayed trunk of some dead tree, beating the hollow bark, and now and then sounding his clarion note, which is heard to the distance of a mile. Out of the underwood springs the crested curassow; or, basking in the sun-lit glades, with outspread wings gleaming with metallic lustre, may be seen the beautiful turkey of Honduras. The graceful roe (_Gervus Mexicanus_) bounds forward, startled by the tread of the advancing horse. The caiman crawls lazily along the bank, or hides his hideous body under the water of a sluggish stream, and the not less hideous form of the iguana, recognised by its serrated crest, is seen crawling up the tree-trunk or lying along the slope of a lliana. The green lizard scuttles along the path--the basilisk looks with glistening eyes from the dark interstices of some corrugated vine--the biting peckotin glides among the dry leaves in pursuit of its insect prey--and the chameleon advances sluggishly along the branches, while it assumes their colour to deceive its victims. Serpent forms present themselves: now and then the huge boa and the macaurel, twining the trees. The great tiger-snake is seen with its head raised half a yard from the surface; the cascabel, too, coiled like a cable; and the coral-snake with his red and ringed body stretched at full length along the ground. The two last, though inferior in size to the boas, are more to be dreaded; and my horse springs back when he sees the one glistening through the grass, or hears the "skir-r-r-r" of the other threatening to strike. Quadrupeds and quadrumana appear. The red monkey (_Mono Colorado_) runs at the traveller's approach, and, flinging himself from limb to limb, hides among the vines and _Tillandsia_ on the high tree-tops; and the tiny ouistiti, with its pretty, child-like countenance, peers innocently through the leaves; while the ferocious zambo fills the woods with its hideous, half-human voice. The jaguar is not far distant, "laired" in the secret depths of the impenetrable jungle. His activity is nocturnal, and his beautiful spotted body may not be seen except by the silver light of the moon. Roused by accident, or pressed by the dogs of the hunter, he may cross my path. So, too, may the ocelot and the lynx; or, as I ride silently on, I may chance to view the long, tawny form of the Mexican lion, crouched upon a horizontal limb, and watching for the timid stag that must pass beneath. I turn prudently aside, and leave him to his hungry vigil. Night brings a change. The beautiful birds--the parrots, the toucans, and the trogons--all go to rest at an early hour; and other winged creatures take possession of the air. Some need not fear the darkness, for their very life is light. Such are the "cocuyos", whose brilliant lamps of green and gold and flame, gleam through the aisles of the forest, until the air seems on fire. Such, too, are the "gusanitos", the female of which--a wingless insect, like a glow-worm--lies along the leaf, while her mate whirrs gaily around, shedding his most captivating gleams as he woos her upon the wing. But, though light is the life of these beautiful creatures, it is often the cause of their death. It guides their enemies--the night-hawk and the "whip-poor-will", the bat, and the owl. Of these last, the hideous vampire may be seen flapping his broad dark wings in quick, irregular turnings, and the great "lechuza" (_Strix Mexicana_), issuing from his dark tree-cave, utters his fearful notes, that resemble the moanings of one who is being hanged. Now may be heard the scream of the cougar, and the hoarser voice of the Mexican tiger. Now may be heard the wild, disagreeable cries of the howling monkeys (_alouattes_), and the barking of the dog-wolf; and, blending with these, the croaking of the tree-toads and the shrill tinkling of the bell-frog. Perhaps the air is no longer, as in the daytime, filled with sweet perfumes. The aroma of a thousand flowers has yielded to the fetid odour of the skunk (_Mephitis chinga_)--for that singular creature is abroad, and, having quarrelled with one of the forest denizens, has caused all of them to feel the power of its resentment. Such are some of the features of the tropical forest that lies between the Gulf and the Mexican mountains. But the aspect of this region is not all wild. There are cultivated districts--settlements, though far apart. The forest opens, and the scene suddenly changes. Before me is a plantation--the hacienda of a "rico". There are wide fields tilled by peon serfs, who labour and sing; but their song is sad. Its music is melancholy. It is the voice of a conquered race. Yet the scene around them is gay and joyful. All but the people appears to prosper. Vegetation luxuriates in its fullest growth. Both fruit and flower exhibit the hues of a perfect development. Man alone seems stunted in his outlines. There is a beautiful stream meandering through the open fields. Its waters are clear and cool. They are the melted snows of Orizava. Upon its banks grow clumps of the cocoa-palm and the majestic plantain. There are gardens upon its banks, and orchards filled with the fruit-trees of the tropics. I see the orange with its golden globes, the sweet lime, the shaddock, and the guava-tree. I ride under the shade of the aguacate (_Laurus Persea_), and pluck the luscious fruits of the cherimolla. The breeze blowing over fields carries on its wings the aroma of the coffee-tree, the indigo-plant, the vanilla bean, or the wholesome cacao (_Theobroma Cacao_); and, far as the eye can reach, I see glancing gaily in the sun the green spears and golden tassels of the sugar-cane. Interesting is the aspect of the tropical forest. Not less so is that of the tropical _field_. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I ride onward and inward into the land. I am gradually ascending from the sea-level. I no longer travel upon horizontal paths, but over hills and steep ridges, across deep valleys and ravines. The hoof of my horse no longer sinks in light sand or dark alluvion. It rings upon rocks of amygdaloid and porphyry. The soil is changed; the scenery has undergone a change, and even the atmosphere that surrounds me. The last is perceptibly cooler, but not yet cold. I am still in the _piedmont_ lands--the _tierras calientes_. The _templadas_ are yet far higher. I am only a thousand yards or so above sea-level. I am in the "foot-hills" of the Northern Andes. How sudden is this change! It is less than an hour since I parted from the plains below, and yet the surface-aspect around me is like that of another land. I halt in a wild spot, and survey it with eyes that wander and wonder. The leaf is less broad, the foliage less dense, the jungle more open. There are ridges whose sides are nearly naked of tree-timber. The palms have disappeared, but in their place grow kindred forms that in many respects resemble them. They are, in fact, the palms of the mountains. I behold the great palmetto (_Chamcerops_), with its fan-like fronds standing out upon long petioles from its lofty summit; the yuccas, with their bayonet-shaped leaves, ungraceful, but picturesque, with ponderous clusters of green and pulpy capsules. I behold the _pita_ aloe, with its tall flower-stalk and thorny sun-scorched leaves. I behold strange forms of the cactus, with their glorious wax-like blossoms; the cochineal, the tuna, the opuntias--the great tree-cactus "Foconoztle" (_Opuntia arborescens_), and the tall "pitahaya" (_Cereus giganteus_), with columnar shafts and straight upright arms, like the branches of gigantic candelabra; the echino-cacti, too--those huge mammals of the vegetable world, resting their globular or egg-shaped forms, without trunk or stalk, upon the surface of the earth. There, too, I behold gigantic thistles (_cardonales_) and mimosas, both shrubby and arborescent--the tree-mimosa, and the sensitive-plant (_Mimosa frutescens_), that shrinks at my approach, and closes its delicate leaflets until I have passed out of sight. This is the favourite land of the acacia; and immense tracts, covered with its various species, form impenetrable thickets (_chapparals_). I distinguish in these thickets the honey-locust, with its long purple legumes, the "algarobo" (carob-tree), and the thorny "mezquite"; and, rising over all the rest, I descry the tall, slender stem of the _Fouquiera splendens_, with panicles of cube-shaped crimson flowers. There is less of animal life here; but even these wild ridges have their denizens. The cochineal insect crawls upon the cactus leaf, and huge winged ants build their clay nests upon the branches of the acacia-tree. The ant-bear squats upon the ground, and projects his glutinous tongue over the beaten highway, where the busy insects rob the mimosse of their aromatic leaves. The armadillo, with his bands and rhomboidal scales, takes refuge in the dry recesses of the rocks, or, clewing himself up, rolls over the cliff to escape his pursuer. Herds of cattle, half wild, roam through the glassy glades or over the tufted ridges, lowing for water; and black vultures (zopilotes) sail through the cloudless heavens, waiting for some scene of death to be enacted in the thickets below. Here, too, I pass through scenes of cultivation. Here is the hut of the peon and the rancho of the small proprietor; but they are structures of a more substantial kind than in the region of the palm. They are of stone. Here, too, is the hacienda, with its low white walls and prison-like windows; and the pueblita, with its church and cross and gaily-painted steeple. Here the Indian corn takes the place of the sugarcane, and I ride through wide fields of the broad-leafed tobacco-plant. Here grow the jalap and the guaiacum, the sweet-scented sassafras and the sanitary copaiba. I ride onward, climbing steep ridges and descending into chasms (_barrancas_) that yawn deeply and gloomily. Many of these are thousands of feet in depth; and the road that enables me to reach their bottoms is often no more than a narrow ledge of the impending cliff, running terrace-like over a foaming torrent. Still onward and upward I go, until the "foot-hills" are passed, and I enter a defile of the mountains themselves--a pass of the Mexican Andes. I ride through, under the shadow of dark forests and rocks of blue porphyry. I emerge upon the other side of the sierra. A new scene opens before my eyes--a scene of such soft loveliness that I suddenly rein up my horse, and gaze upon it with mingled feelings of admiration and astonishment. I am looking upon one of the "valles" of Mexico, those great table-plains that lie within the Cordilleras of the Andes, thousands of feet above ocean-level, and, along with these mountains, stretching from the tropic almost to the shores of the Arctic Sea. The plain before me is level, as though its surface were liquid. I see mountains bounding it on all sides; but there are passes through them that lead into other plains (_valus_). These mountains have no foot-hills. They _stand up_ directly from the plain itself, sometimes with sloping conical sides--sometimes in precipitous cliffs. I ride into the plain and survey its features. There is no resemblance to the land I have left--the _tierra caliente_. I am now in the _tierra templada_. New objects present themselves--a new aspect is before, a new atmosphere around me. The air is colder, but it is only the temperature of spring. To me it feels chilly, coming so lately from the hot lands below; and I fold my cloak closely around me, and ride on. The view is open, for the _valu_ is almost treeless. The scene is no longer wild. The earth has a cultivated aspect--an aspect of civilisation: for these high plateaux--the _tierras templadas_--are the seat of Mexican civilisation. Here are the towns--the great cities, with their rich cathedrals and convents--here dwells the bulk of the population. Here the rancho is built of unburnt bricks (_adobe's_)--a mud cabin, often inclosed by hedges of the columnar cactus. Here are whole villages of such huts, inhabited by the dark-skinned descendants of the ancient Aztecs. Fertile fields are around me. I behold the maguey of culture (_Agave Americana_), in all its giant proportions. The lance-like blades of the zea maize wave with a rich rustling in the breeze, for here that beautiful plant grows in its greatest luxuriance. Immense plains are covered with wheat, with capsicum, and the Spanish bean (_frijoles_). My eyes are gladdened by the sight of roses climbing along the wall or twining the portal. Here, too, the potato (_Solanum tuberosum_) flourishes in its native soil; the pear and the pomegranate, the quince and the apple, are seen in the orchard; and the cereals of the temperate zone grow side by side with the _Cucurbitacece_ of the tropics. I pass from one _valu_ into another, by crossing a low ridge of the dividing mountains. Mark the change! A surface of green is before me, reaching on all sides to the mountain foot; and upon this roam countless herds, tended by mounted "vaqueros" (herdsmen). I pass another ridge, and another _valid_ stretches before me. Again a change! A desert of sand, over the surface of which move tall dun columns of swirling dust, like the gigantic phantoms of some spirit-world. I look into another _valle_, and behold shining waters-- lakes like inland seas--with sedgy shores and surrounded by green savannas, and vast swamps covered with reeds and "tulares" (bulrush). Still another plain, black with lava and the scoriae of extinct volcanoes--black, treeless, and herbless--with not an atom of organic matter upon its desolate surface. Such are the features of the plateau-land--varied, and vast, and full of wild interest. I leave it and climb higher--nearer to the sky--up the steep sides of the Cordilleras--up to the _tierra fria_. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I stand ten thousand feet above the level of the ocean. I am under the deep shadows of a forest. Huge trunks grow around me, hindering a distant view. Where am I? Not in the tropic, surely, for these trees are of a northern _sylva_. I recognise the gnarled limbs and lobed leaves of the oak, the silvery branches of the mountain-ash, the cones and needles of the pine. The wind, as it swirls among the dead leaves, causes me to shiver; and high up among the twigs there is the music of winter in its moaning. Yet I am in the torrid zone; and the same sun that now glances coldly through the boughs of the oak, but a few hours before scorched me as it glistened from the fronds of the palm-tree. The forest opens, and I behold hills under culture--fields of hemp and flax, and the hardy cereals of the frigid zone. The rancho of the husbandman is a log cabin, with shingled roof and long projecting eaves, unlike the dwellings either of the great _valus_ or the _tierras calientes_. I pass the smoking pits of the "carbonero", and I meet the "arriero" with his "atajo" of mules heavily laden with ice of the glaciers. They are passing with their cargoes, to cool the wine-cups in the great cities of the plains. Upward and upward! The oak is left behind, and the pine grows stunted and dwarfish. The wind blows colder and colder. A wintry aspect is around me. Upward still. The pine disappears. No vegetable form is seen save the mosses and lichens that cling to the rocks, as within the Arctic Circle. I am on the selvage of the snow--the eternal snow. I walk upon glaciers, and through their translucent mass I behold the lichens growing beneath. The scene is bleak and desolate, and I am chilled to the marrow of my bones. _Excelsior! excelsior_! The highest point is not yet reached. Through drifts of snow and over fields of ice, up steep ledges, along the slippery escarpment that overhangs the giddy abysm, with wearied knees, and panting breath, and frozen fingers, onward and upward I go. Ha! I have won the goal. I am on the summit! I stand on the "cumbre" of Orizava--the mountain of the "burning star"-- more than three miles above the ocean level. My face is turned to the east, and I look downward. The snow, the cincture of lichens and naked rocks, the dark belt of pines, the lighter foliage of the oaks, the fields of barley, the waving maize, the thickets of yucca and acacia trees, the palm forest, the shore, the sea itself with its azure waves-- all these at a single vision! From the summit of Orizava to the shores of the Mexican Sea, I glance through every gradation of the thermal line. I am looking, as it were, from the pole to the equator! I am alone. My brain is giddy. My pulse vibrates irregularly, and my heart beats with an audible distinctness. I am oppressed with a sense of my own nothingness--an atom, almost invisible, upon the breast of the mighty earth. I gaze and listen. I see, but I hear not. Here is sight, but no sound. Around me reigns an awful stillness--the sublime silence of the Omnipotent, who alone is here. Hark! the silence is broken! Was it the rumbling of thunder? No. It was the crash of the falling avalanche. I tremble at its voice. It is the voice of the Invisible--the whisper of a God! I tremble and worship. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Reader, could you thus stand upon the summit of Orizava, and look down to the shores of the Mexican Gulf, you would have before you, as on a map, the scene of our "adventures." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Note 1. Anahuac is Mexico. Note 2. Jornada is a day's journey. Note 3. Pescador is a fisherman. Note 4. Vomito is yellow-fever. Note 5. Mexico is divided into three regions, known as the "hot" (_caliente_), "temperate" (_templada_), and "cold" (_fria_). Note 6. Carbonero is charcoal-burner. Note 7. Arriero is mule-driver. CHAPTER TWO. AN ADVENTURE AMONG THE CREOLES OF NEW ORLEANS. In the "fall" of 1846 I found myself in the city of New Orleans, filling up one of those pauses that occur between the chapters of an eventful life--doing nothing. I have said an _eventful_ life. In the retrospect of ten years, I could not remember as many weeks spent in one place. I had traversed the continent from north to south, and crossed it from sea to sea. My foot had pressed the summits of the Andes, and climbed the Cordilleras of the Sierra Madre. I had steamed it down the Mississippi, and sculled it up the Orinoco. I had hunted buffaloes with the Pawnees of the Platte, and ostriches upon the pampas of the Plata: to-day, shivering in the hut of an Esquimaux--a month after, taking my _siesta_ in an aery couch under the gossamer frondage of the corozo palm. I had eaten raw meat with the trappers of the Rocky Mountains, and roast monkey among the Mosquito Indians; and much more, which might weary the reader, and ought to have made the writer a wiser man. But, I fear, the spirit of adventure--its thirst--is within me slakeless. I had just returned from a "scurry" among the Comanches of Western Texas, and the idea of "settling down" was as far from my mind as ever. "What next? what next?" thought I. "Ha! the war with Mexico." The war between the United States and that country had now fairly commenced. My sword--a fine Toledo, taken from a Spanish officer at San Jacinto--hung over the mantel, rusting ingloriously. Near it were my pistols--a pair of Colt's revolvers--pointing at each other in sullen muteness. A warlike ardour seized upon me, and clutching, not the sword, but my pen, I wrote to the War Department for a commission; and, summoning all my patience, awaited the answer. But I waited in vain. Every bulletin from Washington exhibited its list of new-made officers, but my name appeared not among them. In New Orleans--that most patriotic of republican cities--epaulettes gleamed upon every shoulder, whilst I, with the anguish of a Tantalus, was compelled to look idly and enviously on. Despatches came in daily from the seat of war, filled with newly-glorious names; and steamers from the same quarter brought fresh batches of heroes--some legless, some armless, and others with a bullet-hole through the cheek, and perhaps the loss of a dozen teeth or so; but all thickly covered with laurels. November came, but no commission. Impatience and ennui had fairly mastered me. The time hung heavily upon my hands. "How can I best pass the hour? I shall go to the French opera, and hear Calve." Such were my reflections as I sat one evening in my solitary chamber. In obedience to this impulse, I repaired to the theatre; but the bellicose strains of the opera, instead of soothing, only heightened my warlike enthusiasm, and I walked homeward, abusing, as I went, the president and the secretary-at-war, and the whole government-- legislative, judicial, and executive. "Republics _are_ ungrateful," soliloquised I, in a spiteful mood. "I have `surely put in strong enough' for it; my political connections--besides, the government owes me a favour--" "Cl'ar out, ye niggers! What de yer want?" This was a voice that reached me as I passed through the dark corner of the Faubourg Treme. Then followed some exclamations in French; a scuffle ensued, a pistol went off, and I heard the same voice again calling out: "Four till one! Injuns! Murder! Help, hyur!" I ran up. It was very dark; but the glimmer of a distant lamp enabled me to perceive a man out in the middle of the street, defending himself against four others. He was a man of giant size, and flourished a bright weapon, which I took to be a bowie-knife, while his assailants struck at him on all sides with sticks and stilettoes. A small boy ran back and forth upon the banquette, calling for help. Supposing it to be some street quarrel, I endeavoured to separate the parties by remonstrance. I rushed between them, holding out my cane; but a sharp cut across the knuckles, which I had received from one of the small men, together with his evident intention to follow it up, robbed me of all zest for pacific meditation; and, keeping my eye upon the one who had cut me, I drew a pistol (I could not otherwise defend myself), and fired. The man fell dead in his tracks, without a groan. His comrades, hearing me re-cock, took to their heels, and disappeared up a neighbouring alley. The whole scene did not occupy the time you have spent in reading this relation of it. One minute I was plodding quietly homeward; the next, I stood in the middle of the street; beside me a stranger of gigantic proportions; at my feet a black mass of dead humanity, half doubled up in the mud as it had fallen; on the banquette, the slight, shivering form of a boy; while above and around were silence and darkness. I was beginning to fancy the whole thing a dream, when the voice of the man at my side dispelled this illusion. "Mister," said he, placing his arms akimbo, and facing me, "if ye'll tell me yur name, I ain't a-gwine to forgit it. No, Bob Linkin ain't that sorter." "What! Bob Lincoln? Bob Lincoln of the Peaks?" In the voice I had recognised a celebrated mountain trapper, and an old acquaintance, whom I had not met for several years. "Why, Lord save us from Injuns! it ain't you, Cap'n Haller? May I be dog-goned if it ain't! Whooray!--whoop! I knowed it warn't no store-keeper fired that shot. Haroo! whar are yur, Jack?" "Here I am," answered the boy, from the pavement. "Kum hyur, then. Ye ain't badly skeert, air yur?" "No," firmly responded the boy, crossing over. "I tuk him from a scoundrelly Crow thet I overhauled on a fork of the Yellerstone. He gin me a long pedigree, that is, afore I kilt the skunk. He made out as how his people hed tuk the boy from the Kimanches, who hed brought him from somewhar down the Grande. I know'd it wur all bamboozle. The boy's white--American white. Who ever seed a yeller-hided Mexikin with them eyes and ha'r? Jack, this hyur's Cap'n Haller. If yur kin iver save his life by givin' yur own, yur must do it, de ye hear?" "I will," said the boy resolutely. "Come, Lincoln," I interposed, "these conditions are not necessary. You remember I was in your debt." "Ain't worth mentioning Cap; let bygones be bygones!" "But what brought you to New Orleans? or, more particularly, how came you into this scrape?" "Wal, Cap'n, bein' as the last question is the most partickler, I'll gin yur the answer to it fust. I hed jest twelve dollars in my pouch, an' I tuk a idee inter my head thet I mout as well double it. So I stepped into a shanty whar they wur a-playin' craps. After bettin' a good spell, I won somewhar about a hundred dollars. Not likin' the sign I seed about, I tuk Jack and put out. Wal, jest as I was kummin' roun' this hyur corner, four fellers--them ye seed--run out and jumped me, like so many catamounts. I tuk them for the same chaps I hed seed parley vooin' at the craps-table; an' tho't they wur only jokin', till one of them gin me a sockdolloger over the head, an' fired a pistol. I then drewed my bowie, an' the skrimmage begun; an' thet's all I know about it, cap'n, more'n yurself. "Let's see if it's all up with this'n," continued the hunter, stooping. "I'deed, yes," he drawled out; "dead as a buck. Thunder! ye've gin it him atween the eyes, plum. He _is_ one of the fellers, es my name's Bob Linkin. I kud sw'ar to them mowstaches among a million." At this moment a patrol of night gendarmes came up; and Lincoln, and Jack, and myself were carried off to the calaboose, where we spent the remainder of the night. In the morning we were brought before the recorder; but I had taken the precaution to send for some friends, who introduced me to his worship in a proper manner. As my story corroborated Lincoln's, and his mine, and "Jack's" substantiated both; and as the comrades of the dead Creole did not appear, and he himself was identified by the police as a notorious robber, the recorder dismissed the case as one of "justifiable homicide in self-defence"; and the hunter and I were permitted to go our way without further interruption. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Note. Craps is a game of dice. CHAPTER THREE. A VOLUNTEER RENDEZVOUS. "Now, Cap," said Lincoln, as we seated ourselves at the table of a cafe, "I'll answer t'other question yur put last night. I wur up on the head of Arkansaw, an' hearin' they wur raisin' volunteers down hyur, I kim down ter jine. It ain't often I trouble the settlements; but I've a mighty _puncheon_, as the Frenchmen says, to hev a crack at them yeller-bellies. I hain't forgot a mean trick they sarved me two yeern ago, up thar by Santer Fe." "And so you have joined the volunteers?" "That's sartin. But why ain't you a-gwine to Mexico? That 'ere's a wonder to me, cap, why you ain't. Thur's a mighty grist o' venturin', I heern; beats Injun fightin' all holler, an' yur jest the beaver I'd 'spect to find in that 'ar dam. Why don't you go?" "So I purposed long since, and wrote on to Washington for a commission; but the government seems to have forgotten me." "Dod rot the government! git a commission for yourself." "How?" I asked. "Jine us, an' be illected--thet's how." This had crossed my mind before; but, believing myself a stranger among these volunteers, I had given up the idea. Once joined, he who failed in being elected an officer was fated to shoulder a firelock. It was neck or nothing then. Lincoln set things in a new light. They were strangers to each other, he affirmed, and my chances of being elected would therefore be as good as any man's. "I'll tell yur what it is," said he; "yur kin turn with me ter the rendevooz, an' see for yurself; but if ye'll only jine, an' licker freely, I'll lay a pack o' beaver agin the skin of a mink that they'll illect ye captain of the company." "Even a lieutenancy," I interposed. "Ne'er a bit of it, cap. Go the big figger. 'Tain't more nor yur entitled to. I kin git yur a good heist among some hunters thet's thur; but thar's a buffalo drove o' them parleyvoos, an' a feller among 'em, one of these hyur creeholes, that's been a-showin' off and fencin' with a pair of skewers from mornin' till night. I'd be dog-gone glad to see the starch taken out o' that feller." I took my resolution. In half an hour after I was standing in a large hall or armoury. It was the rendezvous of the volunteers, nearly all of whom were present; and perhaps a more variegated assemblage was never grouped together. Every nationality seemed to have its representative; and for variety of language the company might have rivalled the masons of Babel. Near the head of the room was a table, upon which lay a large parchment, covered with signatures. I added mine to the list. In the act I had staked my liberty. It was an oath. "These are my rivals--the candidates for office," thought I, looking at a group who stood near the table. They were men of better appearance than the _hoi polloi_. Some of them already affected a half-undress uniform, and most wore forage-caps with glazed covers, and army buttons over the ears. "Ha! Clayley!" said I, recognising an old acquaintance. This was a young cotton-planter--a free, dashing spirit,--who had sacrificed a fortune at the shrines of Momus and Bacchus. "Why, Haller, old fellow! glad to see you. How have you been? Think of going with us?" "Yes, I have signed. Who is that man?" "He's a Creole; his name is Dubrosc." It was a face purely Norman, and one that would halt the wandering eye in any collection. Of oval outline, framed by a profusion of black hair, wavy and perfumed. A round black eye, spanned by brows arching and glossy. Whiskers that belonged rather to the chin, leaving bare the jawbone, expressive of firmness and resolve. Firm thin lips, handsomely moustached; when parted, displaying teeth well set and of dazzling whiteness. A face that might be called beautiful; and yet its beauty was of that negative order which we admire in the serpent and the pard. The smile was cynical; the eye cold, yet bright; but the brightness was altogether _animal_--more the light of instinct than intellect. A face that presented in its expression a strange admixture of the lovely and the hideous--physically fair, morally dark--beautiful, yet brutal! From some undefinable cause, I at once conceived for this man a strange feeling of dislike. It was he of whom Lincoln had spoken, and who was likely to be my rival for the captaincy. Was it this that rendered him repulsive? No. There was a cause beyond. In him I recognised one of those abandoned natures who shrink from all honest labour, and live upon the sacrificial fondness of some weak being who has been enslaved by their personal attractions. There are many such. I have met them in the _jardins_ of Paris; in the _casinos_ of London; in the cafes of Havanna, and the "quadroon" balls of New Orleans--everywhere in the crowded haunts of the world. I have met them with an instinct of loathing--an instinct of antagonism. "The fellow is likely to be our captain," whispered Clayley, noticing that I observed the man with more than ordinary attention. "By the way," continued he, "I don't half like it. I believe he's an infernal scoundrel." "Such are my impressions. But if that be his character, how can he be elected?" "Oh! no one here knows another; and this fellow is a splendid swordsman, like all the Creoles, you know. He has used the trick to advantage, and has created an impression. By the by, now I recollect, you are no slouch at that yourself. What are you up for?" "Captain," I replied. "Good! Then we must go the `whole hog' in your favour. I have put in for the first lieutenancy, so we won't run foul of each other. Let us `hitch teams'." "With all my heart," said I. "You came in with that long-bearded hunter. Is he your friend?" "He is." "Then I can tell you that among these fellows he's a `whole team, and a cross dog under the waggon' to boot. See him! he's at it already." I had noticed Lincoln in conversation with several leather-legging gentry like himself, whom I knew from their costume and appearance to be backwoodsmen. All at once these saturnine characters commenced moving about the room, and entering into conversation with men whom they had not hitherto deigned to notice. "They are canvassing," said Clayley. Lincoln, brushing past, whispered in my ear, "Cap'n, I understan' these hyur critters better'n you kin. Yer must mix among 'em--mix and licker--thet's the idee." "Good advice," said Clayley; "but if you could only take the shine out of that fellow at fencing, the thing's done at once. By Jove! I think you might do it, Haller!" "I have made up my mind to try, at all events." "Not until the last day--a few hours before the election." "You are right. It would be better to wait; I shall take your advice. In the meantime let us follow that of Lincoln--`mix and licker'." "Ha! ha!" laughed Clayley; "let us come, boys," he added, turning to a very thirsty-looking group, "let's all take a `smile'. Here, _Captain_ Haller! allow me to introduce you;" and the next moment I was introduced to a crowd of very seedy-looking gentlemen, and the moment after we were clinking glasses, and chatting as familiarly as if we had been friends of forty years' standing. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ During the next three days the enrolment continued, and the canvass was kept up with energy. The election was to take place on the evening of the fourth. Meanwhile my dislike for my rival had been strengthened by closer observation; and, as is general in such cases, the feeling was reciprocal. On the afternoon of the day in question we stood before each other, foil in hand, both of us nerved by an intense, though as yet _unspoken_, enmity. This had been observed by most of the spectators, who approached and formed a circle around us; all of them highly interested in the result--which, they knew, would be an index to the election. The room was an armoury, and all kinds of weapons for military practice were kept in it. Each had helped himself to his foil. One of the weapons was without a button, and sharp enough to be dangerous in the hands of an angry man. I noticed that my antagonist had chosen this one. "Your foil is not in order; it has lost the button, has it not?" I observed. "Ah! monsieur, pardon. I did not perceive that." "A strange oversight," muttered Clayley, with a significant glance. The Frenchman returned the imperfect foil, and took another. "Have you a choice, monsieur?" I inquired. "No, thank you; I am satisfied." By this time every person in the rendezvous had come up, and waited with breathless anxiety. We stood face to face, more like two men about to engage in deadly duel than a pair of amateurs with blunt foils. My antagonist was evidently a practised swordsman. I could see that as he came to guard. As for myself, the small-sword exercise had been a foible of my college days, and for years I had not met my match at it; but just then I was out of practice. We commenced unsteadily. Both were excited by unusual emotions, and our first thrusts were neither skilfully aimed nor parried. We fenced with the energy of anger, and the sparks crackled from the friction of the grazing steel. For several minutes it was a doubtful contest; but I grew cooler every instant, while a slight advantage I had gained irritated my adversary. At length, by a lucky hit, I succeeded in planting the button of my foil upon his cheek. A cheer greeted this, and I could hear the voice of Lincoln shouting out: "Wal done, cap'n! Whooray for the mountain-men!" This added to the exasperation of the Frenchman, causing him to strike wilder than before; and I found no difficulty in repeating my former thrust. It was now a sure hit; and after a few passes I thrust my adversary for the third time, drawing blood. The cheer rang out louder than before. The Frenchman could no longer conceal his mortification; and, grasping his foil in both hands, he snapped it over his knee, with an oath. Then, muttering some word about "better weapons" and "another opportunity", he strode off among the spectators. Two hours after the combat I was his captain. Clayley was elected first lieutenant, and in a week from that time the company was "mustered" into the service of the United States government, and armed and equipped as an independent corps of "Rifle Rangers". On the 20th of January, 1847, a noble ship was bearing us over the blue water, toward the shores of a hostile land. CHAPTER FOUR. LIFE ON THE ISLAND OF LOBOS. After calling at Brazos Santiago, we were ordered to land upon the island of Lobos, fifty miles north of Vera Cruz. This was to be our "drill rendezvous." We soon reached the island. Detachments from several regiments debarked together; the jungle was attacked; and in a few hours the green grove had disappeared, and in its place stood the white pyramids of canvas with their floating flags. It was the work of a day. When the sun rose over Lobos it was a desert isle, thickly covered with a jungle of mangrove, manzanel, and icaco trees, green as an emerald. How changed the scene! When the moon looked down upon this same islet it seemed as if a warlike city had sprung suddenly out of the sea, with a navy at anchor in front of its bannered walls! In a few days six full regiments had encamped upon the hitherto uninhabited island, and nothing was heard but the voice of war. These regiments were all "raw"; and my duty, with others, consisted in "licking them into shape". It was drill, drill, from morning till night; and, by early tattoo, I was always glad to crawl into my tent and go to sleep--such sleep as a man can get among scorpions, lizards, and soldier-crabs; for the little islet seemed to have within its boundaries a specimen of every reptile that came safely out of the ark. The 22nd of February being Washington's birthday, I could not get to bed as usual. I was compelled to accept an invitation, obtained by Clayley, to the tent of Major Twing, where they were--using Clayley's own words--"to have a night of it." After tattoo we set out for the major's marquee, which lay near the centre of the islet, in a coppice of caoutchouc-trees. We had no difficulty in finding it, guided by the jingling of glasses and the mingling of many voices in boisterous laughter. As we came near, we could perceive that the marquee had been enlarged by tucking up the flaps in front, with the addition of a fly stretched over an extra ridge-pole. Several pieces of rough plank, spirited away from the ship, resting upon empty bread-barrels, formed the table. Upon this might be recognised every variety of bottles, glasses, and cups. Open boxes of sardines, piles of ship-biscuits, and segments of cheese filled the intervening spaces. Freshly-drawn corks and glistening fragments of lead were strewed around, while a number of dark conical objects under the table told that not a few champagne bottles were already "down among the dead men." On each side of the table was a row of colonels, captains, subalterns, and doctors seated without regard to rank or age, according to the order in which they had "dropped in". There were also some naval officers, and a sprinkling of strange, half-sailor-looking men, the skippers of transport brigs, steamboats, etcetera; for Twing for a thorough republican in his entertainments; besides, the _day_ levelled all distinctions. At the head of the table was the major himself, who always carried a large pewter flask suspended from his shoulders by a green string, and without this flask no one ever saw Major Twing. He could not have stuck to it more closely had it been his badge of rank. It was not unusual, on the route, to hear some wearied officer exclaim, "If I only had a pull at old Twing's pewter!" and "equal to Twing's flask" was an expression which stamped the quality of any liquor as superfine. Such was one of the major's peculiarities, though by no means the only one. As my friend and I made our appearance under the fly, the company was in high glee, everyone enjoying himself with that freedom from restraint of rank peculiar to the American army-service. Clayley was a great favourite with the major, and at once caught his eye. "Ha, Clayley! that you? Walk in with your friend. Find seats there, gentlemen." "Captain Haller--Major Twing," said Clayley, introducing me. "Happy to know you, Captain. Can you find seats there? No. Come up this way. Cudjo, boy! run over to Colonel Marshall's tent, and steal a couple of stools. Adge, twist the neck off that bottle. Where's the screw? Hang that screw! Where is it anyhow?" "Never mind the screw, Mage," cried the adjutant; "I've got a patent universal here." So saying, this gentleman held out a champagne bottle in his left hand, and with a down-stroke of his right cut the neck off, as square as if it had been filed. "Nate!" ejaculated Hennessy, an Irish officer, who sat near the head of the table, and who evidently admired that sort of thing. "What we call a Kentucky corkscrew," said the adjutant coolly. "It offers a double advantage. It saves time, and you got the wine clear of--" "My respects, gentlemen! Captain Haller--Mr Clayley." "Thank you, Major Twing. To you, sir." "Ha! the stools at last! Only one! Come, gentlemen, squeeze yourselves up this way. Here, Clayley, old boy; here's a cartridge-box. Adge! up-end that box. So--give us your fist, old fellow; how are you? Sit down, Captain; sit down. Cigars, there!" At that moment the report of a musket was heard without the tent, and simultaneously a bullet whistled through the canvas. It knocked the foraging-cap from the head of Captain Hennessy, and, striking a decanter, shivered the glass into a thousand pieces! "A nate shot that, I don't care who fired it," said Hennessy, coolly picking up his cap. "An inch of a miss--good as a mile," added he, thrusting his thumb into the bullet-hole. By this time every officer present was upon his feet, most of them rushing towards the front of the marquee. A dozen voices called out together: "Who fired that gun?" There was no answer, and several plunged into the thicket in pursuit. The chaparral was dark and silent, and these returned after a fruitless search. "Some soldier, whose musket has gone off by accident," suggested Colonel Harding. "The fellow has run away, to avoid being put under arrest." "Come, gentlemen, take your sates again," said Hennessy; "let the poor divil slide--yez may be thankful it wasn't a shell." "You, Captain, have most cause to be grateful for the character of the missile." "By my sowl, I don't know about that!--a shell or a twenty-four would have grazed me all the same; but a big shot would have been mighty inconvanient to the head of my friend Haller, here!" This was true. My head was nearly in range; and had the shot been a large one, it would have struck me upon the left temple. As it was, I felt the "wind" of the bullet, and already began to suffer a painful sensation over the eye. "I'm mighty curious to know which of us the fellow has missed, Captain," said Hennessy, turning to me as he spoke. "If it were not a `bull' I should say I hope neither of us. I'm inclined to think, with Colonel Harding, that it was altogether an accident." "By the powers! an ugly accident too, that has spoiled five dollars' worth of an illigant cap, and a pint of as good brandy as ever was mixed with hot water and lemon-juice." "Plenty left, Captain," cried the major. "Come, gentlemen, don't let this damp us; fill up! till up! Adge, out with the corks! Cudjo, where's the screw?" "Never mind the screw, Mage," cried the adjutant, repeating his old trick upon the neck of a fresh bottle, which, nipped off under the wire, fell upon a heap of others that had preceded it. And the wine again foamed and sparkled, and glasses circled round, and the noisy revelry waxed as loud as ever. The incident of the shot was soon forgotten. Songs were sung, and stories told, and toasts drunk; and with song and sentiment, and toast and story, and the wild excitement of wit and wine, the night waned away. With many of those young hearts, old with hope and burning with ambition, it was the last "Twenty-second" they would ever celebrate. Half of them never hailed another. CHAPTER FIVE. A SKELETON ADVENTURE. It was past midnight when I withdrew from the scene of wassail. My blood was flushed, and I strolled down upon the beach to enjoy the cool fresh breeze that was flowing in from the Mexican Sea. The scene before me was one of picturesque grandeur, and I paused a moment to gaze upon it. The wine even heightened its loveliness to an illusion. The full round moon of the tropics was sweeping over a sky of cloudless blue. The stars were eclipsed and scarcely visible, except a few of the larger ones, as the belt of Orion, the planet Venus, and the luminous radii of the Southern Cross. From my feet a broad band of silver stretched away to the horizon, marking the meridian of the moon. This was broken by the line of coral reef, over which the surf curled and sparkled with a phosphoric brightness. The reef itself, running all round, seemed to gird the islet in a circle of fire. Here only were the waves in motion, as if pressed by some subaqueous and invisible power; for beyond, scarcely a breath stirred the sleeping sea. It lay smooth and silent, while a satellite sky seemed caved out in its azure depths. On the south, a hundred ships were in the deep roadstead, a cable's length from each other--their hulls, spars, and rigging magnified to gigantic proportions under the deceptive and tremulous moonbeam. They were motionless as if the sea had been frozen around them into a solid crystal. Their flags drooped listlessly down, trailing along the masts, or warped and twined around the halyards. Up against the easy ascent extended the long rows of white tents, shining under the silvery moonbeam like pyramids of snow. In one a light was still gleaming through the canvas, where, perchance, some soldier sat up, wearily wiping his gun, or burnishing the brasses upon his belts. Now and then dark forms--human and uniformed--passed to and fro from tent to tent, each returning from a visit to some regimental comrade. At equal distances round the camp others stood upright and motionless, the gleam of the musket showing the sentry on his silent post. The plunge of an oar, as some boat was rowed out among the anchored ships--the ripple of the light breaker--at intervals the hail of a sentinel, "Who goes there?"--the low parley that followed--the chirp of the cicada in the dark jungle--or the scream of the sea-bird, scared by some submarine enemy from its watery rest--were the only sounds that disturbed the deep stillness of the night. I continued my walk along the beach until I had reached that point of the island directly opposite to the mainland of Mexico. Here the chaparral grew thick and tangled, running down to the water's edge, where it ended in a clump of mangroves. As no troops were encamped here, the islet had not been cleared at this point, and the jungle was dark and solitary. The moon was now going down, and straggling shadows began to fall upon the water. Certainly some one skulked into the bushes!--a rustling in the leaves-- yes! some fellow who has strayed beyond the line of sentries and is afraid to return to camp. Ha! a boat! a skiff it is--a net and buoys! As I live, 'tis a Mexican craft!--who can have brought it here? Some fisherman from the coast of Tuspan. No, he would not venture; it must be-- A strange suspicion flashed across my mind, and I rushed through the mangrove thicket, where I had observed the object a moment before. I had not proceeded fifty yards when I saw the folly of this movement. I found myself in the midst of a labyrinth, dark and dismal, surrounded by a wall of leaves and brambles. The branches of the mangroves, rooted at their tops, barred up the path, and vines laced them together. "If they be spies," thought I, "I have taken the worst plan to catch them. I may as well go through now. I cannot be distant from the rear of the camp. Ugh! how dismal!" I pushed on, climbing over fallen trunks, and twining myself through the viny cordage. The creepers clung to my neck--thorns penetrated my skin--the _mezquite_ slapped me in the face, drawing blood. I laid my hand upon a pendent limb; a clammy object struggled under my touch, with a terrified yet spiteful violence, and, freeing itself, sprang over my shoulder, and scampered off among the fallen leaves. I felt its fetid breath as the cold scales brushed against my cheek. It was the hideous iguana. A huge bat flapped its sail-like wings in my face, and returned again and again, breathing a mephitic odour that caused me to gasp. Twice I struck at it with my sword, cutting only the empty air. A third time my blade was caught in the trellis of parasites. It was horrible; I felt terrified to contend with such strange enemies. At length, after a continued struggle, an opening appeared before me--a glade; I rushed to the welcome spot. "What a relief!" I ejaculated, emerging from the leafy darkness. Suddenly I started back with a cry of horror; my limbs refused to act; the sword fell from my grasp, and I stood palsied and transfixed, as if by a bolt from heaven. Before me, and not over three paces distant, the image of Death himself rose out of the earth, and stretched forth his skeleton arms to clutch me. It was no phantom. There was the white, naked skull, with its eyeless sockets, the long, flesh-less limbs, the open, serrated ribs, the long, jointed fingers of Death himself. As my bewildered brain took in these objects I heard a noise in the bushes as of persons engaged in an angry struggle. "Emile, Emile!" cried a female voice, "you shall not murder him--you shall not!" "Off! off!--Marie, let me go!" was shouted in the rough accents of a man. "Oh, no!" continued the female, "you shall not--no--no--no!" "Curses on the woman! There, let me go now!" There was a sound as of someone struck with violence--a scream--and at the same moment a human figure rushed out of the bushes, and, confronting me, exclaimed: "Ha! Monsieur le Capitaine! _coup pour coup_!" I heard no more; a heavy blow, descending upon my temples, deprived me of all power, and I fell senseless to the earth. When I returned to consciousness the first objects I saw were the huge brown whiskers of Lincoln, then Lincoln himself, then the pale face of the boy Jack; and, finally, the forms of several soldiers of my company. I saw that I was in my own tent and stretched upon my camp-bed. "What?--howl--what's the matter!--what's this?" I said, raising my hands to the bandage of wet linen that bound my temples. "Keep still, Cap'n," said Bob, taking my hand from the fillet and placing it by my side. "Och! by my sowl, he's over it; thank the Lord for His goodness!" said Chane, an Irish soldier. "Over what? what has happened to me?" I inquired. "Och, Captin, yer honour, you've been nearly murthered, and all by thim Frinch scoundhrels; bad luck to their dirty frog-atin' picthers!" "Murdered! French scoundrels! Bob, what is it?" "Why, yer see, Cap'n, ye've had a cut hyur over the head; and we think it's them Frenchmen." "Oh! I remember now; a blow--but the Death?--the Death?" I started up from the bed as the phantom of my night adventure returned to my imagination. "The Death, Cap'n?--what do yer mean?" inquired Lincoln, holding me in his strong arms. "Oh! the Cap'n manes the skilleton, maybe," said Chane. "What skeleton?" I demanded. "Why, an owld skilleton the boys found in the chaparril, yer honner. They hung it to a three; and we found yer honner there, with the skilleton swinging over ye like a sign. Och! the Frinch bastes!" I made no further inquiries about the "Death." "But where are the Frenchmen?" asked I, after a moment. "Clane gone, yer honner," replied Chane. "Gone?" "Yes, Cap'n; that's so as he sez it," answered Lincoln. "Gone! What do you mean?" I inquired. "Desarted, Cap'n." "How do you know that?" "Because they ain't here." "On the island?" "Searched it all--every bush." "But who? which of the French?" "Dubrosc and that 'ar boy that was always with him--both desarted." "You are sure they are missing?" "Looked high and low, Cap'n. Gravenitz seed Dubrosc steal into the chaparril with his musket. Shortly afterwards we heern a shot, but thought nothin' of it till this mornin', when one of the sodgers foun' a Spanish sombrary out thar; and Chane heern some'dy say the shot passed through Major Twing's markey. Besides, we foun' this butcher-knife where yer was lyin'." Lincoln here held up a species of Mexican sword called a _machete_. "Ha!--well." "That's all, Cap'n; only it's my belief there was Mexicans on this island, and them Frenchmen's gone with them." After Lincoln left me I lay musing on this still somewhat mysterious affair. My memory, however, gradually grew clearer; and the events of the preceding night soon became linked together, and formed a complete chain. The shot that passed so near my head in Twing's tent--the boat-- the French words I had heard before I received the blow--and the exclamation, "_Coup pour coup_!"--all convinced me that Lincoln's conjectures were right. Dubrosc had fired the shot and struck the blow that had left me senseless. But who could the woman be whose voice I had heard pleading in my behalf? My thoughts reverted to the boy who had gone off with Dubrosc, and whom I had often observed in the company of the latter. A strange attachment appeared to exist between them, in which the boy seemed to be the devoted slave of the strong fierce Creole. Could this be a woman? I recollected having been struck with his delicate features, the softness of his voice, and the smallness of his hands. There were other points, besides, in the _tournure_ of the boy's figure that had appeared singular to me. I had frequently observed the eyes of this lad bent upon me, when Dubrosc was not present, with a strange and unaccountable expression. Many other peculiarities connected with the boy and Dubrosc, which at the time had passed unnoticed and unheeded, now presented themselves to my recollection, all tending to prove the identity of the boy with the woman whose voice I had heard in the thicket. I could not help smiling at the night's adventures; determined, however, to conceal that part which related to the skeleton. In a few days my strength was restored. The cut I had received was not deep--thanks to my forage-cap and the bluntness of the Frenchman's weapon. CHAPTER SIX. THE LANDING AT SACRIFICIOS. Early in the month of March the troops at Lobos were re-embarked, and dropped down to the roadstead of Anton Lizardo. The American fleet was already at anchor there, and in a few days above a hundred sail of transports had joined it. There is no city, no village, hardly a habitation upon this half-desert coast. The aspect is an interminable waste of sandy hills, rendered hirsute and picturesque by the plumed frondage of the palm-tree. We dared not go ashore, although the smooth white beach tempted us strongly. A large body of the enemy was encamped behind the adjacent ridges, and patrols could be seen at intervals galloping along the beach. I could not help fancying what must have been the feeling of the inhabitants in regard to our ships--a strange sight upon this desert coast, and not a pleasing one to them, knowing that within those dark hulls were concealed the hosts of their armed invaders. Laocoon looked not with more dread upon the huge ribs of the Danaic horse than did the simple peasant of Anahuac upon this fleet of "oak leviathans" that lay within so short a distance of his shores. To us the scene possessed an interest of a far different character. We looked proudly upon these magnificent models of naval architecture--upon their size, their number, and their admirable adaptation. We viewed with a changing cheek and kindling eye this noble exhibition of a free people's strength; and as the broad banner of our country swung out upon the breeze of the tropics, we could not help exulting in the glory of that great nation whose uniform we wore around our bodies. It was no dream. We saw the burnished cannon and the bright epaulette, the gleaming button and the glancing bayonet. We heard the startling trumpet, the stirring drum, and the shrill and thrilling fife; and our souls drank in all those glorious sights and sounds that form at once the spirit and the witchery of war. The landing was to take place on the 9th, and the point of debarkation fixed upon was the beach opposite the island of Sacrificios, just out of range of the guns of Vera Cruz. The 9th of March rose like a dream, bright, balmy, and beautiful. The sea was scarcely stirred by the gentlest breeze of the tropics; but this breeze, light as it was, blew directly in our favour. At an early hour I observed a strange movement among the ships composing the fleet. Signals were changing in quick succession, and boats gliding rapidly to and fro. Before daybreak the huge surf-boats had been drawn down from their moorings, and with long hempen hawsers attached to the ships and steamers. The descent was about to be made. The ominous cloud which had hung dark and threatening over the shores of Mexico was about to burst upon that devoted land. But where? The enemy could not tell, and were preparing to receive us on the adjacent shore. The black cylinder began to smoke, and the murky cloud rolled down upon the water, half obscuring the fleet. Here and there a broad sail, freshly unfurled, hung stiffly from the yard; the canvas, escaping from its gasket fastenings, had not yet been braced round to the breeze. Soldiers were seen standing along the decks; some in full equipments, clutching the bright barrels of their muskets, while others were buckling on their white belts, or cramming their cartouche-boxes. Officers, in sash and sword, paced the polished quarter-decks, or talked earnestly in groups, or watched with eager eyes the motions of the various ships. Unusual sounds were heard on all sides. The deep-toned chorus of the sailor, the creaking of the capstan, and the clanking of the iron cogs; the "heave-ho!" at the windlass, and the grating of the huge anchor-chain, as link after link rasped through the rusty ring--sounds that warned us to make ready for a change. In the midst of these came the brisk rolling of a drum. It was answered by another, and another, and still another, until all voices were drowned by the deafening noise. Then followed the mingling shouts of command, a rushing over the decks, and streams of blue-clad men poured down the dark sides, and seated themselves in the surf-boats. These were filled in a twinkling, and all was silent as before. Every voice was hushed in expectation, and every eye bent upon the little black steamer which carried the commander-in-chief. Suddenly a cloud of smoke rose up from her quarter; a sheet of flame shot out horizontally; and the report of a heavy gun shook the atmosphere like an earthquake. Before its echoes had subsided, a deafening cheer ran simultaneously through the fleet; and the ships, all together, as if impelled by some hidden and supernatural power, broke from their moorings, and dashed through the water with the velocity of the wind. Away to the north-west, in an exciting race; away for the island of Sacrificios! On struggled the ships, bending to the breeze and cleaving the crystal water with their bold bows; on the steamers, beating the blue waves into a milky way, and dragging the laden boats in their foamy track. On followed the boats through the hissing and frothy caldron. Loud rolled the drum, loud brayed the bugle, and loud huzzas echoed from the adjacent shores. Already the foe was alarmed and alert. Light horsemen with streaming haste galloped up the coast. Lancers, with gay trappings and long pennons, appeared through the openings of the hills. Foaming, prancing steeds flew with light artillery over the naked ridges, dashing madly down deep defiles, and crushing the cactus with their whirling wheels. "Andela! Andela!" was their cry. In vain they urged their horses, in vain they drove the spur deep and bloody into their smoking sides. The elements were against them, and in favour of their foes. The earth and the water were their impediments, while the air and the water were the allies of their enemies. _They_ clung and sweltered through the hot and yielding sand or sank in the marshy borders of the Mandinga and the Medellin, while steam and the wind drove the ships of their adversaries like arrows through the water. The alarm spread up the coast. Bugles were sounding, and horsemen galloped through the streets of Vera Cruz. The alarm-drum beat in the plaza, and the long roll echoed in every _cuartel_. Signal rockets shot up from San Juan, and were answered by others from Santiago and Concepcion. Thousands of dark forms clustered upon the roofs of the city and the ramparts of the castle; and thousands of pale lips whispered in accents of terror, "They come! they come!" As yet they knew not how the attack was to be made, or where to look for our descent. They imagined that we were about to bombard their proud fortress of San Juan, and expected soon to see the ships of these rash invaders shattered and sunk before its walls. The fleet was almost within long range, the black buoyant hulls bounded fearlessly over the water. The eager crowd thickened upon the walls. The artillerists of Santiago had gathered around their guns, silent and waiting orders. Already the burning fuse was sending forth its sulphurous smell, and the dry powder lay temptingly on the touch, when a quick, sharp cry was heard along the walls and battlements, a cry of mingled rage, disappointment, and dismay. The foremost ship had swerved suddenly from the track; and bearing sharply to the left, under the _manege_ of a skilful helmsman, was running down under the shelter of Sacrificios. The next ship followed her guide, and the next, and the next; and, before the astonished multitude recovered from their surprise, the whole fleet had come to within pistol-shot of the island! The enemy now, for the first time, perceived the _ruse_, and began to calculate its results. Those giant ships, that but a moment ago seemed rushing to destruction, had rounded to at a safe distance, and were preparing, with the speed and skilfulness of a perfect discipline, to pour a hostile host upon the defenceless shores. In vain the cavalry bugle called their horsemen to the saddle; in vain the artillery car rattled along the streets; both would be too late! Meanwhile, the ships let fall their anchors, with a plunge, and a rasping, and a rattle. The sails came down upon the yards; and sailors swung themselves into the great surf-boats, and mixed with the soldiers, and seized the oars. Then the blades were suddenly and simultaneously dropped on the surface of the wave, a naval officer in each boat directing the movements of the oarsmen. And the boats pulled out nearer, and by an echelon movement took their places in line. Light ships of war were thrown upon our flanks, to cover the descent by a cross fire. No enemy had yet appeared, and all eyes were turned landward with fiery expectation. Bounding hearts waited impatiently for the signal. The report of a single gun was at length heard from the ship of the commander-in-chief; and, as if by one impulse, a thousand oars struck the water, and flung up the spray upon their broad blades. A hundred boats leaped forward simultaneously. The powerful stroke was repeated, and propelled them with lightning speed. Now was the exciting race, the regatta of war! The Dardan rowers would have been distanced here. On! on! with the velocity of the wind, over the blue waves, through the snowy surf--on! And now we neared the shore, and officers sprang to their feet, and stood with their swords drawn; and soldiers half sat, half crouched, clutching their muskets. And the keels gritted upon the gravelly bed; and, at the signal, a thousand men, in one plunge, flung themselves into the water, and dashed madly through the surf. Thousands followed, holding their cartridge-boxes breast-high; and blades were glancing, and bayonets gleaming, and banners waving; and under glancing blades, and gleaming bayonets, and waving banners, the dark mass rushed high upon the beach. Then came a cheer, loud, long, and exulting. It pealed along the whole line, uttered from five thousand throats, and answered by twice that number from the anchored ships. It echoed along the shores, and back from the distant battlements. A colour-sergeant, springing forward, rushed up the steep sides of a sand-hill, and planted his flag upon its snowy ridge. As the well-known banner swung out upon the breeze, another cheer, wild and thrilling, ran along the line; a hundred answering flags were hauled up through the fleet; the ships of war saluted with full broadsides; and the guns of San Juan, now for the first time waking from their lethargic silence, poured forth their loudest thunder. The sun was just setting as our column commenced its advance inward. After winding for a short distance through the defiles of the sand-hills, we halted for the night, our left wing resting upon the beach. The soldiers bivouacked without tents--sleeping upon their arms, with the soft sand for their couch and the cartridge-box for their pillow. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Note. Cuartel is the quarter of the city. CHAPTER SEVEN. THE CITY OF THE TRUE CROSS. Vera Cruz is a fortified city. Round and round it is girt by a wall, with regular batteries placed at intervals. You enter it from the land side by three gates (_garitas_), and from the sea by a beautiful pier or mole that projects some distance into the water. The latter is a modern construction; and when the sun is descending behind the Mexican Cordilleras to the west, and the breeze blows in from the Gulf, this mole--the seat of but little commercial activity--becomes the favourite promenade of the dark-eyed Vera-Cruzanas and their pallid lovers. The city stands on the very beach. The sea at full tide washes its battlements, and many of the houses overlook the water. On almost every side a plain of sand extends to a mile's distance from the walls, where it terminates in those lofty white sand-ridges that form a feature of the shores of the Mexican Gulf. During high tides and "northers" the sea washes over the surrounding sand-plain, and Vera Cruz appears almost isolated amid the waves. On one side, however, towards the south, there is variety in the aspect. Here appear traces of vegetation--some low trees and bushes, a view of the forest inward into the country, a few buildings outside the walls, a railway-station, a cemetery, an aqueduct, a small sluggish stream, marshes and stagnant pools. In front of the city, built upon the coral reef, stands the celebrated fortress-castle of San Juan de Ulloa. It is about one thousand yards out from the mole, and over one of its angles towers a lighthouse. Its walls, with the reef on which it stands (Gallega), shelter the harbour of Vera Cruz--which, in fact, is only a roadstead--from the north winds. Under the lee of San Juan the ships of commerce lie at anchor. There are but few of them at any time. Another large fort (Concepcion) stands upon the beach at the northern angle of the city, and a third (Santiago) defends it towards the south. A circular bastion, with heavy pieces of ordnance, sweeps the plain to the rear, commanding it as far as the sand-ridges. Vera Cruz is a pretty picture to look at, either from the sea or from the sand-hills in the interior. Its massive domes--its tall steeples and turreted roofs--its architecture, half Moorish, half modern--the absence of scattered suburbs or other salient objects to distract the eye--all combine to render the City of the True Cross an unique and striking picture. In fact, its numerous architectural varieties, bound as they are into compact unity by a wall of dark lava-stone, impress you with the idea that some artist had arranged them for the sake of effect. The _coup d'oeil_ often reminded me of the engravings of cities in _Goldsmith's Epitome_, that used to be considered the bright spots in my lessons of school geography. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ At break of day, on the 10th, the army took up its line of march through hills of sand-drift. Division lapped upon division, regiment upon regiment, extending the circle of investment by an irregular echelon. Foot rifles and light infantry drove the enemy from ridge to ridge, and through the dark mazes of the chaparral gorge. The column continued its tortuous track, winding through deep denies, and over hot white hills, like a bristling snake. It moved within range of the guns of the city, screened by intervening heights. Now and then the loud cannon of Santiago opened upon it, as some regiment displayed itself, crossing a defile or pushing over the spur of a sand-hill. The constant rattling of rifles and musketry told that our skirmishers were busy in the advance. The arsenal was carried by a brilliant charge, and the American flag waved over the ruins of the Convent Malibran. On the 11th the Orizava road was crossed, and the light troops of the enemy were brushed from the neighbouring hills. They retired sullenly under shelter of their heavy guns, and within the walls of the city. On the morning of the 12th the investment was complete. Vera Cruz lay within a semicircle, around its centre. The half circumference was a chain of hostile regiments that embraced the city in their concave arc. The right of this chain pitched its tents opposite the isle of Sacrificios; while five miles off to the north, its left rested upon the hamlet Vergara. The sea covered the complement of this circle, guarded by a fleet of dark and warlike ships. The diameter hourly grew shorter. The lines of circum-vallation lapped closer and closer around the devoted city, until the American pickets appeared along the ridges of the nearest hills, and within range of the guns of Santiago, Concepcion, and Xjuoa. A smooth sand-plain, only a mile in width, lay between the besiegers and the walls of the besieged. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ After tattoo-beat on the night of the 12th, with a party of my brother officers, I ascended the high hill around which winds the road leading to Orizava. This hill overlooks the city of Vera Cruz. After dragging ourselves wearily through the soft, yielding sand, we reached the summit, and halted on a projecting ridge. With the exception of a variety of exclamations expressing surprise and delight, not a word for awhile was uttered by any of our party, each individual being wrapped up in the contemplation of a scene of surpassing interest. It was moonlight, and sufficiently clear to distinguish the minutest objects on the picture that lay rolled out before us like a map. Below our position, and seeming almost within reach of the hand, lay the City of the True Cross, rising out of the white plain, and outlined upon the blue background of the sea. The dark grey towers and painted domes, the Gothic turret and Moorish minaret, impressed us with the idea of the antique; while here and there the tamarind, nourished on some azotea, or the fringed fronds of the palm-tree, drooping over the notched parapet, lent to the city an aspect at once southern and picturesque. Domes, spires, and cupolas rose over the old grey walls, crowned with floating banners--the consular flags of France, and Spain, and Britain, waving alongside the eagle of the Aztecs. Beyond, the blue waters of the Gulf rippled lightly against the sea-washed battlements of San Juan, whose brilliant lights glistened along the combing of the surf. To the south we could distinguish the isle of Sacrificios, and the dark hulls that slept silently under the shelter of its coral reef. Outside the fortified wall, which girt the city with its cincture of grey rock, a smooth plain stretched rearward to the foot of the hill on which we stood, and right and left along the crest of the ridge from Punta Hornos to Vergara, ranged a line of dark forms--the picket sentries of the American outposts, as they stood knee-deep in the soft, yielding sand-drift. It was a picture of surprising interest; and, as we stood gazing upon it, the moon suddenly disappeared behind a bank of clouds; and the lamps of the city, heretofore eclipsed by her brighter beam, now burned up and glistened along the walls. Bells rang merrily from church-towers, and bugles sounded through the echoing streets. At intervals we could hear the shrill cries of the guard, "_Centinela! alerte_!" (Sentinel, look out), and the sharp challenge, "_Quien viva_?" (Who goes there?) Then the sound of sweet music, mingled with the soft voices of women, was wafted to our ears, and with beating hearts we fancied we could hear the light tread of silken feet, as they brushed over the polished floor of the ball-room. It was a tantalising moment, and wistful glances were cast on the beleaguered town; while more than one of our party was heard impatiently muttering a wish that it might be carried by assault. As we continued gazing, a bright jet of flame shot out horizontally from the parapet over Puerto Nuevo. "Look out!" cried Twing, at the same instant flinging his wiry little carcase squat under the brow of a sand-wreath. Several of the party followed his example; but, before all had housed themselves, a shot came singing past, along with the loud report of a twenty-four. The shot struck the comb of the ridge, within several yards of the group, and ricocheted off into the distant hills. "Try it again!" cried one. "That fellow has lost a champagne supper," said Twing. "More likely he has had it, or his aim would be more steady," suggested an officer. "Oysters, too--only think of it!" said Clayley. "Howld your tongue, Clayley, or by my sowl I'll charge down upon the town!" This came from Hennessy, upon whose imagination the contrast between champagne and oysters and the gritty pork and biscuit he had been feeding upon for several days past acted like a shock. "There again!" cried Twing, whose quick eye caught the blaze upon the parapet. "A shell, by the powers!" exclaimed Hennessy. "Let it dhrop first, or it may dhrop on ye," he continued, as several officers were about to fling themselves on their faces. The bomb shot up with a hissing, hurtling sound. A little spark could be seen as it traced its graceful curves through the dark heavens. The report echoed from the walls, and at the same instant was heard a dull sound, as the shell buried itself in the sand-drift. It fell close to one of the picket sentinels, who was standing upon his post within a few paces of the group. The man appeared to be either asleep or stupefied, as he remained stock-still. Perhaps he had mistaken it for the ricochet of a round shot. "It's big shooting for them to hit the hill!" exclaimed a young officer. The words had scarcely passed when a loud crash, like the bursting of a cannon, was heard under our feet; the ground opened like an earthquake, and, amidst the whistling of the fragments, the sand was dashed into our faces. A cloud of dust hung for a moment above the spot. The moon at this instant reappeared, and as the dust slowly settled away, the mutilated body of the soldier was seen upon the brow of the hill, at the distance of twenty paces from his post. A low cheer reached us from Concepcion, the fort whence the shell had been projected. Chagrined at the occurrence, and mortified that it had been caused by our imprudence, we were turning to leave the hill, when the "whish" of a rocket attracted our attention. It rose from the chaparral, about a quarter of a mile in rear of the camp, and, before it had reached its culminating point, an answering signal shot up from the Puerto Nuevo. At the same instant a horseman dashed out of the thicket, and headed his horse at the steep sand-hills. After three or four desperate plunges, the fiery mustang gained the crest of the ridge upon which lay the remains of the dead soldier. Here the rider, seeing our party, suddenly reined up and balanced for a moment in the stirrup, as if uncertain whether to advance or retreat. We, on the other hand, taking him for some officer of our own, and wondering who it could be galloping about at such an hour, stood silent and waiting. "By heavens, that's a Mexican!" muttered Twing, as the ranchero dress became apparent under a brighter beam of the moon. Before anyone could reply, the strange horseman wheeled sharply to the left, and drawing a pistol, fired it into our midst. Then spurring his wild horse, he galloped past us into a deep defile of the hills. "You're a set of Yankee fools!" he shouted back, as he reached the bottom of the dell. Half a dozen shots replied to the taunting speech; but the retreating object was beyond pistol range before our astonished party had recovered from their surprise at such an act of daring audacity. In a few minutes we could see both horse and rider near the walls of the city--a speck on the white plain; and shortly after we heard the grating hinges of the Puerto Nuevo, as the huge gate swung open to receive him. No one was hit by the shot of his pistol. Several could be heard gritting their teeth with mortification as we commenced descending the hill. "Did you know that voice, Captain?" whispered Clayley to me, as we returned to camp. "Yes." "You think it was--" "Dubrosc." CHAPTER EIGHT. MAJOR BLOSSOM. On reaching the camp I found a mounted orderly in front of my tent. "From the general," said the soldier, touching his cap, and handing me a sealed note. The orderly, without waiting a reply, leaped into his saddle and rode off. I broke the seal with delight: "Sir,--You will report, with fifty men, to Major Blossom, at 4 a.m. to-morrow. "By order,--" (Signed) "A.A.A.-G. "Captain Haller, commanding Co. Rifle Rangers." "Old Bios, eh? Quartermaster scouting, I hope," said Clayley, looking over the contents of the note. "Anything but the trenches; I am sick of them." "Had it been anybody else but Blossom--fighting Daniels, for instance-- we might have reckoned on a comfortable bit of duty; but the old whale can hardly climb into his saddle--it _does_ look bad." "I will not long remain in doubt. Order the sergeant to warn the men for four." I walked through the camp in search of Blossom's marquee, which I found in a grove of caoutchouc-trees, and out of range of the heaviest metal in Vera Cruz. The major himself was seated in a large Campeachy chair, that had been "borrowed" from some neighbouring rancho, and perhaps it was never so well filled as by its present occupant. It would be useless to attempt an elaborate description of Major Blossom. That would require an entire chapter. Perhaps the best that can be done to give the reader an idea of him is to say that he was a great, fat, red man, and known among his brother officers as "the swearing major". If anyone in the army loved good living, it was Major Blossom; and if anyone hated hard living, that man was Major George Blossom. He hated Mexicans, too, and mosquitoes, and scorpions, and snakes, and sand-flies, and all enemies to his rest and comfort; and the manner in which he swore at these natural foes would have entitled him to a high commission in the celebrated army of Flanders. Major Blossom was a quarter-master in more senses than one, as he occupied more quarters than any two men in the army, not excepting the general-in-chief; and when many a braver man and better officer was cut down to "twenty-five pounds of baggage", the private lumber of Major Blossom, including himself, occupied a string of wagons like a siege-train. As I entered the tent he was seated at supper. The viands before him were in striking contrast to the food upon which the army was then subsisting. There was no gravel gritting between the major's teeth as he masticated mess-pork or mouldy biscuit. He found no _debris_ of sand and small rocks at the bottom of his coffee-cup. No; quite the contrary. A dish of pickled salmon, a side of cold turkey, a plate of sliced tongue, with a fine Virginia ham, were the striking features of the major's supper, while a handsome French coffee-urn, containing the essence of Mocha, simmered upon the table. Out of this the major from time to time replenished his silver cup. A bottle of _eau-de-vie_, that stood near his right hand, assisted him likewise in swallowing his ample ration. "Major Blossom, I presume?" said I. "My name," ejaculated the major, between two swallows, so short and quick that the phrase sounded like a monosyllable. "I have received orders to report to you, sir." "Ah! bad business! bad business!" exclaimed the major, qualifying the words with an energetic oath. "How, sir?" "Atrocious business! dangerous service! Can't see why they sent me." "I came, Major, to inquire the nature of the service, so that I may have my men in order for it." "Dangerous service!" "It is?" "Infernal cut-throats! thousands of 'em in the bushes--bore a man through as soon as wink. Those yellow devils are worse than--!" and again the swearing major wound up with an exclamation not proper to be repeated. "Can't see why they picked _me_ out. There's Myers, and Wayne, and Wood, not half my size, and that thin scare-the-crows Allen; but no--the general wants _me_ killed. Die soon enough in this infernal nest of centipedes without being shot in the chaparral! I wish the chaparral was--!" and again the major's unmentionable words came pouring forth in a volley. I saw that it was useless to interrupt him until the first burst was over. From his frequent anathemas on the "bushes" and the "chaparral", I could gather that the service I was called upon to perform lay at some distance from the camp; but beyond this I could learn nothing, until the major had sworn himself into a degree of composure, which after some minutes he accomplished. I then re-stated the object of my visit. "We're going into the country for mules," replied the major. "Mules, indeed! Heaven knows there isn't a mule within ten miles, unless with a yellow-hided Mexican on his back, and such mules we don't want. The volunteers--curse them!--have scared everything to the mountains: not a stick of celery nor an onion to be had at any price." "How long do you think we may be gone?" I inquired. "Long? Only a day. If I stay overnight in the chaparral, may a wolf eat me! Oh, no! if the mules don't turn up soon, somebody else may go fetch 'em--that's all." "I may ration them for one day?" said I. "Two--two; your fellows'll be hungry. Roberts, of the Rifles, who's been out in the country, tells me there isn't enough forage to feed a cat. So you'd better take two days' biscuit. I suppose we'll meet with beef enough on the hoof, though I'd rather have a rump-steak out of the Philadelphia market than all the beef in Mexico. Hang their beef! it's as tough as tan leather!" "At four o'clock then, Major, I'll be with you," said I, preparing to take my leave. "Make it a little later, Captain. I get no sleep with these cursed gally-nippers and things; but, stay--how many men have you got?" "In my company eighty; but my order is to take only fifty." "There again! I told you so; want me killed--they want old Bios killed! Fifty men, when a thousand of the leather-skinned devils have been seen not ten miles off! Fifty men! great heavens! fifty men! There's an escort to take the chaparral with!" "But they are fifty men worth a hundred, I promise you." "Bring all--every son of a gun--bugler and all." "But that, Major, would be contrary to the general's orders." "Hang the general's orders! Obey some generals' orders in this army, and you would do queer things. Bring them all; take my advice. I tell you, if you don't, our lives may answer for it. Fifty men!" I was about to depart when the major stopped me with a loud "Hilloa!" "Why," cried he, "I have lost my senses! Your pardon, Captain! This unlucky thing has driven me crazy. They must pick upon _me_! What will you drink? Here's some good brandy; sorry I can't say as much for the water." I mixed a glass of brandy and water; the major did the same; and, having pledged each other, we bade "good night", and separated. CHAPTER NINE. SCOUTING IN THE CHAPARRAL. Between the shores of the Mexican Gulf and the "foot-hills" (_piedmont_) of the great chain of the Andes lies a strip of low lands. In many places this belt is nearly a hundred miles in breadth, but generally less than fifty. It is of a tropical character, termed in the language of the country _tierra caliente_. It is mostly covered with jungly forests, in which are found the palm, the tree-ferns, the mahogany and india-rubber trees, dyewoods, canes, llianas, and many other gigantic parasites. In the underwood you meet thorny aloes, the "pita" plant, and wild mezcal; various Cactacese, and flora of singular forms, scarcely known to the botanist. There are swamps, dark and dank, overshadowed by the tall cypress, with its pendent streamers of silvery moss (_Tillandsia usneoides_). From these arise the miasma--the mother of the dreaded "vomito." This unhealthy region is but thinly inhabited; but here you meet with people of the African race, and nowhere else in Mexico. In the towns-- and there are but few--you see the yellow mulatto, and the pretty quadroon with her black waving hair; but in the spare settlements of the country you meet with a strange race--the cross of the negro with the ancient inhabitants of the country--the "zamboes." Along the coast and in the black country, behind Vera Cruz, you will find these people living a half-indolent, half-savage life, as small cultivators, cattle-herds, fishermen, or hunters. In riding through the forest you may often chance upon such a picture as the following:-- There is an opening in the woods that presents an aspect of careless cultivation--a mere patch cleared out of the thick jungle--upon which grow yams, the sweet-potato (_Convolvulus batata_), chile, melons, and the calabash. On one side of the clearing there is a hut--a sort of shed. A few upright poles forked at their tops; a few others laid horizontally upon them; a thatch of palm leaves to shadow the burning rays of the sun--that is all. In this shadow there are human beings--men, women, children. They wear rude garments of white cotton cloth; but they are half-naked, and their skins are dark, almost black. Their hair is woolly and frizzled. They are not Indians, they are not negroes, they are "zamboes"--a mixture of both. They are coarse-featured, and coarsely clad. You would find it difficult, at a little distance, to distinguish their sex, did you not know that those who swing in the hammocks and recline indolently upon the palm-mats (_petates_) are the men, and those who move about and do the work are the females. One of the former occasionally stimulates the activity of the latter by a stroke of the "cuarto" (mule-whip). A few rude implements of furniture are in the shed: a "metate" on which the boiled maize is ground for the "tortilla" cakes; some "ollas" (pots) of red earthenware; dishes of the calabash; a rude hatchet or two; a "machete"; a banjo made from the gourd-shell; a high-peaked saddle, with bridle and "lazo"; strings of red-pepper pods hanging from the horizontal beams--not much more. A lank dog on the ground in front; a lean "mustang" tied to the tree; a couple of "burros" (donkeys); and perhaps a sorry galled mule in an inclosure adjoining. The zambo enjoys his _dolce far niente_ while his wife does his work-- what work there is, but that is not much. There is an air of neglect that impresses you; an air of spontaneity about the picture--for the yams and the melons, and the chile-plants, half choked with weeds, seem to grow without culture, and the sun gives warmth, so as to render almost unnecessary the operations of the spindle and the loom. The forest opens again, and another picture--a prettier one--presents itself. It bears the aspect of a better cultivation, though still impressing you with ideas of indolence and neglect. This picture is the "rancho", the settlement of the small farmer, or "vaquero" (cattle-herd). Its form is that of an ordinary house, with gables and sloping roof, but its walls are peculiar. They are constructed of gigantic bamboo canes, or straight poles of the _Fouquiera splendens_. These are laced together by cords of the "pita" aloe; but the interstices between are left open, so as freely to admit the breeze. Coolness, not warmth, is the object of these buildings. The roof is a thatch of palm-leaves, and with far-impending eaves casts off the heavy rain of the tropics. The appearance is striking--more picturesque even than the chalet of Switzerland. There is but little furniture within. There is no table; there are few chairs, and these of raw hide nailed upon a rude frame. There are bedsteads of bamboo; the universal tortilla-stone; mats of palm-leaf; baskets of the same material; a small altar-like fireplace in the middle of the floor; a bandolin hanging by the wall; a saddle of stamped leather, profusely ornamented with silver nails and plates; a hair bridle, with huge Mameluke bit; an escopette and sword, or machete; an endless variety of gaily-painted bowls, dishes, and cups, but neither knife, fork, nor spoon. Such are the movables of a "rancho" in the _tierra caliente_. You may see the ranchero by the door, or attending to his small, wiry, and spirited horse, outside. The man himself is either of Spanish blood or a "mestizo" (half-breed). He is rarely a pure Indian, who is most commonly a peon or labourer, and who can hardly be termed a "ranchero" in its proper sense. The ranchero is picturesque--his costume exceedingly so. His complexion is swarthy, his hair is black, and his teeth are ivory white. He is often moustached, but rarely takes the trouble to trim or keep these ornaments in order. His whisker is seldom bushy or luxuriant. His trousers (_calzoneros_) are of green or dark velvet, open down the outside seams, and at the bottoms overlaid with stamped black leather, to defend the ankles of the wearer against the thorny chaparral. A row of bell buttons, often silver, close the open seams when the weather is cold. There are wide drawers (_calzoncillos_) of fine white cotton underneath; and these puff out through the seams, forming a tasty contrast with the dark velvet. A silken sash, generally of scarlet colour, encircles the waist; and its fringed ends hang over the hips. The hunting-knife is stuck under it. There is a short jacket of velveteen, tastefully embroidered and buttoned; a white cambric shirt, elaborately worked and plaited; and over all a heavy, broad-brimmed hat (_sombrero_), with silver or gold band, and tags of the same material sticking out from the sides. He wears boots of red leather, and huge spurs with bell rowels; and he is never seen without the "seraph". The last is his bed, his blanket, his cloak, and his umbrella. His wife may be seen moving about the rancho, or upon her knees before the metate kneading tortillas, and besmearing them with _chile Colorado_ (red capsicum). She wears a petticoat or skirt of a naming bright colour, very short, showing her well-turned but stockingless ankles, with her small slippered feet. Her arms, neck, and part of her bosom are nude, but half concealed by the bluish-grey scarf (_rebozo_) that hangs loosely over her head. The ranchero leads a free, easy life, burthened with few cares. He is the finest rider in the world, following his cattle on horseback, and never makes even the shortest journey on foot. He plays upon the bandolin, sings an Andalusian ditty, and is fond of _chingarito_ (mezcal whisky) and the "fandango." Such is the ranchero of the _tierra caliente_ around Vera Cruz, and such is he in all other parts of Mexico, from its northern limits to the Isthmus. But in the _tierra caliente_ you may also see the rich planter of cotton, or sugar-cane, or cocoa (_cacao_), or the vanilla bean. His home is the "hacienda". This is a still livelier picture. There are many fields inclosed and tilled. They are irrigated by the water from a small stream. Upon its banks there are cocoa-trees; and out of the rich moist soil shoot up rows of the majestic plantain, whose immense yellow-green leaves, sheathing the stem and then drooping gracefully over, render it one of the most ornamental productions of the tropics, as its clustering legumes of farinaceous fruit make it one of the most useful. Low walls, white or gaily painted, appear over the fields, and a handsome spire rises above the walls. That is the "hacienda" of the planter--the "rico" of the _tierra caliente_, with its out-buildings and chapel belfry. You approach it through scenes of cultivation. "Peons", clad in white cotton and reddish leathern garments, are busy in the fields. Upon their heads are broad-brimmed hats, woven from the leaf of the sombrero palm. Their legs are naked, and upon their feet are tied rude sandals (_guaraches_) with leathern thongs. Their skins are dark, though not black; their eyes are wild and sparkling; their looks grave and solemn; their hair coarse, long, and crow-black; and, as they walk, their toes turn inward. Their downcast looks, their attitudes and demeanour, impress you with the conviction that they are those who carry the water and hew the wood of the country. It is so. They are the "Indios mansos" (the civilised Indians): slaves, in fact, though freemen by the letter of the law. They are the "peons", the labourers, the serfs of the land--the descendants of the conquered sons of Anahuac. Such are the people you find in the _tierra caliente_ of Mexico--in the environs of Vera Cruz. They do not differ much from the inhabitants of the high plains, either in costume, customs, or otherwise. In fact, there is a homogeneousness about the inhabitants of all Spanish America--making allowance for difference of climate and other peculiarities--rarely found in any other people. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Before daybreak of the morning after my interview with the "swearing major", a head appeared between the flaps of my tent. It was that of Sergeant Bob Lincoln. "The men air under arms, Cap'n." "Very well," cried I, leaping from my bed, and hastily buckling on my accoutrements. I looked forth. The moon was still brightly shining, and I could see a number of uniformed men standing upon the company parade, in double rank. Directly in front of my tent a small boy was saddling a very small horse. The boy was "Little Jack", as the soldiers called him; and the horse was little Jack's mustang, "Twidget." Jack wore a tight-fitting green jacket, trimmed with yellow lace, and buttoned up to the throat; pantaloons of light green, straight cut, and striped along the seams; a forage-cap set jauntily upon a profusion of bright curls; a sabre with a blade of eighteen inches, and a pair of clinking Mexican spurs. Besides these, he carried the smallest of all rifles. Thus armed and accoutred, he presented the appearance of a miniature Ranger. Twidget had _his_ peculiarities. He was a tight, wiry little animal, that could live upon mezquite beans or maguey leaves for an indefinite time; and his abstemiousness was often put to the test. Afterwards, upon an occasion during the battles in the valley of Mexico, Jack and Twidget had somehow got separated, at which time the mustang had been shut up for four days in the cellar of a ruined convent with no other food than stones and mortar! How Twidget came by his name is not clear. Perhaps it was some waif of the rider's own fancy. As I appeared at the entrance of my tent, Jack had just finished strapping on his Mexican saddle; and seeing me, up he ran to assist in serving my breakfast. This was hastily despatched, and our party took the route in silence through the sleeping camp. Shortly after, we were joined by the major, mounted on a tall, raw-boned horse; while a darkie, whom the major addressed as "Doc", rode a snug, stout cob, and carried a large basket. This last contained the major's commissariat. We were soon travelling along the Orizava road, the major and Jack riding in advance. I could not help smiling at the contrast between these two equestrians; the former with his great gaunt horse, looming up in the uncertain light of the morning like some huge centaur; while Jack and Twidget appeared the two representatives of the kingdom of Lilliput. On turning an angle of the forest, a horseman appeared at some distance along the road. The major gradually slackened his pace, until he was square with the head of the column, and then fell back into the rear. This manoeuvre was executed in the most natural manner, but I could plainly see that the mounted Mexican had caused the major no small degree of alarm. The horseman proved to be a zambo, in pursuit of cattle that had escaped from a neighbouring corral. I put some inquiries to him in relation to the object of our expedition. The zambo pointed to the south, saying in Spanish that mules were plenty in that direction. "_Hay muchos, muchissimos_," (There are many), said he, as he indicated a road which led through a strip of forest on our left. Following his direction, we struck into the new path, which soon narrowed into a bridle-road or trail. The men were thrown into single file, and marched _a l'Indienne_. The road darkened, passing under thick-leaved trees, that met and twined over our heads. At times the hanging limbs and joined parasites caused the major to flatten his huge body upon the horn of the saddle; and once or twice he was obliged to alight, and walk under the impeding branches of the thorny acacias. Our journey continued without noise, silence being interrupted only by an occasional oath from the major--uttered, however, in a low tone, as we were now fairly "in the woods". The road at length opened upon a small prairie or glade, near the borders of which rose a "butte", covered with chaparral. Leaving the party in ambuscade below, I ascended the butte, to obtain a view of the surrounding country. The day had now fairly broken, and the sun was just rising over the blue waters of the Gulf. His rays, prinkling over the waves, caused them to dance and sparkle with a metallic brightness; and it was only after shading my eyes that I could distinguish the tall masts of ships and the burnished towers of the city. To the south and west stretched a wide expanse of champaign country, glowing in all the brilliance of tropical vegetation. Fields of green, and forests of darker green; here and there patches of yellow, and belts of olive-coloured leaves; at intervals a sheet of silver--the reflection from a placid lake, or the bend of some silent stream--was visible upon the imposing picture at my feet. A broad belt of forest, dotted with the lifelike frondage of the palm, swept up to the foot of the hill. Beyond this lay an open tract of meadow, or prairie, upon which were browsing thousands of cattle. The distance was too great to distinguish their species; but the slender forms of some of them convinced me that the object of our search would be found in that direction. The meadow, then, was the point to be reached. The belt of forest already mentioned must be crossed; and to effect this I struck into a trail that seemed to lead in the direction of the meadow. The trail became lighter as we entered the heavy timber. Some distance farther on we reached a stream. Here the trail entirely disappeared. No "signs" could be found on the opposite bank. The underwood was thick; and vines, with broad green leaves and huge clusters of scarlet flowers, barred up the path like a wall. It was strange! The path had evidently led to this point, but where beyond? Several men were detached across the stream to find an opening. After a search of some minutes a short exclamation from Lincoln proclaimed success; I crossed over, and found the hunter standing near the bank, holding back a screen of boughs and vine-leaves, beyond which a narrow but plain track was easily distinguished, leading on into the forest. The trellis closed like a gate, and it seemed as if art had lent a hand to the concealment of the track. The footprints of several horses were plainly visible in the sandy bottom of the road. The men entered in single file. With some difficulty Major Blossom and his great horse squeezed themselves through, and we moved along under the shady and silent woods. After a march of several miles, fording numerous streams, and working our way through tangled thickets of nopal and wild maguey, an opening suddenly appeared through the trees. Emerging from the forest, a brilliant scene burst upon us. A large clearing, evidently once cultivated, but now in a state of neglect, stretched out before us. Broad fields, covered with flowers of every hue--thickets of blooming rose-trees--belts of the yellow helianthus--and groups of cocoa-trees and half-wild plantains, formed a picture singular and beautiful. On one side, and close to the border of the forest, could be seen the roof of a house, peering above groves of glistening foliage, and thither we marched. We entered a lane, with its _guardarayas_ of orange-trees planted in rows upon each side, and meeting overhead. The sunlight fell through this leafy screen with a mellowed and delicious softness, and the perfume of flowers was wafted on the air. The rich music of birds was around us; and the loveliness of the scene was heightened by the wild neglect which characterised it. On approaching the house we halted; and after charging the men to remain silent, I advanced alone to reconnoitre. CHAPTER TEN. ADVENTURE WITH A CAYMAN. The lane suddenly opened upon a pasture, but within this a thick hedge of jessamines, forming a circle, barred the view. In this circle was the house, whose roof only could be seen from without. Not finding any opening through the jessamines, I parted the leaves with my hands, and looked through. The picture was dream-like; so strange, I could scarcely credit my senses. On the crest of the little hillock stood a house of rare construction-- unique and unlike anything I had ever seen. The sides were formed of bamboos, closely picketed, and laced together by fibres of the _pita_. The roof--a thatch of palm-leaves--projected far over the eaves, rising to a cone, and terminating in a small wooden cupola with a cross. There were no windows. The walls themselves were translucent; and articles of furniture could be distinguished through the interstices of the bamboos. A curtain of green _barege_, supported by a rod and rings, formed the door. This was drawn, discovering an ottoman near the entrance, and an elegant harp. The whole structure presented the _coup-d'oeil_ of a huge birdcage, with its wires of gold! The grounds were in keeping with the house. In these, the evidence of neglect, which had been noticed without, existed no longer. Every object appeared to be under the training of a watchful solicitude. A thick grove of olives, with their gnarled and spreading branches and dark-green leaves, stretched rearward, forming a background to the picture. Right and left grew clumps of orange and lime trees. Golden fruit and flowers of brilliant hues mingled with their yellow leaves; spring and autumn blended upon the same branches! Rare shrubs--exotics--grew out of large vessels of japanned earthenware, whose brilliant tints added to the voluptuous colouring of the scene. A _jet d'eau_, crystalline, rose to the height of twenty feet, and, returning in a shower of prismatic globules, stole away through a bed of water-lilies and other aquatic plants, losing itself in a grove of lofty plantain-trees. These, growing from the cool watery bed, flung out their broad glistening leaves to the length of twenty feet. So signs of human life met the eye. The birds alone seemed to revel in the luxuriance of this tropical paradise. A brace of pea-fowl stalked over the parterre in all the pride of their rainbow plumage. In the fountain appeared the tall form of a flamingo, his scarlet colour contrasting with the green leaves of the water-lily. Songsters were trilling in every tree. The mock-bird, perched upon the highest limb, was mimicking the monotonous tones of the parrot. The toucans and trogons flashed from grove to grove, or balanced their bodies under the spray of the _jet d'eau_; while the humming-birds hung upon the leaves of some honeyed blossom, or prinkled over the parterre like straying sunbeams. I was running my eye over this dream-like picture, in search of a human figure, when the soft, metallic accents of a female voice reached me from the grove of plantains. It was a burst of laughter--clear and ringing. Then followed another, with short exclamations, and the sound of water as if dashed and sprinkled with a light hand. What must be the Eve of a paradise like this! The silver tones were full of promise. It was the first female voice that had greeted my ears for a month, and chords long slumbering vibrated under the exquisite touch. My heart bounded. My first impulse was "forward", which I obeyed by springing through the jessamines. But the fear of intruding upon a scene _a la Diane_ changed my determination, and my next thought was to make a quiet retreat. I was preparing to return, and had thrust one leg back through the hedge, when a harsh voice--apparently that of a man--mingled with the silvery tones. "_Anda!--anda!--hace mucho calor. Vamos a volver_." (Hasten!--it is hot. Let us return.) "_Ah, no, Pepe! un ratito mas_." (Ah, no, Pepe! a little while longer.) "_Vaya, carrambor_!" (Quick, then!) Again the clear laughter rang out, mingled with the clapping of hands and short exclamations of delight. "Come," thought I, once more entering the parterre, "as there appears to be one of my own sex here already, it cannot be very _mal a propos_ to take a peep at this amusement, whatever it be." I approached the row of plantain-trees, whose leaves screened the speakers from view. "_Lupe! Lupe! mira! que bonito_!" (Lupe! Lupe! look here! What a pretty thing!) "_Ah, pobrecito! echalo, Luz, echalo_." (Ah! poor little thing! fling it back, Luz.) "_Voy luego_," (Presently.) I stooped down, and silently parted the broad, silken leaves. The sight was divine! Within lay a circular tank, or basin, of crystal water, several rods in diameter, and walled in on all sides by the high screen of glossy plantains, whose giant leaves, stretching out horizontally, sheltered it from the rays of the sun. A low parapet of mason-work ran around, forming the circumference of the circle. This was japanned with a species of porcelain, whose deep colouring of blue and green and yellow was displayed in a variety of grotesque figures. A strong jet boiled up in the centre, by the refraction of whose ripples the gold and red fish seemed multiplied into myriads. At a distant point a bed of water-lilies hung out from the parapet; and the long, thin neck of a swan rose gracefully over the leaves. Another, his mate, stood upon the bank drying her snowy pinions in the sun. A different object attracted me, depriving me, for awhile, of the power of action. In the water, and near the jet, were two beautiful girls clothed in a sort of sleeveless, green tunic, loosely girdled. They were immersed to the waist. So pellucid was the water that their little feet were distinctly visible at the bottom, shining like gold. Luxuriant hair fell down in broad flakes, partially shrouding the snowy development of their arms and shoulders. Their forms were strikingly similar--tall, graceful, fully developed, and characterised by that elliptical line of beauty that, in the female form more than in any other earthly object, illustrates the far-famed curve of Hogarth. Their features, too, were alike. "Sisters!" one would exclaim, and yet their complexions were strikingly dissimilar. The blood, mantling darker in the veins of one, lent an olive tinge to the soft and wax-like surface of her skin, while the red upon her cheeks and lips presented an admixture of purple. Her hair, too, was black; and a dark shading along the upper lip--a moustache, in fact--soft and silky as the tracery of a crayon, contrasted with the dazzling whiteness of her teeth. Her eyes were black, large, and almond-shaped, with that expression which looks _over_ one; and her whole appearance formed a type of that beauty which we associate with the Abencerrage and the Alhambra. This was evidently the elder. The other was the type of a distinct class of beauty--the golden-haired blonde. Her eyes were large, globular, and blue as turquoise. Her hair of a chastened yellow, long and luxuriant; while her skin, less soft and waxen than that of her sister, presented an effusion of roseate blushes that extended along the snowy whiteness of her arms. These, in the sun, appeared as bloodless and transparent as the tiny gold-fish that quivered in her uplifted hand. I was riveted to the spot. My first impulse was to retire, silently and modestly, but the power of a strange fascination for a moment prevented me. Was it a dream? "_Ah! que barbara! pobrecito--ito--ito_!" (Ah! what a barbarian you are! poor little thing!) "_Comeremos_." (We shall eat it.) "_Por Dios! no! echalo, Luz, o tirare la agua en sus ojos_." (Goodness! no! fling it in, Luz, or I shall throw water in your eyes.) And the speaker stooped as if to execute the threat. "_Ya--no_," (Now I shall not), said Luz resolutely. "_Guarda te_!" (Look out, then!) The brunette placed her little hands close together, forming with their united palms a concave surface, and commenced dashing water upon the perverse blonde. The latter instantly dropped the gold-fish, and retaliated. An exciting and animated contest ensued. The bright globules flew around their heads, and rolled down their glittering tresses, as from the pinions of a swan; while their clear laughter rang out at intervals, as one or the other appeared victorious. A hoarse voice drew my attention from this interesting spectacle. Looking whence it came, my eye rested upon a huge negress stretched under a cocoa-tree, who had raised herself on one arm, and was laughing at the contest. It was her voice, then, I had mistaken for that of a man! Becoming sensible of my intrusive position, I turned to retreat, when a shrill cry reached me from the pond. The swans, with a frightened energy shrieked and flapped over the surface, the gold-fish shot to and fro like sunbeams, and leaped out of the water, quivering and terrified, and the birds on all sides screamed and chattered. I sprang forward to ascertain the cause of this strange commotion. My eye fell upon the negress, who had risen, and, running out upon the parapet with uplifted arms, shouted in terrified accents: "_Valgame Dios--ninas! El cayman! el cayman_!" I looked across to the other side of the pond. A fearful object met my eyes--the cayman of Mexico! The hideous monster was slowly crawling over the low wall, dragging his lengthened body from a bed of aquatic plants. Already his short fore-arms, squamy and corrugated, rested upon the inner edge of the parapet, his shoulders projecting as if in the act to spring! His scale-covered back, with its long serrated ridge, glittered with a slippery moistness; and his eyes, usually dull, gleamed fierce and lurid from their prominent sockets. I had brought with me a light rifle. It was but the work of a moment to unsling and level it. The sharp crack followed, and the ball impinged between the monster's eyes, glancing harmlessly from his hard skull as though it had been a plate of steel. The shot was an idle one, perhaps worse; for, stung to madness with the stunning shock, the reptile sprang far out into the water, and made directly for its victims. The girls, who had long since given over their mirthful contest, seemed to have lost all presence of mind; and, instead of making for the bank, stood locked in each other's arms terrified and trembling. Their symmetrical forms fell into an agonised embrace; and their rounded arms, olive and roseate, laced each other, and twined across their quivering bodies. Their faces were turned to heaven, as though they expected succour from above--a group that rivalled the Laocoon. With a spring I cleared the parapet, and, drawing my sword, dashed madly across the basin. The girls were near the centre; but the cayman had got the start of me, and the water, three feet deep, impeded my progress. The bottom of the tank, too, was slippery, and I fell once or twice on my hands. I rose again, and with frantic energy plunged forward, all the while calling upon the bathers to make for the parapet. Notwithstanding my shouts, the terrified girls made no effort to save themselves. They were incapable from terror. On came the cayman with the velocity of vengeance. It was a fearful moment. Already he swam at a distance of less than six paces from his prey, his long snout projecting from the water, his gaunt jaws displaying their quadruple rows of sharp glistening teeth. I shouted despairingly. I was baffled by the deep water. I had nearly twice the distance before I could interpose myself between the monster and its victims. "I shall be too late!" Suddenly I saw that the cayman had swerved. In his eagerness he had struck a subaqueous pipe of the jet. It delayed him only a moment; but in that moment I had passed the statue-like group, and stood ready to receive his attack. "_A la orilla! a la orilla_!" (To the bank! to the bank!) I shouted, pushing the terrified girls with one hand, while with the other I held my sword at arm's-length in the face of the advancing reptile. The girls now, for the first time awaking from their lethargy of terror, rushed towards the bank. On came the monster, gnashing his teeth in the fury of disappointment, and uttering fearful cries. As soon as he had got within reach I aimed a blow at his head; but the light sabre glinted from the fleshless skull with the ringing of steel to steel. The blow, however, turned him out of his course, and, missing his aim, he passed me like an arrow. I looked around with a feeling of despair. "Thank heaven, they are safe!" I felt the clammy scales rub against my thigh; and I leaped aside to avoid the stroke of his tail, as it lashed the water into foam. Again the monster turned, and came on as before. This time I did not attempt to cut, but thrust the sabre directly for his throat. The cold blade snapped between his teeth like an icicle. Not above twelve inches remained with the hilt; and with this I hacked and fought with the energy of despair. My situation had now grown critical indeed. The girls had reached the bank, and stood screaming upon the parapet. At length the elder seized upon a pole, and, lifting it with all her might, leaped back into the basin, and was hastening to my rescue, when a stream of fire was poured through the leaves of the plantains: I heard a sharp crack--the short humming whiz of a bullet--and a large form, followed by half a dozen others, emerged from the grove, and, rushing over the wall, plunged into the pond. I heard a loud plashing in the water--the shouts of men, the clashing of bayonets; and then saw the reptile roll over, pierced by a dozen wounds. CHAPTER ELEVEN. DON COSME ROSALES. "Yur safe, Cap'n!" It was Lincoln's voice. Around me stood a dozen of the men, up to their waists. Little Jack, too, (his head and forage-cap just appearing above the surface of the water), stood with his eighteen inches of steel buried in the carcase of the dead reptile. I could not help smiling at the ludicrous picture. "Yes, safe," answered I, panting for breath; "safe--you came in good time, though!" "We heern yur shot, Cap'n," said Lincoln, "an' we guessed yur didn't shoot without somethin' ter shoot for; so I tuk half a dozen files and kim up." "You acted right, sergeant; but where are the--" I was looking towards the edge of the tank where I had last seen the girls. They had disappeared. "If yez mane the faymales," answered Chane, "they're _vamosed_ through the threes. Be Saint Patrick, the black one's a thrump anyhow! She looks for all the world like them bewtiful crayoles of Dimmerary." Saying this, he turned suddenly round, and commenced driving his bayonet furiously into the dead cayman, exclaiming between the thrusts: "Och, ye divil! bad luck to yer ugly carcase! You're a nate-looking baste to interfere with a pair of illigant craythers! Be the crass! he's all shill, boys. Och, mother o' Moses! I can't find a saft spot in him!" We climbed out upon the parapet, and the soldiers commenced wiping their wet guns. Clayley appeared at this moment, filing round the pond at the head of the detachment. As I explained the adventure to the lieutenant, he laughed heartily. "By Jove! it will never do for a despatch," said he; "one killed on the side of the enemy, and on ours not a wound. There is one, however, who may be reported `badly scared'." "Who?" I asked. "Why, who but the bold Blossom?" "But where is he?" "Heaven only knows! The last I saw of him, he was screening himself behind an old ruin. I wouldn't think it strange if he was off to camp-- that is, if he believes he can find his way back again." As Clayley said this, he burst into a loud yell of laughter. It was with difficulty I could restrain myself; for, looking in the direction indicated by the lieutenant, I saw a bright object, which I at once recognised as the major's face. He had drawn aside the broad plantain-leaves, and was peering cautiously through, with a look of the most ludicrous terror. His face only was visible, round and luminous, like the full moon; and, like her, too, variegated with light and shade, for fear had produced spots of white and purple over the surface of his capacious cheeks. As soon as the major saw how the "land lay", he came blowing and blustering through the bushes like an elephant; and it now became apparent that he carried his long sabre drawn and nourishing. "Bad luck, after all!" said he as he marched round the pond with a bold stride. "That's all--is it?" he continued, pointing to the dead cayman. "Bah! I was in hopes we'd have a brush with the yellow-skins." "No, Major," said I, trying to look serious, "we are not so fortunate." "I have no doubt, however," said Clayley with a malicious wink, "but that we'll have them here in a squirrel's jump. They must have heard the report of our guns." A complete change became visible in the major's bearing. The point of his sabre dropped slowly to the ground, and the blue and white spots began to array themselves afresh on his great red cheeks. "Don't you think, Captain," said he, "we've gone far enough into the cursed country? There's no mules in it--I can certify there's not--not a single mule. Had we not better return to camp?" Before I could reply, an object appeared that drew our attention, and heightened the mosaic upon the major's cheeks. A man, strangely attired, was seen running down the slope towards the spot where we were standing. "Guerillas, by Jove!" exclaimed Clayley, in a voice of feigned terror; and he pointed to the scarlet sash which was twisted around the man's waist. The major looked round for some object where he might shelter himself in case of a skirmish. He was sidling behind a high point of the parapet, when the stranger rushed forward, and, throwing both arms about his neck, poured forth a perfect cataract of Spanish, in which the word _gracias_ (thanks) was of frequent occurrence. "What does the man mean with his _grashes_?" exclaimed the major, struggling to free himself from the Mexican. But the latter did not hear him, for his eyes at that moment rested upon my dripping habiliments; and dropping the major, he transferred his embrace and _gracias_ to me. "Senor Capitan," he said, still speaking in Spanish, and hugging me like a bear, "accept my thanks. Ah, sir! you have saved my children; how can I show you my gratitude?" Here followed a multitude of those complimentary expressions peculiar to the language of Cervantes, which ended by his offering me his house and all it contained. I bowed in acknowledgment of his courtesy, apologising for being so ill prepared to receive his "hug", as I observed that my saturated vestments had wet the old fellow to the skin. I had now time to examine the stranger, who was a tall, thin, sallow old gentleman, with a face at once Spanish and intelligent. His hair was white and short, while a moustache, somewhat grizzled, shaded his lips. Jet-black brows projected over a pair of keen and sparkling eyes. His dress was a roundabout of the finest white linen, with waistcoat and pantaloons of the same material--the latter fastened round the waist by a scarf of bright red silk. Shoes of green morocco covered his small feet, while a broad Guayaquil hat shaded his face from the sun. Though his costume was transatlantic--speaking in reference to Old Spain--there was that in his air and manner that bespoke him a true hidalgo. After a moment's observation I proceeded, in my best Spanish, to express my regret for the fright which the young ladies--his daughters, I presumed--had suffered. The Mexican looked at me with a slight appearance of surprise. "Why, Senor Capitan," said he, "your accent!--you are a foreigner?" "A foreigner! To Mexico, did you mean?" "Yes, Senor. Is it not so?" "Oh! of course," answered I, smiling, and somewhat puzzled in turn. "And how long have you been in the army, Senor Capitan?" "But a short time." "How do you like Mexico, Senor?" "I have seen but little of it as yet." "Why, how long have you been in the country, then?" "Three days," answered I; "we landed on the 9th." "_Por Dios_! three days, and in our army already!" muttered the Spaniard, throwing up his eyes in unaffected surprise. I began to think I was interrogated by a lunatic. "May I ask what countryman you are?" continued the old gentleman. "What countryman? An American, of course!" "An American?" "_Un Americano_," repeated I, for we were conversing in Spanish. "_Y son esos Americanos_?" (And are these Americans?) quickly demanded my new acquaintance. "_Si, Senor_," replied I. "_Carrambo_!" shouted the Spaniard, with a sudden leap, his eyes almost starting from their sockets. "I should say, not exactly Americans," I added. "Many of them are Irish, and French, and Germans, and Swedes, and Swiss; yet they are all Americans now." But the Mexican did not stay to hear my explanation. After recovering from the first shock of surprise, he had bounded through the grove; and with a wave of his hand, and the ejaculation "_Esperate_!" (wait!) disappeared among the plantains. The men, who had gathered around the lower end of the basin, burst out into a roar of laughter, which I did not attempt to repress. The look of terrified astonishment of the old Don had been too much for my own gravity, and I could not help being amused at the conversation that ensued among the soldiers. They were at some distance, yet I could overhear their remarks. "That Mexikin's an unhospitable cuss!" muttered Lincoln, with an expression of contempt. "He might av axed the captain to dhrink, after savin' such a pair of illigant craythers," said Chane. "Sorra dhrap's in the house, Murt; the place looks dry," remarked another son of the Green Isle. "Och! an' it's a beautiful cage, anyhow," returned Chane; "and beautiful birds in it, too. It puts me in mind of ould Dimmerary; but there we had the liquor, the raal rum--oshins of it, alanna!" "That 'ere chap's a greelye, I strongly 'spect," whispered one, a regular down-east Yankee. "A what?" asked his companion. "Why, a greelye--one o' them 'ere Mexikin robbers." "Arrah, now! did yez see the rid sash?" inquired an Irishman. "Thim's captin's," suggested the Yankee. "He's a captin or a kurnel; I'll bet high on that." "What did he say, Nath, as he was running off?" "I don't know 'zactly--somethin' that sounded mighty like 'spearin' on us." "He's a lanzeer then, by jingo!" "He had better try on his spearin'," said another; "there's shootin' before spearin'--mighty good ground, too, behind this hyur painted wall." "The old fellow was mighty frindly at first; what got into him, anyhow?" "Raoul says he offered to give the captain his house and all the furnishin's." "Och, mother o' Moses! and thim illigant girls, too!" "Ov coorse." "By my sowl! an' if I was the captain, I'd take him at his word, and lave off fightin' intirely." "It _is_ delf," said a soldier, referring to the material of which the parapet was constructed. "No, it ain't." "It's chaney, then." "No, nor chaney either." "Well, what is it?" "It's only a stone wall painted, you greenhorn!" "Stone-thunder! it's solid delf, I say." "Try it with your bayonet, Jim." _Crick_--_crick_--_crick_--_crinell_! reached my ears. Turning round, I saw that one of the men had commenced breaking off the japanned work of the parapet with his bayonet. "Stop that!" I shouted to the man. The remark of Chane that followed, although uttered _sotto voce_, I could distinctly hear. It was sufficiently amusing. "The captain don't want yez to destroy what'll be his own some day, when he marries one of thim young Dons. Here comes the owld one, and, by the powers! he's got a big paper; he's goin' to make over the property!" Laughing, I looked round, and saw that the Don was returning, sure enough. He hurried up, holding out a large sheet of parchment. "Well, Senor, what's this?" I inquired. "_No soy Mexicano--soy Espanol_!" (I am no Mexican--I am a Spaniard), said he, with the expression of a true hidalgo. Casting my eye carelessly over the document, I perceived that it was a _safeguard_ from the Spanish consul at Vera Cruz, certifying that the bearer, Don Cosme Rosales, was a native of Spain. "Senor Rosales," said I, returning the paper, "this was not necessary. The interesting circumstances under which we have met should have secured you good treatment, even were you a Mexican and we the barbarians we have been represented. We have come to make war, not with peaceful citizens, but with a rabble soldiery." "_Es verdad_ (Indeed). You are wet, Senor? you are hungry?" I could not deny that I was both the one and the other. "You need refreshment, gentlemen; will you come to my house?" "Permit me, Senor, to introduce you to Major Blossom--Lieutenant Clayley--Lieutenant Oakes: Don Cosme Rosales, gentlemen." My friends and the Don bowed to each other. The major had now recovered his complacency. "_Vamonos, caballeros_!" (Come on, gentlemen), said the Don, starting towards the house. "But your soldiers, Capitan?" added he, stopping suddenly. "They will remain here," I rejoined. "Permit me to send them some dinner." "Oh! certainly," replied I; "use your own pleasure, Don Cosme, but do not put your household to any inconvenience." In a few minutes we found our way to the house, which was neither more nor less than the cage-looking structure already described. CHAPTER TWELVE. A MEXICAN DINNER. "_Pasan adentro, Senores_," said Don Cosme, drawing aside the curtain of the rancho, and beckoning us to enter. "Ha!" exclaimed the major, struck with the _coup-d'oeil_ of the interior. "Be seated, gentlemen. _Ya vuelvo_." (I will return in an instant.) So saying, Don Cosme disappeared into a little porch in the back, partially screened from observation by a close network of woven cane. "Very pretty, by Jove!" said Clayley, in a low voice. "Pretty indeed!" echoed the major, with one of his customary asseverations. "Stylish, one ought rather to say, to do it justice." "Stylish!" again chimed in the major, repeating his formula. "Rosewood chairs and tables," continued Clayley; "a harp, guitar, piano, sofas, ottomans, carpets knee-deep--whew!" Not thinking of the furniture, I looked around the room strangely bewildered. "Ha! Ha! what perplexes you, Captain?" asked Clayley. "Nothing." "Ah! the girls you spoke of--the nymphs of the pond; but where the deuce are they?" "Ay, where?" I asked, with a strange sense of uneasiness. "Girls! what girls?" inquired the major, who had not yet learned the exact nature of our aquatic adventure. Here the voice of Don Cosme was heard calling out-- "Pepe! Ramon! Francisco! bring dinner. _Anda! anda_!" (Be quick!) "Who on earth is the old fellow calling?" asked the major, with some concern in his manner. "I see no one." Nor could we; so we all rose up together, and approached that side of the building that looked rearward. The house, to all appearance, had but one apartment--the room in which we then were. The only point of this screened from observation was the little veranda into which Don Cosme had entered; but this was not large enough to contain the number of persons who might be represented by the names he had called out. Two smaller buildings stood under the olive-trees in the rear; but these, like the house, were _transparent_, and not a human figure appeared within them. We could see through the trunks of the olives a clear distance of a hundred yards. Beyond this, the mezquite and the scarlet leaves of the wild maguey marked the boundary of the forest. It was equally puzzling to us whither the girls had gone, or whence "Pepe, Ramon, and Francisco" were to come. The tinkling of a little bell startled us from our conjectures, and the voice of Don Cosme was heard inquiring: "Have you any favourite dish, gentlemen?" Someone answered, "No." "Curse me!" exclaimed the major, "I believe he can get anything we may call for--raise it out of the ground by stamping his foot or ringing a bell. Didn't I tell you?" This exclamation was uttered in consequence of the appearance of a train of well-dressed servants, five or six in number, bringing waiters with dishes and decanters. They entered from the porch; but how did they get into it? Certainly not from the woods without, else we should have seen them as they approached the cage. The major uttered a terrible invocation, adding in a hoarse whisper, "This must be the Mexican Aladdin!" I confess I was not less puzzled than he. Meantime the servants came and went, going empty, and returning loaded. In less than half an hour the table fairly creaked under the weight of a sumptuous dinner. This is no figure of speech. There were dishes of massive silver, with huge flagons of the same metal, and even cups of gold! "_Senores, vamos a comer_" (Come, let us eat, gentlemen), said Don Cosme, politely motioning us to be seated. "I fear that you will not be pleased with my _cuisine_--it is purely Mexican--_estilo del pais_." To say that the dinner was not a good one would be to utter a falsehood, and contradict the statement of Major George Blossom, of the U.S. quarter-master's department, who afterwards declared that it was the best dinner he had ever eaten in his life. Turtle-soup first. "Perhaps you would prefer _julienne_ or _vermicelli_, gentlemen?" inquired the Don. "Thank you; your turtle is very fine," replied I, necessarily the interpreter of the party. "Try some of the _aguacate_--it will improve the flavour of your soup." One of the waiters handed round a dark, olive-coloured fruit of an oblong shape, about the size of a large pear. "Ask him how it is used, Captain," said the major to me. "Oh, I beg your pardon, gentlemen. I had forgotten that some of our edibles may be strange to you. Simply pare off the rind, and slice it thus." We tried the experiment, but could not discover any peculiar improvement in the flavour of the soup. The pulp of the aguacate seemed singularly insipid to our northern palates. Fish, as with us, and of the finest quality, formed the second course. A variety of dishes were now brought upon the table; most of them new to us, but all piquant, pleasant to the taste, and peculiar. The major tried them all, determined to find out which he might like best--a piece of knowledge that he said would serve him upon some future occasion. The Don seemed to take a pleasure in helping the major, whom he honoured by the title of "Senor Coronel." "_Puchero_, Senor Coronel?" "Thank you, sir," grunted the major, and tried the puchero. "Allow me to help you to a spoonful of _mole_." "With pleasure, Don Cosme." The _mole_ suddenly disappeared down the major's capacious throat. "Try some of this _chile relleno_." "By all means," answered the major. "Ah, by Jove! hot as fire!--whew!" "_Pica! Pica_!" answered Don Cosme, pointing to his thorax, and smiling at the wry faces the major was making. "Wash it down, Senor, with a glass of this claret--or here, Pepe! Is the Johannisberg cool yet? Bring it in, then. Perhaps you prefer champagne, Senores?" "Thank you; do not trouble yourself, Don Cosme." "No trouble, Capitan--bring champagne. Here, Senor Coronel, try the _guisado de pato_." "Thank you," stammered the major; "you are very kind. Curse the thing! how it burns!" "Do you think he understands English?" inquired Clayey of me in a whisper. "I should think not," I replied. "Well, then, I wish to say aloud that this old chap's a superb old gent. What say you, Major? Don't you wish we had him on the lines?" "I wish his kitchen were a little nearer the lines," replied the other, with a wink. "Senor Coronel, permit me--" "What is it, my dear Don?" inquired the major. "_Pasteles de Moctezuma_." "Oh, certainly. I say, lads, I don't know what the plague I'm eating-- it's not bad to take, though." "Senor Coronel, allow me to help you to a _guana_ steak." "A guana steak!" echoed the major, in some surprise. "_Si, Senor_," replied Don Cosme, holding the steak on his fork. "A guana steak! Do you think, lads, he means the ugly things we saw at Lobos." "To be sure--why not?" "Then, by Jove, I'm through! I can't go lizards. Thank you, my dear Don Cosme; I believe I have dined." "Try this; it is very tender, I assure you," insisted Don Cosme. "Come, try it, Major, and report," cried Clayey. "Good--you're like the apothecary that poisoned his dog to try the effect of his nostrums. Well,"--with an oath--"here goes! It can't be very bad, seeing how our friend gets it down. Delicious, by Jupiter! tender as chicken--good, good!"--and amidst sundry similar ejaculations the major ate his first guana steak. "Gentlemen, here is an ortolan pie. I can recommend it--the birds are in season." "Reed-birds, by Jove!" said the major, recognising his favourite dish. An incredible number of these creatures disappeared in an incredibly short time. The dinner dishes were at length removed, and dessert followed: cakes and creams, and jellies of various kinds, and blancmange, and a profusion of the most luxurious fruits. The golden orange, the ripe pine, the pale-green lime, the juicy grape, the custard-like cherimolla, the zapote, the granadilla, the pitahaya, the tuna, the mamay; with dates, figs, almonds, plantains, bananas, and a dozen other species of fruits, piled upon salvers of silver, were set before us: in fact, every product of the tropical clime that could excite a new nerve of the sense of taste. We were fairly astonished at the profusion of luxuries that came from no one knew where. "Come, gentlemen, try a glass of curacoa. Senor Coronel, allow me the pleasure." "Sir, your very good health." "Senor Coronel, would you prefer a glass of Majorca?" "Thank you." "Or perhaps you would choose _Pedro Ximenes_. I have some very old _Pedro Ximenes_." "Either, my dear Don Cosme--either." "Bring both, Ramon; and bring a couple of bottles of the Madeira--_sello verde_," (green seal). "As I am a Christian, the old gentleman's a conjuror!" muttered the major, now in the best humour possible. "I wish he would conjure up something else than his infernal wine bottles," thought I, becoming impatient at the non-appearance of the ladies. "_Cafe_, Senores?" A servant entered. Coffee was handed round in cups of Sevres china. "You smoke, gentlemen? Would you prefer a Havanna? Here are some sent me from Cuba by a friend. I believe they are good; or, if you would amuse yourself with a cigaritto, here are Campeacheanos. These are the country cigars--_puros_, as we call them. I would not recommend them." "A Havanna for me," said the major, helping himself at the same time to a fine-looking "regalia." I had fallen into a somewhat painful reverie. I began to fear that, with all his hospitality, the Mexican would allow us to depart without an introduction to his family; and I had conceived a strong desire to speak with the two lovely beings whom I had already seen, but more particularly with the brunette, whose looks and actions had deeply impressed me. So strange is the mystery of love! My heart had already made its choice. I was suddenly aroused by the voice of Don Cosme, who had risen, and was inviting myself and comrades to join the ladies in the drawing-room. I started up so suddenly as almost to overturn one of the tables. "Why, Captain, what's the matter!" said Clayley. "Don Cosme is about to introduce us to the ladies. You're not going to back out?" "Certainly not," stammered I, somewhat ashamed at my _gaucherie_. "He says they're in the drawing-room," whispered the major, in a voice that betokened a degree of suspicion; "but where the plague that is, Heaven only knows! Stand by, my boys!--are your pistols all right?" "Pshaw, Major! for shame!" CHAPTER THIRTEEN. A SUBTERRANEAN DRAWING-ROOM. The mystery of the drawing-room, and the servants, and the dishes, was soon over. A descending stairway explained the enigma. "Let me conduct you to my cave, gentlemen," said the Spaniard: "I am half a subterranean. In the hot weather, and during the northers, we find it more agreeable to live under the ground. Follow me, Senores." We descended, with the exception of Oakes, who returned to look after the men. At the foot of the staircase we entered a hall brilliantly lighted. The floor was without a carpet, and exhibited a mosaic of the finest marble. The walls were painted of a pale blue colour, and embellished by a series of pictures from the pencil of Murillo. These were framed in a costly and elegant manner. From the ceiling were suspended chandeliers of a curious and unique construction, holding in their outstretched branches wax candles of an ivory whiteness. Large vases of waxen flowers, covered with crystals, stood around the hall upon tables of polished marble. Other articles of furniture, candelabra, girandoles, gilded clocks, filled the outline. Broad mirrors reflected the different objects; so that, instead of one apartment, this hall appeared only one of a continuous suite of splendid drawing-rooms. And yet, upon closer observation, there seemed to be no door leading from this hall, which, as Don Cosme informed his guests, was the _ante-sala_. Our host approached one of the large mirrors, and slightly touched a spring. The tinkling of a small bell was heard within; and at the same instant the mirror glided back, reflecting in its motion a series of brilliant objects, that for a moment bewildered our eyes with a blazing light. "_Pasan adentro, Senores_," said Don Cosme, stepping aside, and waving us to enter. We walked into the drawing-room. The magnificence that greeted us seemed a vision--a glorious and dazzling hallucination--more like the gilded brilliance of some enchanted palace than the interior of a Mexican gentleman's habitation. As we stood gazing with irresistible wonderment, Don Cosme opened a side-door, and called aloud, "_Ninas, ninas, ven aca_!" (Children, come hither!) Presently we heard several female voices, blending together like a medley of singing birds. They approached. We heard the rustling of silken dresses, the falling of light feet in the doorway, and three ladies entered--the senora of Don Cosme, followed by her two beautiful daughters, the heroines of our aquatic adventure. These hesitated a moment, scanning our faces; then, with a cry of "_Nuestro Salvador_!" both rushed forward, and knelt, or rather crouched, at my feet, each of them clasping one of my hands and covering it with kisses. Their panting agitation, their flashing eyes, the silken touch of their delicate fingers, sent the blood rushing through my veins like a stream of lava; but in their gentle accents, the simple ingenuousness of their expressions, the childlike innocence of their faces, I regarded them only as two beautiful children kneeling in the _abandon_ of gratitude. Meanwhile Don Cosme had introduced Clayley and the major to his senora, whose baptismal name was Joaquina; and taking the young ladies one in each hand, he presented them as his daughters, Guadalupe and Maria de la Luz (Mary of the Light). "Mama," said Don Cosme, "the gentlemen had not quite finished their cigars." "Oh! they can smoke here," replied the senora. "Will the ladies not object to that?" I inquired. "No--no--no!" ejaculated they simultaneously. "Perhaps you will join us?--we have heard that such is the custom of your country." "It _was_ the custom," said Don Cosme. "At present the young ladies of Mexico are rather ashamed of the habit." "We no smoke--Mamma, yes," added the elder--the brunette--whose name was Guadalupe. "Ha! you speak English?" "Little Englis speak--no good Englis," was the reply. "Who taught you English?" I inquired, prompted by a mysterious curiosity. "Un American us teach--Don Emilio." "Ha! an American?" "Yes, Senor," said Don Cosme: "a gentleman from Vera Cruz, who formerly visited our family." I thought I could perceive a desire upon the part of our host not to speak further on this subject, and yet I felt a sudden, and, strange to say, a painful curiosity to know more about Don Emilio, the American, and his connection with our newly-made acquaintance. I can only explain this by asking the reader if he or she has not experienced a similar feeling while endeavouring to trace the unknown past of some being in whom either has lately taken an interest--an interest stronger than friendship? That mamma smoked was clear, for the old lady had already gone through the process of unrolling one of the small cartouche-like cigars. Having re-rolled it between her fingers, she placed it within the gripe of a pair of small golden pincers. This done, she held one end to the coals that lay upon the _brazero_, and ignited the paper. Then, taking the other end between her thin, purlish lips, she breathed forth a blue cloud of aromatic vapour. After a few whiffs she invited the major to participate, offering him a cigarrito from her beaded cigar-case. This being considered an especial favour, the major's gallantry would not permit him to refuse. He took the cigarrito, therefore; but, once in possession, he knew not how to use it. Imitating the senora, he opened the diminutive cartridge, spreading out the edges of the wrapper, but attempted in vain to re-roll it. The ladies, who had watched the process, seemed highly amused, particularly the younger, who laughed outright. "Permit me, Senor Coronel," said the Dona Joaquina, taking the cigarrito from the major's hand, and giving it a turn through her nimble fingers, which brought it all right again. "Thus--now--hold your fingers thus. Do not press it: _suave, suave_. This end to the light--so--very well!" The major lit the cigar, and, putting it between his great thick lips, began to puff in a most energetic style. He had not cast off half a dozen whiffs when the fire, reaching his fingers, burned them severely, causing him to remove them suddenly from the cigar. The wrapper then burst open; and the loose pulverised tobacco by a sudden inhalation rushed into his mouth and down his throat, causing him to cough and splutter in the most ludicrous manner. This was too much for the ladies, who, encouraged by the cachinnations of Clayley, laughed outright; while the major, with tears in his eyes, could be heard interlarding his coughing solo with all kinds of oaths and expressions. The scene ended by one of the young ladies offering the major a glass of water, which he drank off, effectually clearing the avenue of his throat. "Will you try another, Senor Coronel?" asked Dona Joaquina, with a smile. "No, ma'am, thank you," replied the major, and then a sort of internal subterraneous curse could be heard in his throat. The conversation continued in English, and we were highly amused at the attempts of our new acquaintances to express themselves in that language. After failing, on one occasion, to make herself understood, Guadalupe said, with some vexation in her manner: "We wish brother was home come; brother speak ver better Englis." "Where is he?" I inquired. "In the ceety--Vera Cruz." "Ha! and when did you expect him?" "Thees day--to-night--he home come." "Yes," added the Senora Joaquina, in Spanish: "he went to the city to spend a few days with a friend; but he was to return to-day, and we are looking for him to arrive in the evening." "But how is he to get out?" cried the major, in his coarse, rough manner. "How?--why, Senor?" asked the ladies in a breath, turning deadly pale. "Why, he can't pass the pickets, ma'am," answered the major. "Explain, Captain; explain!" said the ladies, appealing to me with looks of anxiety. I saw that concealment would be idle. The major had fired the train. "It gives me pain, ladies," said I, speaking in Spanish, "to inform you that you must be disappointed. I fear the return of your brother to-day is impossible." "But why, Captain?--why?" "Our lines are completely around Vera Cruz, and all intercourse to and from the city is at an end." Had a shell fallen into Don Cosme's drawing-room it could not have caused a greater change in the feelings of its inmates. Knowing nothing of military life, they had no idea that our presence there had drawn an impassable barrier between them and a much-loved member of their family. In a seclusion almost hermetical they knew that a war existed between their country and the United States; but that was far away upon the Rio Grande. They had heard, moreover, that our fleet lay off Vera Cruz, and the pealing of the distant thunder of San Juan had from time to time reached their ears; but they had not dreamed, on seeing us, that the city was invested by land. The truth was now clear; and the anguish of the mother and daughters became afflicting when we informed them of what we were unable to conceal--that it was the intention of the American commander to _bombard the city_. The scene was to us deeply distressing. Dona Joaquina wrung her hands, and called upon the Virgin with all the earnestness of entreaty. The sisters clung alternately to their mother and Don Cosme, weeping and crying aloud, "_Pobre Narcisso! nuestro hermanito--le asesinaran_!" (Poor Narcisso, our little brother!--they will murder him!) In the midst of this distressing scene the door of the drawing-room was thrown suddenly open, and a servant rushed in, shouting in an agitated voice, "_El norte! el norte_!" CHAPTER FOURTEEN. "The Norther." We hurried after Don Cosme towards the _ante-sala_, both myself and my companions ignorant of this new object of dread. When we emerged from the stairway the scene that hailed us was one of terrific sublimity. Earth and heaven had undergone a sudden and convulsive change. The face of nature, but a moment since gay with summer smiles, was now hideously distorted. The sky had changed suddenly from its blue and sunny brightness to an aspect dark and portentous. Along the north-west a vast volume of black vapour rolled up over the Sierra Madre, and rested upon the peaks of the mountains. From this, ragged masses, parting in fantastic forms and groupings, floated off against the concavity of the sky as though the demons of the storm were breaking up from an angry council. Each of these, as it careered across the heavens, seemed bent upon some spiteful purpose. An isolated fragment hung lowering above the snowy cone of Orizava, like a huge vampire suspended over his sleeping victim. From the great "parent cloud" that rested upon the Sierra Madre, lightning-bolts shot out and forked hither and thither or sank into the detached masses--the messengers of the storm-king bearing his fiery mandates across the sky. Away along the horizon of the east moved the yellow pillars of sand, whirled upward by the wind, like vast columnar towers leading to heaven. The storm had not yet reached the rancho. The leaves lay motionless under a dark and ominous calm; but the wild screams of many birds--the shrieks of the swans, the discordant notes of the frightened pea-fowl, the chattering of parrots as they sought the shelter of the thick olives in terrified flight--all betokened the speedy advent of some fearful convulsion. The rain in large drops fell upon the broad leaves with a soft, plashing sound; and now and then a quick, short puff came snorting along, and, seizing the feathery frondage of the palms, shook them with a spiteful and ruffian energy. The long green stripes, after oscillating a moment, would settle down again in graceful and motionless curves. A low sound like the "sough" of the sea or the distant falling of water came from the north; while at intervals the hoarse bark of the _coyote_ and the yelling of terrified monkeys could be heard afar off in the woods. "_Tapa la casa! tapa la casa_!" (Cover the house!) cried Don Cosme as soon as he had fairly got his head above ground. "_Anda_!--_anda con los macates_!" (Quick with the cords!) With lightning quickness a roll of palmetto mats came down on all sides of the house, completely covering the bamboo walls, and forming a screen impervious to both wind and rain. This was speedily fastened at all corners, and strong stays were carried out and warped around the trunks of trees. In five minutes the change was complete. The cage-looking structure had disappeared, and a house with walls of yellow _petate_ stood in its place. "Now, Senores, all is secured," said Don Cosme. "Let us return to the drawing-room." "I should like to see the first burst of this tornado," I remarked, not wishing to intrude upon the scene of sorrow we had left. "So be it, Captain. Stand here under the shelter, then." "Hot as thunder!" growled the major, wiping the perspiration from his broad, red cheeks. "In five minutes, Senor Coronel, you will be chilled. At this point the heated atmosphere is now compressed. Patience! it will soon be scattered." "How long will the storm continue?" I asked. "_Por Dios_! Senor, it is impossible to tell how long the `_norte_' may rage: sometimes for days; perhaps only for a few hours. This appears to be a `_huracana_'. If so, it will be short, but terrible while it lasts. _Carrambo_!" A puff of cold, sharp wind came whistling past like an arrow. Another followed, and another, like the three seas that roll over the stormy ocean. Then, with a loud, rushing sound, the broad, full blast went sweeping--strong, dark, and dusty--bearing upon its mane the screaming and terrified birds, mingled with torn and flouted leaves. The olives creaked and tossed about. The tall palms bowed and yielded, flinging out their long pinions like streamers. The broad leaves of the plantains flapped and whistled, and, bending gracefully, allowed the fierce blast to pass over. Then a great cloud came rolling down; a thick vapour seemed to fill the space; and the air felt hot and dark and heavy. A choking, sulphureous smell rendered the breathing difficult, and for a moment day seemed changed to night. Suddenly the whole atmosphere blazed forth in a sheet of flame, and the trees glistened as though they were on fire. An opaque darkness succeeded. Another flash, and along with it the crashing thunder--the artillery of heaven--deafening all other sounds. Peal followed peal; the vast cloud was breached and burst by a hundred fiery bolts; and like an avalanche the heavy tropical rain was precipitated to the earth. It fell in torrents, but the strength of the tempest had been spent on the first onslaught. The dark cloud passed on to the south, and a piercing cold wind swept after it. "_Vamos a bajar, senores_!" (Let us descend, gentlemen), said Don Cosme with a shiver, and he conducted us back to the stairway. Clayley and the major looked towards me with an expression that said, "Shall we go in?" There were several reasons why our return to the drawing-room was unpleasant to myself and my companions. A scene of domestic affliction is ever painful to a stranger. How much more painful to us, knowing, as we did, that our countrymen--that _we_--had been the partial agents of this calamity! We hesitated a moment on the threshold. "Gentlemen, we must return for a moment: we have been the bearers of evil tidings--let us offer such consolation as we may think of. Come!" CHAPTER FIFTEEN. A LITTLE FAIR WEATHER AGAIN. On re-entering the _sala_ the picture of woe was again presented, but in an altered aspect. A change, sudden as the atmospheric one we had just witnessed, had taken place; and the scene of wild weeping was now succeeded by one of resignation and prayer. On one side was Dona Joaquina, holding in her hands a golden rosary with its crucifix. The girls were kneeling in front of a picture--a portrait of Dolores with the fatal dagger; and the "Lady of Grief" looked not more sorrowful from the canvas than the beautiful devotees that bent before her. With their heads slightly leaning, their arms crossed upon their swelling bosoms, and their long loose hair trailing upon the carpet, they formed a picture at once painful and prepossessing. Not wishing to intrude upon this sacred sorrow, we made a motion to retire. "No, Senores," said Don Cosme, interrupting us. "Be seated; let us talk calmly--let us know the worst." We then proceeded to inform Don Cosme of the landing of the American troops and the manner in which our lines were drawn around the city, and pointed out to him the impossibility of anyone passing either in or out. "There is still a hope, Don Cosme," said I, "and that, perhaps, rests with yourself." The thought had struck me that a Spaniard of Don Cosme's evident rank and wealth might be enabled to procure access to the city by means of his consul, and through the Spanish ship of war that I recollected was lying off San Juan. "Oh! name it, Captain; name it!" cried he, while at the word "hope" the ladies had rushed forward, and stood clinging around me. "There is a Spanish ship of war lying under the walls of Vera Cruz." "We know it--we know it!" replied Don Cosme eagerly. "Ah! you know it, then?" "Oh, yes!" said Guadalupe. "Don Santiago is on board of her." "Don Santiago?" inquired I; "who is he?" "He is a relation of ours, Captain," said Don Cosme; "an officer in the Spanish navy." This information pained me, although I scarcely knew why. "You have a friend, then, aboard the Spanish ship," said I to the elder of the sisters. "'Tis well; it will be in his power to restore to you your brother." A ring of brightening faces was around me while I uttered these cheering words; and Don Cosme, grasping me by the hand, entreated me to proceed. "This Spanish ship," I continued, "is still allowed to keep up a communication with the town. You should proceed aboard at once, and by the assistance of this friend you may bring away your son before the bombardment commences. I see no difficulty; our batteries are not yet formed." "I will go this instant!" said Don Cosme, leaping to his feet, while Dona Joaquina and her daughters ran out to make preparations for his journey. Hope--sweet hope--was again in the ascendant. "But how, Senor?" asked Don Cosme, as soon as they were gone; "how can I pass your lines? Shall I be permitted to reach the ship?" "It will be necessary for me to accompany you, Don Cosme," I replied; "and I regret exceedingly that my duty will not permit me to return with you at once." "Oh, Senor!" exclaimed the Spaniard, with a painful expression. "My business here," continued I, "is to procure pack-mules for the American army." "Mules?" "Yes. We were crossing for that purpose to a plain on the other side of the woods, where we had observed some animals of that description." "'Tis true, Captain; there are a hundred or more; they are mine--take them all!" "But it is our intention to pay for them, Don Cosme. The major here has the power to contract with you." "As you please, gentlemen; but you will then return this way, and proceed to your camp?" "As soon as possible," I replied. "How far distant is this plain?" "Not more than a league. I would go with you, but--" Here Don Cosme hesitated, and, approaching, said in a low tone: "The truth is, Senor Capitan, I should be glad if you could take them _without my consent_. I have mixed but little in the politics of this country; but Santa Anna is my enemy--he will ask no better motive for despoiling me." "I understand you," said I. "Then, Don Cosme, we will take your mules by force, and carry yourself a prisoner to the American camp--a Yankee return for your hospitality." "It is good," replied the Spaniard, with a smile. "Senor Capitan," continued he, "you are without a sword. Will you favour me by accepting this?" Don Cosme held out to me a rapier of Toledo steel, with a golden scabbard richly chased, and bearing on its hilt the eagle and nopal of Mexico. "It is a family relic, and once belonged to the brave Guadalupe Victoria." "Ha! indeed!" I exclaimed, taking the sword; "I shall value it much. Thanks, Senor! thanks! Now, Major, we are ready to proceed." "A glass of maraschino, gentlemen?" said Don Cosme, as a servant appeared with a flask and glasses. "Thank you--yes," grunted the major; "and while we are drinking it, Senor Don, let me give you a hint. You appear to have plenty of _pewter_." Here the major significantly touched a gold sugar-dish, which the servant was carrying upon a tray of chased silver. "Take my word for it, you can't bury it too soon." "It is true, Don Cosme," said I, translating to him the major's advice. "We are not French, but there are robbers who hang on the skirts of every army." Don Cosme promised to follow the hint with alacrity, and we prepared to take our departure from the rancho. "I will give you a guide, Senor Capitan; you will find my people with the _mulada_. Please _compel_ them to lasso the cattle for you. You will obtain what you want in the corral. _Adios, Senores_!" "Farewell, Don Cosme!" "_A dios, Capitan! adios! adios_!" I held out my hand to the younger of the girls, who instantly caught it and pressed it to her lips. It was the action of a child. Guadalupe followed the example of her sister, but evidently with a degree of reserve. What, then, should have caused this difference in their manner? In the next moment we were ascending the stairway. "Lucky dog!" growled the major. "Take a ducking myself for that." "Both beautiful, by Jove!" said Clayley; "but of all the women I ever saw, give me `Mary of the Light'!" CHAPTER SIXTEEN. THE SCOUT CONTINUED, WITH A VARIETY OF REFLECTIONS. Love is a rose growing upon a thorny bramble. There is jealousy in the very first blush of a passion. No sooner has a fair face made its impress on the heart than hopes and fears spring up in alternation. Every action, every word, every look is noted and examined with a jealous scrutiny; and the heart of the lover, changing like the chameleon, takes its hues from the latest sentiment that may have dropped from the loved one's lips. And then the various looks, words, and actions, the favourable with the unfavourable, are recalled, and by a mental process classified and marshalled against each other, and compared and balanced with as much exactitude as the _pros_ and _contras_ of a miser's bank-book; and in this process we have a new alternation of hopes and fears. Ah, love! we could write a long history of thy rise and progress; but it is doubtful whether any of our readers would be a jot the wiser for it. Most of them ere this have read that history in their own hearts. I felt and knew that I was in love. It had come like a thought, as it comes upon all men whose souls are attuned to vibrate under the mystical impressions of the beautiful. And well I knew _she_ was beautiful. I saw its unfailing index in those oval developments--the index, too, of the intellectual; for experience had taught me that _intellect takes a shape_; and that those peculiarities of form that we admire, without knowing why, are but the material illustrations of the diviner principles of mind. The eye, too, with its almond outline, and wild, half-Indian, half Arab expression--the dark tracery over the lip, so rarely seen in the lineaments of her sex--even these were attractions. There was something picturesque, something strange, something almost fierce, in her aspect; and yet it was this indefinable something, this very fierceness, that had challenged my love. For I must confess mine is not one of those curious natures that I have read of, whose love is based only upon the goodness of the object. That _is not love_. My heart recognised in her _the heroine of extremes_. One of those natures gifted with all the tenderness that belongs to the angel idea-- woman; yet soaring above her sex in the paralysing moments of peril and despair. Her feelings, in relation to her sister's cruelty to the gold-fish, proved the existence of the former principle; her actions, in attempting my own rescue when battling with the monster, were evidence of the latter. One of those natures that may err from the desperate intensity of one passion, that knows no limit to its self-sacrifice short of destruction and death. One of those beings that may fall--but _only once_. "What would I not give--what would I not do--to be the hero of such a heart?" These were my reflections as I quitted the house. I had noted every word, every look, every action, that could lend me a hope; and my memory conjured up, and my judgment canvassed, each little circumstance in its turn. How strange her conduct at bidding adieu! How unlike her sister! Less friendly and sincere; and yet from this very circumstance I drew my happiest omen. Strange--is it not? My experience has taught me that love and hate for the _same_ object can exist in the _same_ heart, and at the _same_ time. If this be a paradox, I am a child of error. I believed it then; and her apparent coldness, which would have rendered many another hopeless, produced with me an opposite effect. Then came the cloud--the thought of Don Santiago--and a painful feeling shot through my heart. "Don Santiago, a naval officer, young, handsome. Bah! hers is not a heart to be won by a face." Such were my reflections and half-uttered expressions as I slowly led my soldiers through the tangled path. Don Santiago's age and his appearance were the creations of a jealous fancy. I had bidden adieu to my new acquaintances knowing nothing of Don Santiago beyond the fact that he was an officer on board the Spanish ship of war, and a relation of Don Cosme. "Oh, yes! Don Santiago is on board! Ha! there was an evident interest. Her look as she said it; her manner--furies! But he is a relation, a cousin--_a cousin--I hate cousins_!" I must have pronounced the last words aloud, as Lincoln, who walked in my rear, stepped hastily up, and asked: "What did yer say, Cap'n?" "Oh! nothing, Sergeant," stammered I, in some confusion. Notwithstanding my assurance, I overheard Lincoln whisper to his nearest comrade: "What ther old Harry hes got into the cap?" He referred to the fact that I had unconsciously hooked myself half a dozen times on the thorny claws of the pita-plant, and my overalls began to exhibit a most tattered condition. Our route lay through a dense chaparral--now crossing a sandy spur, covered with mezquite and acacia; then sinking into the bed of some silent creek, shaded with old cork-trees, whose gnarled and venerable trunks were laced together by a thousand parasites. Two miles from the rancho we reached the banks of a considerable stream, which we conjectured was a branch of the Jamapa River. On both sides a fringe of dark forest-trees flung out long branches extending half-way across the stream. The water flowed darkly underneath. Huge lilies stood out from the banks--their broad, wax-like leaves trailing upon the glassy ripple. Here and there were pools fringed with drooping willows and belts of green _tule_. Other aquatic plants rose from the water to the height of twenty feet; among which we distinguished the beautiful "iris", with its tall, spear-like stem, ending in a brown cylinder, like the pompon of a grenadier's cap. As we approached the banks the pelican, scared from his lonely haunt, rose upon heavy wing, and with a shrill scream flapped away through the dark aisles of the forest. The cayman plunged sullenly into the sedgy water; and the "Sajou" monkey, suspended by his prehensile tail from some overhanging bough, oscillated to and fro, and filled the air with his hideous, half-human cries. Halting for a moment to refill the canteens, we crossed over and ascended the opposite bank. A hundred paces farther on the guide, who had gone ahead, cried out from an eminence, "_Mira la caballada_!" (Yonder's the drove!) CHAPTER SEVENTEEN. ONE WAY OF TAMING A BULL. Pushing through the jungle, we ascended the eminence. A brilliant picture opened before us. The storm had suddenly lulled, and the tropical sun shone down upon the flowery surface of the earth, bathing its verdure in a flood of yellow light. It was several hours before sunset, but the bright orb had commenced descending towards the snowy cone of Orizava, and his rays had assumed that golden red which characterises the ante-twilight of the tropics. The short-lived storm had swept the heavens, and the blue roof of the world was without a cloud. The dark masses had rolled away over the south-eastern horizon, and were now spending their fury upon the dyewood forests of Honduras and Tabasco. At our feet lay the prairie, spread before us like a green carpet, and bounded upon the farther side by a dark wall of forest-trees. Several clumps of timber grew like islands on the plain, adding to the picturesque character of the landscape. Near the centre of the prairie stood a small rancho, surrounded by a high picket fence. This we at once recognised as the "corral" mentioned by Don Cosme. At some distance from the inclosure thousands of cattle were browsing upon the grassy level, their spotted flanks and long upright horns showing their descent from the famous race of Spanish bulls. Some of them, straggling from the herd, rambled through the "mottes", or lay stretched out under the shade of some isolated palm-tree. Ox-bells were tinkling their cheerful but monotonous music. Hundreds of horses and mules mingled with the herd; and we could distinguish a couple of leather-clad _vaqueros_ (herdsmen) galloping from point to point on their swift mustangs. These, as we appeared upon the ridge, dashed out after a wild bull that had just escaped from the corral. All five--the vaqueros, the mustangs, and the bull--swept over the prairie like wind, the bull bellowing with rage and terror; while the vaqueros were yelling in his rear, and whirling their long lazos. Their straight black hair floating in the wind--their swarthy, Arab-like faces--their high Spanish hats--their red leather calzoneros, buttoned up the sides--their huge jingling spurs, and the ornamental trappings of their deep saddles--all these, combined with the perfect _manege_ of their dashing steeds, and the wild excitement of the chase in which they were engaged, rendered them objects of picturesque interest; and we halted a moment to witness the result. The bull came rushing past within fifty paces of where we stood, snorting with rage, and tossing his horns high in the air--his pursuers close upon him. At this moment one of the vaqueros launched his lazo, which, floating gracefully out, settled down over one horn. Seeing this, the vaquero did not turn his horse, but sat facing the bull, and permitted the rope to run out. It was soon carried taut; and, scarcely checking the animal, it slipped along the smooth horn and spun out into the air. The cast was a failure. The second vaquero now flung his lazo with more success. The heavy loop, skilfully projected, shot out like an arrow, and embraced _both_ horns in its curving noose. With the quickness of thought the vaquero wheeled his horse, buried his spurs deep into his flanks, and, pressing his thighs to the saddle, galloped off in an opposite direction. The bull dashed on as before. In a moment the lariat was stretched. The sudden jerk caused the thong to vibrate like a bowstring, and the bull lay motionless on the grass. The shock almost dragged the mustang upon his flanks. The bull lay for some time where he had fallen; then, making an effort, he sprang up, and looked around him with a bewildered air. He was not yet conquered. His eye, flashing with rage, rolled around until it fell upon the rope leading from his horns to the saddle; and, suddenly lowering his head, with a furious roar he rushed upon the vaquero. The latter, who had been expecting this attack, drove the spurs into his mustang, and started in full gallop across the prairie. On followed the bull, sometimes shortening the distance between him and his enemy, while at intervals the lazo, tightening, would almost jerk him upon his head. After running for a hundred yards or so, the vaquero suddenly wheeled and galloped out at right angles to his former course. Before the bull could turn, himself the rope again tightened with a jerk and flung him upon his side. This time he lay but an instant, and, again springing to his feet, he dashed off in fresh pursuit. The second vaquero now came up, and, as the bull rushed past, launched his lazo after, and snared him around one of the legs, drawing the noose upon his ankle. This time the bull was flung completely over, and with such a violent shock that he lay as if dead. One of the vaqueros then rode cautiously up, and, bending over in the saddle, unfastened both of the lariats, and set the animal free. The bull rose to his feet, and, looking around in the most cowed and pitiful manner, walked quietly off, driven unresistingly towards the corral. We commenced descending into the place, and the vaqueros, catching a glimpse of our uniforms, simultaneously reined up their mustangs with a sudden jerk. We could see from their gestures that they were frightened at the approach of our party. This was not strange, as the major, mounted upon his great gaunt charger, loomed up against the blue sky like a colossus. The Mexicans, doubtless, had never seen anything in the way of horseflesh bigger than the mustangs they were riding; and this apparition, with the long line of uniformed soldiers descending the hill, was calculated to alarm them severely. "Them fellers is gwine to put, Cap'n," said Lincoln, touching his cap respectfully. "You're right, Sergeant," I replied; "and without them we might as well think of catching the wind as one of these mules." "If yer'll just let me draw a bead on the near mustang, I kin kripple him 'ithout hurtin' the thing thet's in the saddle." "It would be a pity. No, Sergeant," answered I. "I might stop them by sending forward the guide," I continued, addressing myself rather than Lincoln; "but no, it will not do; there must be the appearance of force. I have promised. Major, would you have the goodness to ride forward, and prevent those fellows from galloping off?" "Lord, Captain!" said the major, with a terrified look, "you don't think I could overtake such Arabs as them? Hercules is slow--slow as a crab!" Now, this was _a lie_, and I knew it! for Hercules, the major's great, raw-boned steed, was as fleet as the wind. "Then, Major, perhaps you will allow Mr Clayley to make trial of him," I suggested. "He is light weight. I assure you that, without the assistance of these Mexicans, we shall not be able to catch a single mule." The major, seeing that all eyes were fixed upon him, suddenly straightened himself up in his stirrups, and, swelling with courage and importance, declared, "If that was the case, he would go himself." Then, calling upon "Doc" to follow him, he struck the spurs into Hercules, and rode forward at a gallop. It proved that this was just the very course to start the vaqueros, as the major had inspired them with more terror than all the rest of our party. They showed evident symptoms of taking to their heels, and I shouted to them at the top of my voice: "_Alto! somos amigos_!" (Halt! we are friends). The words were scarcely out of my mouth when the Mexicans drove the rowels into their mustangs, and galloped off as if for their lives in the direction of the corral. The major followed at a slashing pace, Doc bringing up the rear; while the basket which the latter carried over his arm began to eject its contents, scattering the commissariat of the major over the prairie. Fortunately, the hospitality of Don Cosme had already provided a substitute for this loss. After a run of about half a mile Hercules began to gain rapidly upon the mustangs, whereas Doc was losing distance in an inverse ratio. The Mexicans had got within a couple of hundred yards of the rancho, the major not over a hundred in their rear, when I observed the latter suddenly pull up, and, jerking the long body of Hercules round, commence riding briskly back, all the while looking over his shoulder towards the in closure. The vaqueros did not halt at the corral, as we expected, but kept across the prairie, and disappeared among the trees on the opposite side. "What the deuce has got into Blossom?" inquired Clayley; "he was clearly gaining upon them. The old bloat must have burst a blood-vessel." CHAPTER EIGHTEEN. A BRUSH WITH THE GUERILLEROS. "Why, what was the matter, Major?" inquired I, as the major rode up blowing like a porpoise. "Matter!" replied he, with one of his direst imprecations; "matter, indeed! You wouldn't have me ride plump into their works, would you?" "Works!" echoed I, in some surprise; "what do you mean by that, Major?" "I mean works--that's all. There's a stockade ten feet high, as full as it can stick of them." "Full of what?" "Full of the enemy--full of rancheros. I saw their ugly copper faces--a dozen of them at least--looking at me over the pickets; and, sure as heaven, if I had gone ten paces farther they would have riddled me like a target." "But, Major, they were only peaceable rancheros--cow-herds--nothing more." "Cow-herds! I tell you, Captain, that those two that galloped off had a sword apiece strapped to their saddles. I saw them when I got near: they were decoys to bring us up to that stockade--I'll bet my life upon it!" "Well, Major," rejoined I, "they're far enough from the stockade now; and the best we can do in their absence will be to examine it, and see what chances it may offer to corral these mules, for, unless they can be driven into it, we shall have to return to camp empty-handed." Saying this, I moved forward with the men, the major keeping in the rear. We soon reached the formidable stockade, which proved to be nothing more than a regular corral, such as are found on the great _haciendas de ganados_ (cattle farms) of Spanish America. In one corner was a house, constructed of upright poles, with a thatch of palm-leaves. This contained the lazos, _alparejas_, saddles, etcetera, of the vaqueros; and in the door of this house stood a decrepit old zambo, the only human thing about the place. The zambo's woolly head over the pickets had reflected itself a dozen times on the major's terrified imagination. After examining the corral, I found it excellent for our purpose, provided we could only succeed in driving the mules _into_ it; and, throwing open the bars, we proceeded to make the attempt. The mules were browsing quietly at the distance of a quarter of a mile from the corral. Marching past the drove, I deployed the company in the form of a semicircle, forming a complete cordon round the animals; then, closing in upon them slowly, the soldiers commenced driving them towards the pen. We were somewhat awkward at this new duty; but by means of a shower of small rocks, pieces of _bois de vache_, and an occasional "heigh, heigh!" the mules were soon in motion and in the required direction. The major, with Doc and little Jack, being the mounted men of the party, did great service, especially Jack, who was highly delighted with this kind of thing, and kept Twidget in a constant gallop from right to left. As the _mulado_ neared the gates of the inclosure, the two extremes of the semi-circumference gradually approached each other, closing in toward the corral. The mules were already within fifty paces of the entrance, the soldiers coming up about two hundred yards in the rear, when a noise like the tramping of many hoofs arrested our attention. The quick, sharp note of a cavalry bugle rang out across the plain, followed by a wild yell, as though a band of Indian warriors were sweeping down upon the foe. In an instant every eye was turned, and we beheld with consternation a cloud of horsemen springing out from the woods, and dashing along in the headlong velocity of a charge. It required but a single glance to satisfy me that they were guerilleros. Their picturesque attire, their peculiar arms, and the parti-coloured bannerets upon their lances were not to be mistaken. We stood for a moment as if thunderstruck; a sharp cry rose along the deployed line. I signalled to the bugler, who gave the command, "Rally upon the centre!" As if by one impulse, the whole line closed in with a run upon the gates of the inclosure. The mules, impelled by the sudden rush, dashed forward pell-mell, blocking up the entrance. On came the guerilleros, with streaming pennons and lances couched, shouting their wild cries: "_Andela! andela! Mueran los Yankees_!" (Forward! forward! Death to the Yankees!) The foremost of the soldiers were already upon the heels of the crowded mules, pricking them with bayonets. The animals began to kick and plunge in the most furious manner, causing a new danger in front. "Face about--fire!" I commanded at this moment. An irregular but well-directed volley emptied half a dozen saddles, and for a moment staggered the charging line; but, before my men could reload, the guerilleros had leaped clear over their fallen comrades, and were swooping down with cries of vengeance. A dozen of their bravest men were already within shot-range, firing their escopettes and pistols as they came down. Our position had now grown fearfully critical. The mules still blocked up the entrance, preventing the soldiers from taking shelter behind the stockade; and before we could reload, the rearmost would be at the mercy of the enemy's lances. Seizing the major's servant by the arm, I dragged him from his horse, and, leaping into the saddle, flung myself upon the rear. Half a dozen of my bravest men, among whom were Lincoln, Chane, and the Frenchman Raoul, rallied around the horse, determined to receive the cavalry charge on the short bayonets of their rifles. Their pieces were all empty! At this moment my eye rested on one of the soldiers, a brave but slow-footed German, who was still twenty paces in the rear of his comrades, making every effort to come up. Two of the guerilleros were rushing upon him with couched lances. I galloped out to his rescue; but before I could reach him the lance of the foremost Mexican crashed through the soldier's skull, shivering it like a shell. The barb and bloody pennon came out on the opposite side. The man was lifted from the ground, and carried several paces upon the shaft of the lance. The guerillero dropped his entangled weapon; but before he could draw any other, the sword of Victoria was through his heart. His comrade turned upon me with a cry of vengeance. I had not yet disengaged my weapon to ward off the thrust. The lance's point was within three feet of my breast, when a sharp crack was heard from behind; the lancer threw out his arms with a spasmodic jerk; his long spear was whirled into the air, and he fell back in his saddle, dead. "Well done, Jack! fire and scissors! who showed yer that trick? whooray! whoop!" and I heard the voice of Lincoln, in a sort of Indian yell, rising high above the din. At this moment a guerillo, mounted upon a powerful black mustang, came galloping down. This man, unlike most of his comrades, was armed with the sabre, which he evidently wielded with great dexterity. He came dashing on, his white teeth set in a fierce smile. "Ha! Monsieur le Capitaine," shouted he, as he came near, "still alive? I thought I had finished you on Lobos; not too late yet!" I recognised the deserter, Dubrosc! "Villain!" I ejaculated, too full of rage to utter another word. We met at full speedy but with my unmanageable horse I could only ward off his blow as he swept past me. We wheeled again, and galloped towards each other--both of us impelled by hatred; but my horse again shied, frightened by the gleaming sabre of my antagonist. Before I could rein him round, he had brought me close to the pickets of the corral; and on turning to meet the deserter, I found that we were separated by a band of dark objects. It was a detachment of mules that had backed from the gates of the corral and were escaping to the open plain. We reined up, eyeing each other with impatient vengeance; but the bullets of my men began to whistle from the pickets; and Dubrosc, with a threatening gesture, wheeled his horse and galloped off to his comrades. They had retired beyond range, and were halted in groups upon the prairie, chafing with disappointment and rage. CHAPTER NINETEEN. A HERCULEAN FEAT. The whole skirmish did not occupy two minutes. It was like most charges of Mexican cavalry--a dash, a wild yelling, half a dozen empty saddles, and a hasty retreat. The guerilleros had swerved off as soon as they perceived that we had gained a safe position, and the bullets of our reloaded pieces began to whistle around their ears. Dubrosc alone, in his impetuosity, galloped close up to the inclosure; and it was only on perceiving himself alone, and the folly of exposing himself thus fruitlessly, that he wheeled round and followed the Mexicans. The latter were now out upon the prairie, beyond the range of small-arms, grouped around their wounded comrades, or galloping to and fro, with yells of disappointed vengeance. I entered the corral, where most of my men had sheltered themselves behind the stockades. Little Jack sat upon Twidget, reloading his rifle, and trying to appear insensible to the flattering encomiums that hailed him from all sides. A compliment from Lincoln, however, was too much for Jack, and a proud smile was seen upon the face of the boy. "Thank you, Jack," said I, as I passed him; "I see you can use a rifle to some purpose." Jack held down his head, without saying a word, and appeared to be very busy about the lock of his piece. In the skirmish, Lincoln had received the scratch of a lance, at which he was chafing in his own peculiar way, and vowing revenge upon the giver. It might be said that he had taken this, as he had driven his short bayonet through his antagonist's arm, and sent him off with this member hanging by his side. But the hunter was not content; and, as he retired sullenly into the inclosure, he turned round, and, shaking his fist at the Mexican, muttered savagely: "Yer darned skunk! I'll know yer agin. See if I don't git yer yit!" Gravenitz, a Prussian soldier, had also been too near a lance, and several others had received slight wounds. The German was the only one killed. He was still lying out on the plain, where he had fallen, the long shaft of the lance standing up out of his skull. Not ten feet distant lay the corpse, of his slayer, glistening in its gaudy and picturesque attire. The other guerillero, as he fell, had noosed one of his legs in the lazo that hung from the horn of his saddle, and was now dragged over the prairie after his wild and snorting mustang. As the animal swerved, at every jerk his limber body bounded to the distance of twenty feet, where it would lie motionless until slung into the air by a fresh pluck on the lazo. As we were watching this horrid spectacle, several of the guerilleros galloped after, while half a dozen others were observed spurring their steeds towards the rear of the corral. On looking in this direction we perceived a huge red horse, with an empty saddle, scouring at full speed across the prairie. A single glance showed us that this horse was Hercules. "Good heavens! the Major!" "Safe somewhere," replied Clayley; "but where the deuce can he be? He is not _hors de combat_ on the plain, or one could see him even ten miles off. Ha! ha! ha!--look yonder!" Clayley, yelling with laughter, pointed to the corner of the rancho. Though after a scene so tragic, I could hardly refrain from joining Clayley in his boisterous mirth. Hanging by the belt of his sabre upon a high picket was the major, kicking and struggling with all his might. The waist-strap, tightly drawn by the bulky weight of the wearer, separated his body into two vast rotundities, while his face was distorted and purple with the agony of suspense and suspension. He was loudly bellowing for help, and several soldiers were running towards him; but, from the manner in which he jerked his body up, and screwed his neck, so as to enable him to look over the stockade, it was evident that the principal cause of his uneasiness lay on the "other side of the fence." The truth was, the major, on the first appearance of the enemy, had galloped towards the rear of the corral, and, finding no entrance, had thrown himself from the back of Hercules upon the stockade, intending to climb over; but, having caught a glance of some guerilleros, he had suddenly let go his bridle, and attempted to precipitate himself into the corral. His waist-belt, catching upon a sharp picket, held him suspended midway, still under the impression that the Mexicans were close upon his rear. He was soon unhooked, and now waddled across the corral, uttering a thick and continuous volley of his choicest oaths. Our eyes were now directed towards Hercules. The horsemen had closed upon him within fifty yards, and were winding their long lazos in the air. The major, to all appearance, had lost his horse. After galloping to the edge of the woods, Hercules suddenly halted, and threw up the trailing-bridle with a loud neigh. His pursuers, coming up, flung out their lazos. Two of these, settling over his head, noosed him around the neck. The huge brute, as if aware of the necessity of a desperate effort to free himself, dropped his nose to the ground, and stretched himself out in full gallop. The lariats, one by one tightening over his bony chest, snapped like threads, almost jerking the mustangs from their feet. The long fragments sailed out like streamers as he careered across the prairie, far ahead of his yelling pursuers. He now made directly for the corral. Several of the soldiers ran towards the stockade, in order to seize the bridle when he should come up; but Hercules, spying his old comrade--the horse of the "Doctor"-- within the inclosure, first neighed loudly, and then, throwing all his nerve into the effort, sprang high over the picket fence. A cheer rose from the men, who had watched with interest his efforts to escape, and who now welcomed him as if he had been one of themselves. "Two months' pay for your horse, Major!" cried Clayley. "Och, the bewtiful baste! He's worth the full of his skin in goold! By my sowl! the capten ought to have 'im," ejaculated Chane; and various other encomiums were uttered in honour of Hercules. Meanwhile, his pursuers, not daring to approach the stockade, drew off towards their comrades with gestures of disappointment and chagrin. CHAPTER TWENTY. RUNNING THE GAUNTLET. I began to reflect upon the real danger of our situation--corralled upon a naked prairie, ten miles from camp, with no prospect of escape. I knew that we could defend ourselves against twice the number of our cowardly adversaries; they would never dare to come within range of our rifles. But how to get out? how to cross the open plain? Fifty infantry against four times that number of mounted men--lancers at that--and not a bush to shelter the foot-soldier from the long spear and the iron hoof! The nearest _motte_ was half a mile off, and that another half a mile from the edge of the woods. Even could the motte be reached by a desperate run, it would be impossible to gain the woods, as the enemy would certainly cordon our new position, and thus completely cut us off. At present they had halted in a body about four hundred yards from the corral; and, feeling secure of having us in a trap, most of them had dismounted, and were running out their mustangs upon their lazos. It was plainly their determination to take us by siege. To add to our desperate circumstances, we discovered that there was not a drop of water in the corral. The thirst that follows a fight had exhausted the scanty supply of our canteens, and the heat was excessive. As I was running over in my mind the perils of our position, my eye rested upon Lincoln, who stood with his piece at a carry, his left hand crossed over his breast, in the attitude of a soldier waiting to receive orders. "Well, Sergeant, what is it?" I inquired. "Will yer allow me, Cap'n, ter take a couple o' files, and fetch in the Dutchman? The men 'ud like ter put a sod upon him afore them thievin' robbers kin git at him." "Certainly. But will you be safe? He's at some distance from the stockade." "I don't think them fellers 'll kum down--they've had enuf o' it just now. We'll run out quick, and the boys kin kiver us with their fire." "Very well, then; set about it." Lincoln returned to the company and selected four of the most active of his men, with whom he proceeded towards the entrance. I ordered the soldiers to throw themselves on that side of the inclosure, and cover the party in case of an attack; but none was made. A movement was visible among the Mexicans, as they perceived Lincoln and his party rush out towards the body; but, seeing they would be too late to prevent them from carrying it off, they wisely kept beyond the reach of the American rifles. The body of the German was brought into the inclosure and buried with due ceremony, although his comrades believed that before many hours it would be torn from its "warrior grave", dragged forth to feed the coyote and vulture, and his bones left to whiten upon the naked prairie. Which of us knew that it might not in a few hours be his own fate? "Gentlemen," said I to my brother officers, as we came together, "can you suggest any mode of escape?" "Our only chance is to fight them where we stand. There are four to one," replied Clayey. "We have no other chance, Captain," said Oakes, with a shake of the head. "But it is not their intention to fight _us_. Their design is to starve us. See! they are picketing their horses, knowing they can easily overtake us if we attempt to leave the inclosure." "Cannot we move in a hollow square?" "But what is a hollow square of fifty men? and against four times that number of cavalry, with lances and lazos? No, no; they would shiver it with a single charge. Our only hope is that we may be able to hold out until our absence from camp may bring a detachment to our relief." "And why not send for it?" inquired the major, who had scarcely been asked for his advice, but whose wits had been sharpened by the extremity of his danger. "Why not send for a couple of regiments?" "How are we to send, Major?" asked Clayley, looking on the major's proposition as ridiculous under the circumstances. "Have you a pigeon in your pocket?" "Why?--how? There's Hercules runs like a hare; stick one of your fellows in the saddle, and I'll warrant him to camp in an hour." "You are right, Major," said I, catching at the major's proposal; "thank you for the thought. If he could only pass that point in the woods! I hate it, but it is our only chance." The last sentence I muttered to myself. "Why do you hate it, Captain?" inquired the major, who had overheard me. "You might not understand my reasons, Major." I was thinking upon the disgrace of being trapped as I was, and on my first scout, too. "Who will volunteer to ride an express to camp?" I inquired, addressing the men. Twenty of them leaped out simultaneously. "Which of you remembers the course, that you could follow it in a gallop?" I asked. The Frenchman, Raoul, stood forth, touching his cap. "I know a shorter one, Captain, by Mata Cordera." "Ha! Raoul, you know the country. You are the man." I now remembered that this man joined us at Sacrificios, just after the landing of the expedition. He had been living in the country previous to our arrival, and was well acquainted with it. "Are you a good horseman?" I inquired. "I have seen five years of cavalry service." "True. Do you think you can pass them? They are nearly in your track." "As we entered the prairie, Captain; but my route will lie past this motte to the left." "That will give you several points. Do not stop a moment after you have mounted, or they will take the hint and intercept you." "With the red horse there will be no danger, Captain." "Leave your gun; take these pistols. Ha! you have a pair in the holsters. See if they are loaded. These spurs--so--cut loose that heavy piece from the saddle: the cloak, too; you must have nothing to encumber you. When you come near the camp, leave your horse in the chaparral. Give this to Colonel C." I wrote the following words on a scrap of paper:-- "Dear Colonel, "Two hundred will be enough. Could they be stolen out after night? If so, all will be well--if it gets abroad... "Yours, "H.H." As I handed the paper to Raoul, I whispered in his ear-- "To Colonel C's own hand. Privately, Raoul--privately, do you hear?" Colonel C. was my friend, and I knew that he would send a _private_ party to my rescue. "I understand, Captain," was the answer of Raoul. "Ready, then! now mount and be off." The Frenchman sprang nimbly to the saddle, and, driving his spurs into the flanks of his horse, shot out from the pen like a bolt of lightning. For the first three hundred yards or so he galloped directly towards the guerilleros. These stood leaning upon their saddles, or lay stretched along the green-sward. Seeing a single horseman riding towards them, few of them moved, believing him to be some messenger sent to treat for our surrender. Suddenly the Frenchman swerved from his direct course, and went sweeping around them in the curve of an ellipse. They now perceived the _ruse_, and with a yell leaped into their saddles. Some fired their escopettes; others, unwinding their lazos, started in pursuit. Raoul had by this time set Hercules's head for the clump of timber which he had taken as his guide, and now kept on in a track almost rectilinear. Could he but reach the motte or clump in safety, he knew that there were straggling trees beyond, and these would secure him in some measure from the lazos of his pursuers. We stood watching his progress with breathless silence. Our lives depended on his escape. A crowd of the guerilleros was between him and us; but we could still see the green jacket of the soldier, and the great red flanks of Hercules, as he bounded on towards the edge of the woods. Then we saw the lazos launched out, and spinning around Raoul's head, and straggling shots were fired; and we fancied at one time that our comrade sprang up in the saddle, as if he had been hit. Then he appeared again, all safe, rounding the little islet of timber, and the next moment he was gone from our sight. There followed a while of suspense--of terrible suspense--for the motte hid from view both pursuers and pursued. Every eye was straining towards the point where the horseman had disappeared, when Lincoln, who had climbed to the top of the rancho, cried out: "He's safe, Cap'n! The dod-rotted skunks air kummin 'ithout him." It was true. A minute after, the horsemen appeared round the motte, riding slowly back, with that air and attitude that betoken disappointment. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Note. A motte is an eminence. CHAPTER TWENTY ONE. A SHORT FIGHT AT "LONG SHOT". The escape of Raoul and Hercules produced an affect almost magical upon the enemy. Instead of the listless defensive attitude lately assumed, the guerilleros were now in motion like a nest of roused hornets, scouring over the plain, and yelling like a war-party of Indians. They did not surround the corral, as I had anticipated they would. They had no fear that we should attempt to escape; but they knew that, instead of the three days in which they expected to kill us with thirst at their leisure, they had not three hours left to accomplish that object. Raoul would reach the camp in little more than an hour's time, and either infantry or mounted men would be on them in two hours after. Scouts were seen galloping off in the direction taken by Raoul, and others dashed into the woods on the opposite side of the prairie. All was hurry and scurry. Along with Clayley I had climbed upon the roof of the rancho, to watch the motions of the enemy, and to find out, if possible, his intentions. We stood for some time without speaking, both of us gazing at the manoeuvres of the guerilleros. They were galloping to and fro over the prairie, excited by the escape of Raoul. "Splendidly done!" exclaimed my companion, struck with their graceful horsemanship. "One of those fellows, Captain, as he sits, at this minute, would--" "Ha! what--?" shouted he, suddenly turning and pointing towards the woods. I looked in the direction indicated. A cloud of dust was visible at the _debouchement_ of the Medellin road. It appeared to hang over a small body of troops upon the march. The sun was just setting, and, as the cloud lay towards the west, I could distinguish the sparkling of bright objects through its dun volume. The guerilleros had reined up their horses, and were eagerly gazing towards the same point. Presently the dust was wafted aside, a dozen dark forms became visible, and in the midst a bright object flashed under the sun like a sheet of gold. At the same instant an insulting shout broke from the guerilleros, and a voice was heard exclaiming: "_Cenobio! Cenobio! Los canones_!" (Cenobio! Cenobio! the cannon!) Clayley turned towards me with an inquiring look. "It is true, Clayley; by heavens, we'll have it now!" "What did they say?" "Look for yourself--well?" "A brass piece, as I live!--a six-pound carronade!" "We are fighting the guerilla [Note 1] of Cenobio, a small army of itself. Neither stockade nor motte will avail us now." "What is to be done?" asked my companion. "Nothing but die with arms in our hands. We will not die without a struggle, and the sooner we prepare for it the better." I leaped from the roof, and ordered the bugler to sound the _assembly_. In a moment the clear notes rang out, and the soldiers formed before me in the corral. "My brave comrades!" cried I, "they have got the advantage of us at last. They are bringing down a piece of artillery, and I fear these pickets will offer us but poor shelter. If we are driven out, let us strike for that island of timber; and, mark me--if we are broken, let every man fight his way as he best can, or die over a fallen enemy." A determined cheer followed this short harangue, and I continued: "But let us first see how they use their piece. It is a small one, and will not destroy us all at once. Fling yourselves down as they fire. By lying flat on your faces you may not suffer so badly. Perhaps we can hold the corral until our friends reach us. At all events we shall try." Another cheer rang along the line. "Great heaven, Captain! it's terrible!" whispered the major. "What is terrible?" I asked, feeling at the moment a contempt for this blaspheming coward. "Oh! this--this business--such a fix to be--" "Major! remember you are a soldier." "Yes; and I wish I had resigned, as I intended to do, before this cursed war commenced." "Never fear," said I, tempted to smile at the candour of his cowardice; "you'll drink wine at Hewlett's in a month. Get behind this log--it's the only point shot-proof in the whole stockade." "Do you think, Captain, it _will_ stop a shot?" "Ay--from a siege-gun. Look out, men, and be ready to obey orders!" The six-pounder had now approached within five hundred yards of the stockade, and was leisurely being unlimbered in the midst of a group of the enemy's artillerists. At this moment the voice of the major arrested my attention. "Great heaven, Captain! Why do you allow them to come so near?" "How am I to prevent them?" I asked, with some surprise. "Why, my rifle will reach farther than that. It might keep them off, I think." "Major, you are dreaming!" said I. "They are two hundred yards beyond range of our rifles. If they would only come within that, we should soon send them back for you." "But, Captain, mine will carry twice the distance." I looked at the major, under the belief that he had taken leave of his senses. "It's a _zundnadel_, I assure you, and will kill at eight hundred yards." "Is it possible?" cried I, starting; for I now recollected the curious-looking piece which I had ordered to be cut loose from the saddle of Hercules. "Why did you not tell me that before? Where is Major Blossom's rifle?" I shouted, looking around. "This hyur's the major's _gun_" answered Sergeant Lincoln. "But if it's a rifle, I never seed sich. It looks more like a two-year old cannon." It was, as the major had declared, a Prussian needle-gun--then a new invention, but of which I had heard something. "Is it loaded, Major?" I asked, taking the piece from Lincoln. "It is." "Can you hit that man with the sponge?" said I, returning the piece to the hunter. "If this hyur thing'll carry fur enuf, I kin," was the reply. "It will kill at a thousand yards, point blank," cried the major, with energy. "Ha! are you sure of that, Major?" I asked. "Certainly, Captain. I got it from the inventor. We tried it at Washington. It is loaded with a conical bullet. It bored a hole through an inch plank at that distance." "Well. Now, Sergeant, take sure aim; this may save us yet." Lincoln planted himself firmly on his feet, choosing a notch of the stockade that ranged exactly with his shoulder. He then carefully wiped the dust from the sights; and, placing the heavy barrel in the notch, laid his cheek slowly against the stock. "Sergeant, the man with the shot!" I called out. As I spoke, one of the artillerists was stooping to the muzzle of the six-pounder, holding in his hand a spherical case-shot. Lincoln pressed the trigger. The crack followed, and the artillerist threw out his arms, and doubled over on his head without giving a kick. The shot that he had held rolled out upon the green-sward. A wild cry, expressive of extreme astonishment, broke from the guerilleros. At the same instant a cheer rang through the corral. "Well done!" cried a dozen of voices at once. In a moment the rifle was wiped and reloaded. "This time, Sergeant, the fellow with the linstock." During the reloading of the rifle, the Mexicans around the six-pounder had somewhat recovered from their surprise, and had rammed home the cartridge. A tall artillerist stood, with linstock and fuse, near the breech, waiting for the order to fire. Before he received that order the rifle again cracked; his arm new up with a sudden jerk, and the smoking rod, flying from his grasp, was projected to the distance of twenty feet. The man himself spun round, and, staggering a pace or two, fell into the arms of his comrades. "Cap'n, jest allow me ter take that ere skunk next time." "Which one, Sergeant?" I asked. "Him thet's on the black, makin' such a dot-rotted muss." I recognised the horse and figure of Dubrosc. "Certainly, by all means," said I, with a strange feeling at my heart as I gave the order. But before Lincoln could reload, one of the Mexicans, apparently an officer, had snatched up the burning fuse, and, running up, applied it to the touch. "On your faces, men!" The ball came crashing through the thin pickets of the corral, and, whizzing across the inclosure, struck one of the mules on the flank, tearing open its hip, causing it to kick furiously as it tumbled over the ground. Its companions, stampeding, galloped for a moment through the pen; then, collecting in a corner, stood cowered up and quivering. A fierce yell announced the exultation of the guerilleros. Dubrosc was sitting on his powerful mustang, facing the corral, and watching the effects of the shot. "If he wur only 'ithin range ov my own rifle!" muttered Lincoln, as he glanced along the sights of the strange piece. The crack soon followed--the black horse reared, staggered, and fell back on his rider. "Ten strike, set 'em up!" exclaimed a soldier. "Missed the skunk!" cried Lincoln, gritting his teeth as the horseman was seen to struggle from under the fallen animal. Rising to his feet, Dubrosc sprang out to the front, and shook his fist in the air with a shout of defiance. The guerilleros galloped back; and the artillerists, wheeling the six-pounder, dragged it after, and took up a new position about three hundred yards farther to the rear. A second shot from the piece again tore through the pickets, striking one of our men, and killing him instantly. "Aim at the artillerists, Sergeant. We have nothing to fear from the others." Lincoln fired again. The shot hit the ground in front of the enemy's gun; but, glancing, it struck one of the cannoniers, apparently wounding him badly, as he was carried back by his comrades. The Mexicans, terror-struck at this strange instrument of destruction, took up a new position, two hundred yards still farther back. Their third shot ricocheted, striking the top of the strong plank behind which the major was screening himself, and only frightening the latter by the shock upon the timber. Lincoln again fired. This time his shot produced no visible effect, and a taunting cheer from the enemy told that they felt themselves beyond range. Another shot was fired from the _zundnadel_, apparently with a similar result. "It's beyond her carry, Cap'n," said Lincoln, bringing the butt of his piece to the ground, with an expression of reluctant conviction. "Try one more shot. If it fail, we can reserve the other for closer work. Aim high!" This resulted as the two preceding ones; and a voice from the guerilleros was heard exclaiming: "_Yankees bobos! mas adelante_!" (A little farther, you Yankee fools!) Another shot from the six-pounder cracked through the planks, knocking his piece from the hands of a soldier, and shivering the dry stock-wood into fifty fragments. "Sergeant, give me the rifle," said I. "They must be a thousand yards off; but, as they are as troublesome with that carronade as if they were only ten, I shall try one more shot." I fired, but the ball sank at least fifty paces in front of the enemy. "We expect too much. It is not a twenty-four pounder. Major, I _envy_ you two things--your rifle and your horse." "Hercules?" "Of course." "Lord, Captain! you may do what you will with the rifle; and if ever we get out of the reach of these infernal devils, Hercules shall be--." At this moment a cheer came from the guerilleros, and a voice was heard shouting above the din: "_La metralla! la metralla_!" (The howitzer!) I leaped upon the roof, and looked out upon the plain. It was true. A howitzer-carriage, drawn by mules, was debouching from the woods, the animals dragging it along at a gallop. It was evidently a piece of some size, large enough to tear the light picketing that screened us to atoms. I turned towards my men with a look of despair. My eye at this moment rested on the drove of mules that stood crowded together in a corner of the pen. A sudden thought struck me. Might we not mount them and escape? There were more than enough to carry us all, and the rancho was filled with bridles and ropes. I instantly leaped from the roof, and gave orders to the men. "Speedily, but without noise!" cried I, as the soldiers proceeded to fling bridles upon the necks of the animals. In five minutes each man, with his rifle slung, stood by a mule, some of them having buckled on _tapadas_, to prevent the animals from kicking. The major stood ready by his horse. "Now, my brave fellows," shouted I in a loud voice, "we must take it cavalry fashion--Mexican cavalry, I mean." The men laughed. "Once in the woods, we shall retreat no farther. At the words `_Mount and follow_', spring to your seats and follow Mr Clayley. I shall look to your rear--don't stop to fire--hold on well. If anyone fall, let his nearest comrade take him up. Ha! anyone hurt there?" A shot had whistled through the ranks. "Only a scratch," was the reply. "All ready, then, are you? Now, Mr Clayley, you see the high timber-- make direct for that. Down with the bars! `_Mount and follow_'!" As I uttered the last words, the men leaped to their seats; and Clayley, riding the bell-mule, dashed out of the corral, followed by the whole train, some of them plunging and kicking, but all galloped forward at the sound of the bell upon their guide. As the dark cavalcade rushed out upon the prairie, a wild cry from the guerilleros told that this was the first intimation they had had of the singular _ruse_. They sprang to their saddles with yells, and galloped in pursuit. The howitzer, that had been trailed upon the corral, was suddenly wheeled about and fired; but the shot, ill-directed in their haste, whistled harmlessly over our heads. The guerilleros, on their swift steeds, soon lessened the distance between us. With a dozen of the best men I hung in the rear, to give the foremost of the pursuers a volley, or pick up any soldier who might be tossed from his mule. One of these, at intervals, kicked as only a Mexican mule can; and when within five hundred yards of the timber, his rider, an Irishman, was flung upon the prairie. The rearmost of our party stopped to take him up. He was seized by Chane, who mounted him in front of himself. The delay had nearly been fatal. The pursuers were already within a hundred yards, firing their pistols and escopettes without effect. A number of the men turned in their seats and blazed back. Others threw their rifles over their shoulders, and pulled trigger at random. I could perceive that two or three guerilleros dropped from their saddles. Their comrades, with shouts of vengeance, closed upon us nearer and nearer. The long lazos, far in advance, whistled around our heads. I felt the slippery noose light upon my shoulders. I flung out my arms to throw it off, but with a sudden jerk it tightened around my neck. I clutched the hard thong, and pulled with all my might. It was in vain. The animal I rode, freed from my _manege_, seemed to plunge under me, and gather up its back with a vicious determination to fling me. It succeeded; and I was launched in the air, and dashed to the earth with a stunning violence. I felt myself dragged along the gravelly ground. I grasped the weeds, but they came away in my hands, torn up by the roots. There was a struggle above and around me. I could hear loud shouts and the firing of guns. I felt that I was being strangled. A bright object glistened before my eyes. I felt myself seized by a strong, rough hand, and swung into the air and rudely shaken, as if in the grasp of some giant's arm. Something twitched me sharply over the cheeks. I heard the rustling of trees. Branches snapped and crackled, and leaves swept across my face. Then came the flash--flash, and the crack--crack--crack of a dozen rifles, and under their blazing light I was dashed a second time with violence to the earth. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Note 1. Troop of guerillas, who in Spanish are properly _guerilleros_. CHAPTER TWENTY TWO. THE RESCUE. "Rough handlin', Cap'n. Yer must excuse haste." It was the voice of Lincoln. "Ha! in the timber? Safe, then!" ejaculated I in return. "Two or three wounded--not bad neither. Chane has got a stab in the hip--he gin the feller goss for it. Let me louze the darned thing off o' your neck. It kum mighty near chokin' yer, Cap'n." Bob proceeded to unwind the noose end of a lazo that, with some six feet of a raw hide thong, was still tightly fastened around my neck. "But who cut the rope?" demanded I. "I did, with this hyur toothpick. Yer see, Cap'n, it warn't yer time to be hung just yet." I could not help smiling as I thanked the hunter for my safety. "But where are the guerilleros?" asked I, looking around, my brain still somewhat confused. "Yander they are, keepin' safe out o' range o' this long gun. Just listen to 'em!--what a hillerballoo!" The Mexican horsemen were galloping out on the prairie, their arms glistening under the clear moonlight. "Take to the trees, men!" cried I, seeing that the enemy had again unlimbered, and were preparing to discharge their howitzer. In a moment the iron shower came whizzing through the branches without doing any injury, as each of the men had covered his body with a tree. Several of the mules that stood tied and trembling were killed by the discharge. Another shower hurtled through the bushes, with a similar effect. I was thinking of retreating farther into the timber, and was walking back to reconnoitre the ground, when my eye fell upon an object that arrested my attention. It was the body of a very large man lying flat upon his face, his head buried among the roots of a good-sized tree. The arms were stiffly pressed against his side, and his legs projected at full stretch, exhibiting an appearance of motionless rigidity, as though a well-dressed corpse had been rolled over on its face. I at once recognised it as the body of the major, whom I supposed to have fallen dead where he lay. "Good heavens! Clayley, look here!" cried I; "poor Blossom's killed!" "No, I'll be hanged if I am!" growled the latter, screwing his neck round like a lizard, and looking up without changing the attitude of his body. Clayley was convulsed with laughter. The major sheathed his head again, as he knew that another shot from the howitzer might soon be expected. "Major," cried Clayley, "that right shoulder of yours projects over at least six inches." "I know it," answered the major, in a frightened voice. "Curse the tree!--it's hardly big enough to cover a squirrel;" and he squatted closer to the earth, pressing his arms tighter against his sides. His whole attitude was so ludicrous that Clayley burst into a second yell of laughter. At this moment a wild shout was heard from the guerilleros. "What next?" cried I, running toward the front, and looking out upon the prairie. "Them wild-cats are gwine to cla'r out, Cap'n," said Lincoln, meeting me. "I kin see them hitchin' up." "It is as you say! What can be the reason?" A strange commotion was visible in the groups of horsemen. Scouts were galloping across the plain to a point of the woods about half a mile distant, and I could see the artillerists fastening their mules to the howitzer-carriage. Suddenly a bugle rang out, sounding the "Recall", and the guerilleros, spurring their horses, galloped off towards Medellin. A loud cheer, such as was never uttered by Mexican throats, came from the opposite edge of the prairie; and looking in that direction I beheld a long line of dark forms debouching from the woods at a gallop. Their sparkling blades, as they issued from the dark forest, glistened like a cordon of fireflies, and I recognised the heavy footfall of the American horse. A cheer from my men attracted their attention; and the leader of the dragoons, seeing that the guerilleros had got far out of reach, wheeled his column to the right and came galloping down. "Is that Colonel Rawley?" inquired I, recognising a dragoon officer. "Why, bless my soul!" exclaimed he, "how did you get out? We heard you were jugged. All alive yet?" "We have lost two," I replied. "Pah! that's nothing. I came out expecting to bury the whole kit of you. Here's Clayley, too. Clayley, your friend Twing's with us; you'll find him in the rear." "Ha! Clayley, old boy!" cried Twing, coming up; "no bones broken? all right? Take a pull; do you good--don't drink it all, though--leave a thimbleful for Haller there. How do you like that?" "Delicious, by Jove!" ejaculated Clayey, tugging away at the major's flask. "Come, Captain, try it." "Thank you," I replied, eagerly grasping the welcome flask. "But where is old Bios? killed, wounded, or missing?" "I believe the major is not far off, and still uninjured." I despatched a man for the major, who presently came up, blowing and swearing like a Flanders trooper. "Hilloa, Bios!" shouted Twing, grasping him by the hand. "Why, bless me, Twing, I'm glad to see you!" answered Blossom, throwing his arms around the diminutive major. "But where on earth is your pewter?" for during the embrace he had been groping all over Twing's body for the flask. "Here, Cudjo! That flask, boy!" "Faith, Twing, I'm near choked; we've been fighting all day--a devil of a fight! I chased a whole squad of the cursed scoundrels on Hercules, and came within a squirrel's jump of riding right into their nest. We've killed dozens; but Haller will tell you all. He's a good fellow, that Haller; but he's too rash--rash as blazes! Hilloa, Hercules! glad to see you again, old fellow; you had a sharp brush for it." "Remember your promise, Major," said I, as the major stood patting Hercules upon the shoulder. "I'll do better, Captain. I'll give you a choice between Hercules and a splendid black I have. Faith! it's hard to part with you, old Herky, but I know the captain will like the black better: he's the handsomest horse in the whole army; bought him from poor Ridgely, who was killed at Monterey." This speech of the major was delivered partly in soliloquy, partly in an apostrophe to Hercules, and partly to myself. "Very well, Major," I replied. "I'll take the black. Mr Clayley, mount the men on their mules: you will take command of the company, and proceed with Colonel Rawley to camp. I shall go myself for the Don." The last was said in a whisper to Clayley. "We may not get in before noon to-morrow. Say nothing of my absence to anyone. I shall make my report at noon tomorrow." "And, Captain--" said Clayley. "Well, Clayley?" "You will carry back my--." "What? To which friend?" "Of course, to Mary of the Light." "Oh, certainly!" "In your best Spanish." "Rest assured," said I, smiling at the earnestness of my friend. I was about moving from the spot, when the thought occurred to me to send the company to camp under command of Oakes, and take Clayley along with me. "Clayley, by the way," said I, calling the lieutenant back, "I don't see why you may not carry your compliments in person. Oakes can take the men back. I shall borrow half a dozen dragoons from Rawley." "With all my heart!" replied Clayley. "Come, then; get a horse, and let us be off." Taking Lincoln and Raoul, with half a dozen of Rawley's dragoons, I bade my friends good-night. These started for camp by the road of Mata Cordera, while I with my little party brushed for some distance round the border of the prairie, and then climbed the hill, over which lay the path to the house of the Spaniard. As I reached the top of the ridge I turned to look upon the scene of our late skirmish. The cold, round moon, looking down upon the prairie of La Virgen, saw none of the victims of the fight. The guerilleros in their retreat had carried off their dead and wounded comrades, and the Americans slept underground in the lone corral: but I could not help fancying that gaunt wolves were skulking round the inclosure, and that the claws of the coyote were already tearing up the red earth that had been hurriedly heaped over their graves. CHAPTER TWENTY THREE. THE COCUYO. A night-ride through the golden tropical forest, when the moon is bathing its broad and wax-like frondage--when the winds are hushed and the long leaves hang drooping and silent--when the paths conduct through dark aisles and arbours of green vine-leaves, and out again into bright and flowery glades--is one of those luxuries that I wish we could obtain without going beyond the limits of our own land. But no. The romance of the American _northern_ forest--the romance that lingers around the gnarled limbs of the oak, and the maple, and the elm--that sighs with the wintry wind high up among the twigs of the shining sycamore--that flits along the huge fallen trunks--that nestles in the brown and rustling leaves--that hovers above the bold cliff and sleeps upon the grey rock--that sparkles in the diamond stalactites of the frost, or glides along the bosom of the cold black river--is a feeling or a fancy of a far different character. These objects--themselves the emblems of the stony and iron things of nature--call up associations of the darker passions: strange scenes of strife and bloodshed; struggles between red and white savages; and struggles hardly less fierce with the wild beasts of the forest. The rifle, the tomahawk, and the knife are the visions conjured up, while the savage whoop and the dread yell echo in your ear; and you dream of _war_. Far different are the thoughts that suggest themselves as you glide along under the aromatic arbours of the American _southern_ forest, brushing aside the silken foliage, and treading upon the shadows of picturesque palms. The cocuyo lights your way through the dark aisles, and the nightingale cheers you with his varied and mimic song. A thousand sights and sounds, that seem to be possessed of some mysterious and narcotic power, lull you into silence and sleep--a sleep whose dream is _love_. Clayey and I felt this as we rode silently along. Even the ruder hearts of our companions seemed touched by the same influence. We entered the dark woods that fringed the arroyo, and the stream was crossed in silence. Raoul rode in advance, acting as our guide. After a long silence Clayey suddenly awoke from his reverie and straightened himself up in the saddle. "What time is it, Captain?" he inquired. "Ten--a few minutes past," answered I, holding my watch under the moonlight. "I wonder if the Don's in bed yet." "Not likely: he will be in distress; he expected us an hour ago." "True, he will not sleep till we come; all right then." "How all right then?" "For our chances of a supper; a cold pasty, with a glass of claret. What think you?" "I do not feel hungry." "But I do--as a hawk. I long once more to sound the Don's larder." "Do you not long more to see--" "Not to-night--no--that is until after supper. Everything in its own time and place; but a man with a hungry stomach has no stomach for anything but eating. I pledge you my word, Haller, I would rather at this moment see that grand old stewardess, Pepe, than the loveliest woman in Mexico, and that's `Mary of the Light'." "Monstrous!" "That is, until after I have supped. Then my feelings will doubtless take a turn." "Ah! Clayey, you can never love!" "Why so, Captain?" "With you, love is a sentiment, not a passion. You regard the fair blonde as you would a picture or a curious ornament." "You mean to say, then, that my love is `all in my eye'?" "Exactly so, in a literal sense. I do not think it has reached your heart, else you would not be thinking of your supper. Now, I could go for days without food--suffer any hardship; but, no--you cannot understand this." "I confess not. I am too hungry." "You could forget--nay, I should not be surprised if you have already forgotten--all but the fact that your mistress is a blonde, with bright golden hair. Is it not so?" "I confess, Captain, that I should make but a poor portrait of her from memory." "And, were I a painter, I could throw _her_ features upon the canvas as truly as if they were before me. I see her face outlined upon these broad leaves--her dark eyes burning in the flash of the cocuyo--her long black hair drooping from the feathery fringes of the palm--and her--" "Stop! You are dreaming, Captain! Her eyes are not dark--her hair is not black." "What! Her eyes not dark?--as ebony, or night!" "Blue as a turquoise!" "Black! What are you thinking of?" "`Mary of the Light'." "Oh, that is quite a different affair!" and my friend and I laughed heartily at our mutual misconceptions. We rode on, again relapsing into silence. The stillness of the night was broken only by the heavy hoof bounding back from the hard turf, the jingling of spurs, or the ringing of the iron scabbard as it struck against the moving flanks of our horses. We had crossed the sandy spur, with its chaparral of cactus and mezquite, and were entering a gorge of heavy timber, when the practised eye of Lincoln detected an object in the dark shadow of the woods, and communicated the fact to me. "Halt!" cried I, in a low voice. The party reined up at the order. A rustling was heard in the bushes ahead. "_Quien viva_?" challenged Raoul, in the advance. "_Un amigo_," (A friend), was the response. I sprang forward to the side of Raoul and called out: "_Acercate! acercate_!" (Come near!) A figure moved out of the bushes, and approached. "_Esta el Capitan_?" (Is it the captain?) I recognised the guide given me by Don Cosme. The Mexican approached, and handed me a small piece of paper. I rode into an opening, and held it up to the moonlight; but the writing was in pencil, and I could not make out a single letter. "Try this, Clayley. Perhaps your eyes are better than mine." "No," said Clayley, after examining the paper. "I can hardly see the writing upon it." "_Esperate mi amo_!" (Wait, my master), said the guide, making me a sign. We remained motionless. The Mexican took from his head his heavy _sombrero_, and stepped into a darker recess of the forest. After standing for a moment, hat in hand, a brilliant object shot out from the leaves of the _palma redonda_. It was the cocuyo--the great firefly of the tropics. With a low, humming sound it came glistening along at the height of seven or eight feet from the ground. The man sprang up, and with a sweep of his arm jerked it suddenly to the earth. Then, covering it with his hat, and inverting his hand, he caught the gleaming insect, and presented it to me with the ejaculation: "_Ya_!" (Now!) "_No muerde_," (It does not bite), added he, as he saw that I hesitated to touch the strange, beetle-shaped insect. I took the cocuyo in my hand, the green, golden fire flashing from its great round eyes. I held it up before the writing, but the faint glimmer was scarcely discernible upon the paper. "Why, it would require a dozen of these to make sufficient light," I said to the guide. "_No, Senor; uno basti--asi_;" (No, sir; one is enough--thus); and the Mexican, taking the cocuyo in his fingers, pressed it gently against the surface of the paper. It produced a brilliant light, radiating over a circle of several inches in diameter! Every point in the writing was plainly visible. "See, Clayley!" cried I, admiring this lamp of Nature's own making. "Never trust the tales of travellers. I have heard that half a dozen of these insects in a glass vessel would enable you to read the smallest type. Is that true?" added I, repeating what I had said in Spanish. "_No, Senor; ni cincuenta_," (No, sir; nor fifty), replied the Mexican. "And yet with a single cocuyo you may. But we are forgetting--let us see what's here." I bent my head to the paper, and read in Spanish: "_I have made known your situation to the American commander_." There was no signature nor other mark upon the paper. "From Don Cosme?" I inquired, in a whisper to the Mexican. "Yes, Senor," was the reply. "And how did you expect to reach us in the corral?" "_Asi_," (So), said the man, holding up a shaggy bull's hide, which he carried over his arm. "We have friends here, Clayley. Come, my good fellow, take this!" and I handed a gold eagle to the peon. "Forward!" The tinkling of canteens, the jingling of sabres, and the echo of bounding hoofs recommenced. We were again in motion, filing on through the shadowy woods. CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR. LUPE AND LUZ. Shortly after, we debouched from the forest, entering the open fields of Don Cosme's plantation. There was a flowery brilliance around us, full of novelty. We had been accustomed to the ruder scenes of a northern clime. The tropical moon threw a gauzy veil over objects that softened their outlines; and the notes of the nightingale were the only sounds that broke the stillness of what seemed a sleeping elysium. Once a vanilla plantation, here and there the aromatic bean grew wild, its ground usurped by the pita-plant, the acacia, and the thorny cactus. The dry reservoir and the ruined _acequia_ proved the care that had in former times been bestowed on its irrigation. _Guardarayas_ of palms and orange-trees, choked up with vines and jessamines, marked the ancient boundaries of the fields. Clusters of fruit and flowers hung from the drooping branches, and the aroma of a thousand sweet-scented shrubs was wafted upon the night air. We felt its narcotic influence as we rode along. The helianthus bowed its golden head, as if weeping at the absence of its god; and the cereus spread its bell-shaped blossom, joying in the more mellow light of the moon. The guide pointed to one of the guardarayas that led to the house. We struck into it, and rode forward. The path was pictured by the moonbeams as they glanced through the half-shadowing leaves. A wild roe bounded away before us, brushing his soft flanks against the rustling thorns of the mezquite. Farther on we reached the grounds, and, halting behind the jessamines, dismounted. Clayley and myself entered the inclosure. As we pushed through a copse we were saluted by the hoarse bark of a couple of mastiffs, and we could perceive several forms moving in front of the rancho. We stopped a moment to observe them. "_Quitate, Carlo! Pompo_!" (Be off, Carlo! Pompo!) The dogs growled fiercely, barking at intervals. "_Papa, mandalos_!" (Papa, order them off!) We recognised the voices, and pressed forward. "_Afuera, malditos perros! abajo_!" (Out of the way, wicked dogs!-- down!) shouted Don Cosme, chiding the fierce brutes and driving them back. The dogs were secured by several domestics, and we advanced. "_Quien es_?" inquired Don Cosme. "_Amigos_" (Friends), I replied. "_Papa! papa! es el capitan_!" (Papa, it is the captain!) cried one of the sisters, who had run out in advance, and whom I recognised as the elder one. "Do not be alarmed, Senorita," said I, approaching. "Oh! you are safe--you are safe!--papa, he is safe!" cried both the girls at once; while Don Cosme exhibited his joy by hugging my comrade and myself alternately. Suddenly letting go, he threw up his hands, and inquired with a look of anxiety: "_Y el senor gordo_?" (And the fat gentleman?) "Oh! he's all right," replied Clayley, with a laugh; "he has saved his bacon, Don Cosme; though I imagine about this time he wouldn't object to a little of yours." I translated my companion's answer. The latter part of it seemed to act upon Don Cosme as a hint, and we were immediately hurried to the dining-room, where we found the Dona Joaquina preparing supper. During our meal I recounted the principal events of the day. Don Cosme knew nothing of these guerilleros, although he had heard that there were bands in the neighbourhood. Learning from the guide that we had been attacked, he had despatched a trusty servant to the American camp, and Raoul had met the party coming to our rescue. After supper Don Cosme left us to give some orders relative to his departure in the morning. His lady set about preparing the sleeping apartments, and my companion and I were left for some time in the sweet companionship of Lupe and Luz. Both were exquisite musicians, playing the harp and guitar with equal cleverness. Many a pure Spanish melody was poured into the delighted ears of my friend and myself. The thoughts that arose in our minds were doubtless of a similar kind; and yet how strange that our hearts should have been warmed to love by beings so different in character! The gay, free spirit of my comrade seemed to have met a responsive echo. He and his brilliant partner laughed, chatted, and sang in turns. In the incidents of the moment this light-hearted creature had forgotten her brother, yet the next moment she would weep for him. A tender heart--a heart of joys and sorrows--of ever-changing emotions, coming and passing like shadows thrown by straggling clouds upon the sun-lit stream! Unlike was _our_ converse--more serious. We may not laugh, lest we should profane the holy sentiment that is stealing upon us. There is no mirth in love. There are joy, pleasure, luxury; but laughter finds no echo in the heart that loves. Love is a feeling of anxiety--of expectation. The harp is set aside. The guitar lies untouched for a sweeter music--the music that vibrates from the strings of the heart. Are our eyes not held together by some invisible chain? Are not our souls in communion through some mysterious means? It is not language-- at least, not the language of words; for we are conversing upon indifferent things--not indifferent, either. Narcisso, Narcisso--a theme fraternal. His peril casts a cloud over our happiness. "Oh! that he were here--then we could be happy indeed." "He will return; fear not--grieve not; to-morrow your father will easily find him. I shall leave no means untried to restore him to so fond a sister." "Thanks! thanks! Oh! we are already indebted to you so much." Are those eyes swimming with love, or gratitude, or both at once? Surely gratitude alone does not speak so wildly. Could this scene not last for ever? "Good-night--good-night!" "_Senores, pasan Vds. buena noche_!" (Gentlemen, may you pass a pleasant night!) They are gone, and those oval developments of face and figure are floating before me, as though the body itself were still present. It is the soft memory of love in all its growing distinctness! We were shown to our sleeping apartments. Our men picketed their horses under the olives, and slept in the bamboo rancho, a single sentry walking his rounds during the night. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Note. Vds. _Usted_, contraction of _Vuestra merced_, "your grace", usually written as Vd., is the polite form of address in Spanish. CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE. A TOUGH NIGHT OF IT AFTER ALL. I entered my chamber--to sleep? No. And yet it contained a bed fit for Morpheus--a bed canopied and curtained with cloth from the looms of Damascus: shining rods roofed upwards, that met in an ornamental design, where the god of sleep, fanned by virgins of silver, reclined upon a couch of roses. I drew aside the curtains--a bank of snow--pillows, as if prepared for the cheek of a beautiful bride. I had not slept in a bed for two months. A close crib in a transport ship--a "shake-down" among the scorpions and spiders of Lobos--a single blanket among the sand-hills, where it was not unusual to wake up half-buried by the drift. These were my _souvenirs_. Fancy the prospect! It certainly invited repose; and yet I was in no humour to sleep. My brain was in a whirl. The strange incidents of the day--some of them were mysterious--crowded into my mind. My whole system, mental as well as physical, was flushed; and thought followed thought with nervous rapidity. My heart shared the excitement--chords long silent had been touched--the divine element was fairly enthroned. I was in love! It was not the first passion of my life, and I easily recognised it. Even jealousy had begun to distil its poison--"Don Santiago!" I was standing in front of a large mirror, when I noticed two small miniatures hanging against the wall--one on each side of the glass. I bent over to examine, first, that which hung upon the right. I gazed with emotion. They were _her_ features; "and yet," thought I, "the painter has not flattered her; it might better represent her ten years hence: still, the likeness is there. Stupid artist!" I turned to the other. "Her fair sister, no doubt. Gracious heaven! Do my eyes deceive me? No, the black wavy hair--the arching brows--the sinister lip--_Dubrosc_!" A sharp pang shot through my heart. I looked at the picture again and again with a kind of incredulous bewilderment; but every fresh examination only strengthened conviction. "There is no mistaking those features--they are his!" Paralysed with the shock, I sank into a chair, my heart filled with the most painful emotions. For some moments I was unable to think, much less to act. "What can it mean? Is this accomplished villain a fiend?--the fiend of my existence?--thus to cross me at every point, perhaps in the end to--." Our mutual dislike at first meeting--Lobos--his reappearance upon the sand-hills, the mystery of his passing the lines and again appearing with the guerilla--all came forcibly upon my recollection; and now I seized the lamp and rushed back to the pictures. "Yes, I am _not_ mistaken; it is he--it is she, her features--all--all. And thus, too!--the position--side by side--counterparts! There are no others on the wall; matched--mated--perhaps betrothed! His name, too, Don Emilio! The American who taught them English! _His_ is Emile--the voice on the island cried `Emile!' Oh, the coincidence is complete! This villain, handsome and accomplished as he is, has been here before me! Betrothed--perhaps married--perhaps--Torture! horrible!" I reeled back to my chair, dashing the lamp recklessly upon the table. I know not how long I sat, but a world of wintry thoughts passed through my heart and brain. A clock striking from a large picture awoke me from my reverie. I did not count the hours. Music began to play behind the picture. It was a sad, sweet air, that chimed with my feelings, and to some extent soothed them. I rose at length, and, hastily undressing, threw myself upon the bed, mentally resolving to forget all--to forget that I had ever seen her. "I will rise early--return to camp without meeting her, and, once there, my duties will drive away this painful fancy. The drum and the fife and the roar of the cannon will drown remembrance. Ha! it was only a passing thought at best--the hallucination of a moment. I shall easily get rid of it. Ha! ha!" I laid my fevered cheek upon the soft, cold pillow. I felt composed-- almost happy. "A Creole of New Orleans! How could he have been here? Oh! have I not the explanation already? Why should I dwell on it?" Ah, jealous heart--it is easy to say "forget!" I tried to prevent my thoughts from returning to this theme. I directed them to a thousand things: to the ships--to the landing--to the army--to the soldiers--to the buttons upon their jackets and the swabs upon their shoulders--to everything I could think of: all in vain. Back, back, back! in painful throes it came, and my heart throbbed, and my brain burned with bitter memories freshly awakened. I turned and tossed upon my couch for many a long hour. The clock in the picture struck, and played the same music again and again, still soothing me as before. Even despair has its moments of respite; and, worn with fatigue, mental as well as physical, I listened to the sad, sweet strain, until it died away into my dreams. CHAPTER TWENTY SIX. THE LIGHT AFTER THE SHADE. When I awoke all was darkness around me. I threw out my arms and opened the damask curtains. Not a ray of light entered the room. I felt refreshed, and from this I concluded I must have slept long. I slipped out upon the floor and commenced groping for my watch. Someone knocked. "Come in!" I called. The door opened, and a flood of light gushed into the apartment. It was a servant bearing a lamp. "What is the hour?" I demanded. "Nine o'clock, _mi amo_," (my master), was the reply. The servant set down the lamp and went out. Another immediately entered, carrying a salver with a small gold cup. "What have you there?" "_Chocolate_, master; Dona Joaquina has sent it." I drank off the beverage, and hastened to dress myself. I was reflecting whether I should pass on to camp without seeing any one of the family. Somehow, my heart felt less heavy. I believe the morning always brings relief to pain, either mental or bodily. It seems to be a law of nature--at least, so my experience tells me. The morning air, buoyant and balmy, dulls the edge of anguish. New hopes arise and new projects appear with the sun. The invalid, couch-tossing through the long watches of the night, will acknowledge this truth. I did not approach the mirror. I dared not. "I will not looked upon the loved, the hated face--no, on to the camp!-- let Lethe--. Has my friend arisen?" "Yes, master; he has been up for hours." "Ha! where is he?" "In the garden, master." "Alone?" "No, master; he is with the _ninas_." "Happy, light-hearted Clayley! No jealous thoughts to torture him!" mused I, as I buckled on my stock. I had observed that the fair-haired sister and he were kindred spirits-- sympathetic natures, who only needed to be placed _en rapport_ to "like each other mightily"--beings who could laugh, dance, and sing together, romp for months, and then get married, as a thing of course; but, should any accident prevent this happy consummation, could say "good-bye" and part without a broken heart on either side; an easy thing for natures like theirs; a return exchange of numerous _billets-doux_, a laugh over the past, and a light heart for the future. Such is the history of many a love. I can vouch for it. How different with-- "Tell my friend, when he returns to the house, that I wish to see him." "Yes, master." The servant bowed and left the room. In a few minutes Clayley made his appearance, gay as a grasshopper. "So, good lieutenant, you have been improving your time, I hear?" "Haven't I, though? Such a delicious stroll! Haller, this _is_ a paradise." "Where have you been?" "Feeding the swans," replied Clayley, with a laugh. "But, by the way, your _chere amie_ hangs her pretty head this morning. She seems hurt that you have not been up. She kept constantly looking towards the house." "Clayley, will you do me the favour to order the men to their saddles?" "What! going so soon? Not before breakfast, though?" "In five minutes." "Why, Captain, what's the matter? And such a breakfast as they are getting! Oh, Don Cosme will not hear of it." "Don Cosme--." Our host entered at that moment, and, listening to his remonstrances, the order was rescinded, and I consented to remain. I saluted the ladies with as much courtesy as I could assume. I could not help the coldness of my manner, and I could perceive that with _her_ it did not pass unobserved. We sat down to the breakfast-table; but my heart was full of bitterness, and I scarcely touched the delicate viands that were placed before me. "You do not eat, Captain. I hope you are well?" said Don Cosme, observing my strange and somewhat rude demeanour. "Thank, you, Senor, I never enjoyed better health." I studiously avoided looking towards her, paying slight attentions to her sister. This is the game of piques. Once or twice I ventured a side-glance. Her eyes were bent upon me with a strange, inquiring look. They are swimming in tears, and soft, and forgiving. They are swollen. She has been weeping. That is not strange. Her brother's danger is, no doubt, the cause of her sorrow. Yet, is there not reproach in her looks? Reproach! How ill does my conduct of last night correspond with this affected coldness--this rudeness! Can she, too, be suffering? I arose from the table, and, walking forth, ordered Lincoln to prepare the men for marching. I strolled down among the orange-trees. Clayley followed soon after, accompanied by both the girls. Don Cosme remained at the house to superintend the saddling of his mule, while Dona Joaquina was packing the necessary articles into his portmanteau. Following some silent instinct, we--Guadalupe and I--came together. Clayley and his mistress had strayed away, leaving us alone. I had not yet spoken to her. I felt a strange impulse--a desire to know the worst. I felt as one looking over a fearful precipice. Then I will brave the danger; it can be no worse than this agony of suspicion and suspense. I turned towards her. Her head was bent to one side. She was crushing an orange-flower between her fingers, and her eyes seemed to follow the dropping fragments. How beautiful was she at that moment! "The artist certainly has not flattered you." She looked at me with a bewildered expression. Oh, those swimming eyes! She did not understand me. I repeated the observation. "Senor Capitan, what do you mean?" "That the painter has not done you justice. The portrait is certainly a likeness, yet the expression, I think, should have been younger." "The painter! What painter? The portrait! What portrait, Senor?" "I refer to your portrait, which I accidentally found hanging in my apartment." "Ah! by the mirror?" "Yes, by the mirror," I answered sullenly. "But, it is not _mine_, Senor Capitan." "Ha!--how? Not yours?" "No; it is the portrait of my cousin, Maria de Merced. They say we were much alike." My heart expanded. My whole frame quivered under the influence of joyful emotions. "And the gentleman?" I faltered out. "Don Emilio? He was cousin's lover--_huyeron_," (they eloped). As she repeated the last word she turned her head away, and I thought there was a sadness in her manner. I was about to speak, when she continued: "It was her room--we have not touched anything." "And where is your cousin now?" "We know not." "There is a mystery," thought I. I pressed the subject no farther. It was nothing to me now. My heart was happy. "Let us walk farther, Lupita." She turned her eyes upon me with an expression of wonder. The change in my manner--so sudden--how was she to account for it? I could have knelt before her and explained all. Reserve disappeared, and the confidence of the preceding night was fully restored. We wandered along under the _guardarayas_, amidst sounds and scenes suggestive of love and tenderness. Love! We heard it in the songs of the birds--in the humming of the bees--in the voices of all nature around us. We felt it in our own hearts. The late cloud had passed, making the sky still brighter than before; the reaction had heightened our mutual passion to the intensity of non-resistance; and we walked on, her hand clasped in mine. We had eyes only for each other. We reached a clump of cocoa-trees; one of them had fallen, and its smooth trunk offered a seat, protected from the sun by the shadowy leaves of its fellows. On this we sat down. There was no resistance-- no reasoning process--no calculation of advantages and chances, such as is too often mingled with the noble passion of love. We felt nothing of this--nothing but that undefinable impulse which had entered our hearts, and to whose mystical power neither of us dreamed of offering opposition. Delay and duty were alike forgotten. "I shall ask the question now--I shall know my fate at once," were my thoughts. In the changing scenes of a soldier's life there is but little time for the slow formalities, the zealous vigils, the complicated _finesse_ of courtship. Perhaps this consideration impelled me. I have but little confidence in the cold heart that is won by a series of assiduities. There is too much calculation of after-events--too much selfishness. These reflections passed through my mind. I bent towards my companion, and whispered to her in that language--rich above all others in the vocabulary of the heart: "_Guadalupe, tu me amas_?" (Guadalupe, do you love me?) "_Yo te amo_!" was the simple reply. Need I describe the joyful feelings that filled my heart at that moment? My happiness was complete. The confession rendered her sacred in my eyes, and we sat for some time silent, enjoying that transport only known to those who have truly, purely loved. The trampling of hoofs! It was Clayley at the head of the troop. They were mounted, and waiting for me. Don Cosme was impatient; so was the Dona Joaquina. I could not blame them, knowing the cause. "Ride forward! I shall follow presently." The horsemen filed off into the fields, headed by the lieutenant, beside whom rode Don Cosme, on his white mule. "You will soon return, Enrique?" "I shall lose no opportunity of seeing you. I shall long for the hour more than you, I fear." "Oh! no, no!" "Believe me yes, Lupita! Say again you will never cease to love me." "Never, never! _Tuya--tuya--hasta la muerte_!" (Yours--yours--till death!) How often has this question been asked! How often answered as above! I sprang into the saddle. A parting look--another from a distance--a wave of the hand--and the next moment I was urging my horse in full gallop under the shadowy palms. CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. A DISAPPOINTMENT AND A NEW PLAN. I overtook my companions as they were entering the woods. Clayley, who had been looking back from time to time, brushed alongside, as if wishing to enter into conversation. "Hard work, Captain, to leave such quarters. By Jove! I could have stayed for ever." "Come, Clayley--you are in love." "Yes; they who live in glass houses--. Oh! if I could only speak the lingo as you do!" I could not help smiling, for I had overheard him through the trees making the most he could of his partner's broken English. I was curious to know how he had sped, and whether he had been as `quick upon the trigger' as myself. My curiosity was soon relieved. "I tell you, Captain," he continued, "if I could only have talked it, I would have put the question on the spot. I did try to get a `yes' or a `no' out of her; but she either couldn't or wouldn't understand me. It was all bad luck." "Could you not make her understand you? Surely she knows English enough for that?" "I thought so too; but when I spoke about love she only laughed and slapped me on the face with her fan. Oh, no; the thing must be done in Spanish, that's plain; and you see I am going to set about it in earnest. She loaned me these." Saying this, he pulled out of the crown of his foraging-cap a couple of small volumes, which I recognised as a Spanish grammar and dictionary. I could not resist laughing aloud. "Comrade, you will find the best dictionary to be the lady herself." "That's true; but how the deuce are we to get back again? A mule-hunt don't happen every day." "I fancy there will be some difficulty in it." I had already thought of this. It was no easy matter to steal away from camp--one's brother-officers are so solicitous about your appearance at drills and parades. Don Cosme's rancho was at least ten miles from the lines, and the road would not be the safest for the solitary lover. The prospect of frequent returns was not at all flattering. "Can't we steal out at night?" suggested Clayley. "I think we might mount half a dozen of our fellows, and do it snugly. What do you say, Captain?" "Clayley, I cannot return without this brother. I have almost given my word to that effect." "You have? That is bad! I fear there is no prospect of getting him out as you propose." My companion's prophetic foreboding proved but too correct, for on nearing the camp we were met by an aide-de-camp of the commander-in-chief, who informed me that, on that very morning, all communication between the foreign ships of war and the besieged city had been prohibited. Don Cosme's journey, then, would be in vain. I explained this, advising him to return to his family. "Do not make it known--say that some time is required, and you have left the matter in my hands. Be assured I shall be among the first to enter the city, and I shall find the boy, and bring him to his mother in safety." This was the only consolation I could offer. "You are kind, Capitan--very kind; but I know that nothing can now be done. We can only hope and pray." The old man had dropped into a bent attitude, his countenance marked by the deepest melancholy. Taking the Frenchman, Raoul, along with me, I rode back until I had placed him beyond the danger of the straggling plunderer, when we shook hands and parted. As he left me, I turned to look after him. He still sat in that attitude that betokens deep dejection, his shoulders bent forward over the neck of his mule, while he gazed vacantly on the path. My heart sank at the spectacle, and, sad and dispirited, I rode at a lagging pace towards the camp. Not a shot had as yet been fired against the town, but our batteries were nearly perfected, and several mortars were mounted and ready to fling in their deadly missiles. I knew that every shot and shell would carry death into the devoted city, for there was not a point within its walls out of range of a ten-inch howitzer. Women and children must perish along with armed soldiers; and the boy--he, too, might be a victim. Would this be the tidings I should carry to his home? And how should I be received by her with such a tale upon my lips? Already had I sent back a sorrowing father. "Is there no way to save him, Raoul?" "Captain?" inquired the man, starting at the vehemence of my manner. A sudden thought had occurred to me. "Are you well acquainted with Vera Cruz?" "I know every street, Captain." "Where do those arches lead that open from the sea? There is one on each side of the mole." I had observed these when visiting a friend, an officer of the navy, on board his ship. "They are conductors, Captain, to carry off the overflow of the sea after a norther. They lead under the city, opening at various places. I have had the pleasure of passing through them." "Ha! How?" "On a little smuggling expedition." "It is possible, then, to reach the town by these?" "Nothing easier, unless they may have a guard at the mouth; but that is not likely. They would not dream of anyone's making the attempt." "How would _you_ like to make it?" "If the Captain wishes it, I will bring him a bottle of _eau-de-vie_ from the Cafe de Santa Anna." "I do not wish you to go alone. I would accompany you." "Think of it, Captain; there is risk for _you_ in such an undertaking. _I_ may go safely. No one knows that I have joined you, I believe. If _you_ are taken--." "Yes, yes; I know well the result." "The risk is not great, either," continued the Frenchman, in a half-soliloquy. "Disguised as Mexicans, we might do it; you speak the language as well as I. If you wish it, Captain--." "I do." "I am ready, then." I knew the fellow well: one of those dare-devil spirits, ready for anything that promised adventure--a child of fortune--a stray waif tumbling about upon the waves of chance--gifted with head and heart of no common order--ignorant of books, yet educated in experience. There was a dash of the heroic in his character that had won my admiration, and I was fond of his company. It was a desperate adventure--I knew that; but I felt stronger interest than common in the fate of this boy. My own future fate, too, was in a great degree connected with his safety. There was something in the very danger that lured me on to tempt it. I felt that it would be adding another chapter to a life which I have termed "adventurous." CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT. A FOOLHARDY ADVENTURE. At night Raoul and I, disguised in the leathern dresses of two rancheros, stole round the lines, and reached Punta Hornos, a point beyond our own pickets. Here we "took the water", wading waist-deep. This was about ten o'clock. The tide was just setting out, and the night, by good fortune, was as dark as pitch. As the swell rolled in we were buried to the neck, and when it rolled back again we bent forward; so that at no time could much of our bodies be seen above the surface. In this manner, half wading, half swimming, we kept up to the town. It was a toilsome journey, but the water was warm, and the sand on the bottom firm and level. We were strengthened--I at least--by hope and the knowledge of danger. Doubtless my companion felt the latter stimulant as much as I. We soon reached the battlements of Santiago, where we proceeded with increased caution. We could see the sentry up against the sky, pacing along the parapet. His shrill cry startled us. We thought we had been discovered. The darkness alone prevented this. At length we passed him, and came opposite the city, whose battlements rested upon the water's edge. The tide was at ebb, and a bed of black, weed-covered rocks lay between the sea and the bastion. We approached these with caution, and, crawling over the slippery boulders, after a hundred yards or so found ourselves in the entrance of one of the conductors. Here we halted to rest ourselves, sitting down upon a ledge of rock. We were in no more danger here than in our own tents, yet within twenty feet were men who, had they known our proximity, would have strung us up like a pair of dogs. But our danger was far from lying at this end of the adventure. After a rest of half an hour we kept up into the conductor. My companion seemed perfectly at home in this subterranean passage, walking along as boldly as if it had been brilliantly lighted with gas. After proceeding some distance we approached a grating, where a light shot in from above. "Can we pass out here?" I inquired. "Not yet, Captain," answered Raoul in a whisper. "Farther on." We passed the grating, then another and another, and at length reached one where only a feeble ray struggled downward through the bars. Here my guide stopped, and listened attentively for several minutes. Then, stretching out his hand, he undid the fastening of the grate, and silently turned it upon its hinge. He next swung himself up until his head projected above ground. In this position he again listened, looking cautiously on all sides. Satisfied at length that there was no one near, he drew his body up through the grating and disappeared. After a short interval he returned, and called down: "Come, Captain." I swung myself up to the street. Raoul shut down the trap with care. "Take marks, Captain," whispered he; "we may get separated." It was a dismal suburb. No living thing was apparent, with the exception of a gang of prowling dogs, lean and savage, as all dogs are during a siege. An image, decked in all the glare of gaud and tinsel, looked out of a glazed niche in the opposite wall. A dim lamp burned at its feet, showing to the charitable a receptacle for their offerings. A quaint old steeple loomed in the darkness overhead. "What church?" I asked Raoul. "La Magdalena." "That will do. Now onward." "_Buenas noches, Senor_!" (good-night) said Raoul to a soldier who passed us, wrapped in his great-coat. "_Buenas noches_!" returned the man in a gruff voice. We stole cautiously along the streets, keeping in the darker ones to avoid observation. The citizens were mostly in their beds; but groups of soldiers were straggling about, and patrols met us at every corner. It became necessary to pass through one of the streets that was brilliantly lighted. When about half-way up it a fellow came swinging along, and, noticing our strange appearance, stopped and looked after us. Our dresses, as I have said, were of leather; our calzoneros, as well as jackets, were shining with the sea-water, and dripping upon the pavement at every step. Before we could walk beyond reach, the man shouted out: "_Carajo! caballeros_, why don't you strip before entering the _bano_?" "What is it?" cried a soldier, coming up and stopping us. A group of his comrades joined him, and we were hurried into the light. "_Mil diablos_!" exclaimed one of the soldiers, recognising Raoul; "our old friend the Frenchman! _Parlez-vous francais_, _Monsieur_?" "Spies!" cried another. "Arrest them!" shouted a sergeant of the guard, at the moment coming up with a patrol, and we were both jumped upon and held by about a dozen men. In vain Raoul protested our innocence, declaring that we were only two poor fishermen, who had wet our clothes in drawing the nets. "It's not a fisherman's costume, Monsieur," said one. "Fishermen don't usually wear diamonds on their knuckles," cried another, snatching a ring from my finger. On this ring, inside the circlet, were engraven my name and rank! Several men, now coming forward, recognised Raoul, and stated, moreover, that he had been missing for some days. "He must, therefore," said they, "have been with the Yankees." We were soon handcuffed and marched off to the guard-prison. There we were closely searched, but nothing further was found, except my purse containing several gold eagles--an American coin that of itself would have been sufficient evidence to condemn me. We were now heavily chained to each other, after which the guard left us to our thoughts. They could not have left us in much less agreeable companionship. CHAPTER TWENTY NINE. HELP FROM HEAVEN. "I would not care a _claco_ for my own life," said Raoul, as the gate closed upon us, "but that you, Captain--_helas! helas_!" and the Frenchman groaned and sank upon the stone bench, dragging me down also. I could offer no consolation. I knew that we should be tried as spies; and, if convicted--a result almost certain--we had not twenty hours to live. The thought that I had brought this brave fellow to such a fate enhanced the misery of my situation. To die thus ingloriously was bitter indeed. Three days ago I could have spent my life recklessly; but now, how changed were my feelings! I had found something worth living to enjoy; and to think I should never again--"Oh! I have become a coward!" I cursed my rashness bitterly. We passed the night in vain attempts at mutual consolation. Even our present sufferings occupied us. Our clothes were wet through, and the night had become piercingly cold. Our bed was a bench of stone; and upon this we lay as our chains would allow us, sleeping close together to generate warmth. It was to us a miserable night; but morning came at last, and at an early hour we were examined by the officer of the guard. Our court-martial was fixed for the afternoon, and before this tribunal we were carried, amidst the jeers of the populace. We told our story, giving the name of the boy Narcisso, and the house where he was lodged. This was verified by the court, but declared to be a _ruse_ invented by my comrade--whose knowledge of the place and other circumstances rendered the thing probable enough. Raoul, moreover, was identified by many of the citizens, who proved his disappearance coincident with the landing of the American expedition. Besides, my ring and purse were sufficient of themselves to condemn us--and condemned we were. We were to be _garrotted_ on the following morning! Raoul was offered life if he would turn traitor and give information of the enemy. The brave soldier indignantly spurned the offer. It was extended to me, with a similar result. All at once I observed a strange commotion among the people. Citizens and soldiers rushed from the hall, and the court, hastily pronouncing our sentence, ordered us to be carried away. We were seized by the guard, pulled into the street, and dragged back towards our late prison. Our conductors were evidently in a great hurry. As we passed along we were met by citizens running to and fro, apparently in great terror-- women and children uttering shrieks and suddenly disappearing behind walls and battlements. Some fell upon their knees, beating their breasts and praying loudly. Others, clasping their infants, stood shivering and speechless. "It is just like the way they go in an earthquake," remarked Raoul, "but there is none. What can it be, Captain?" Before I could reply, the answer came from another quarter. Far above, an object was hissing and hurtling through the air. "A shell from ours! Hurrah!" cried Raoul. I could scarcely refrain from cheering, though we ourselves might be the victims of the missile. The soldiers who were guarding us had flung themselves down behind walls and pillars, leaving us alone in the open street! The bomb fell beyond us, and, striking the pavement, burst. The fragments went crashing through the side of an adjoining house; and the wail that came back told how well the iron messengers had done their work. This was the second shell that had been projected from the American mortars. The first had been equally destructive; and hence the extreme terror of both citizen and soldier. Every missile seemed charged with death. Our guard now returned and dragged us onward, treating us with increased brutality. They were enraged at the exultation visible in our manner; and one, more ferocious than the rest, drove his bayonet into the fleshy part of my comrade's thigh. After several like acts of inhumanity, we were thrown into our prison and locked up as before. Since our capture we had tasted neither food nor drink, and hunger and thirst added to the misery of our situation. The insult had maddened Raoul, and the pain of his wound now rendered him furious. He had not hands to touch it or dress it. Frenzied by anger and pain to a strength almost superhuman, he twisted off his iron manacles, as if they had been straws. This done, the chain that bound us together was soon broken, and our ankle "jewellery" followed. "Let us live our last hours, Captain, as we have our lives, free and unfettered!" I could not help admiring the spirit of my brave comrade. We placed ourselves close to the door and listened. We could hear the heavy cannonade all around, and now and then the distant shots from the American batteries. We would wait for the bursting of the bombs, and, as the hoarse thunder of crumbling walls reached our ears, Raoul would spring up, shouting his wild, half-French, half-Indian cries. A thought occurred to me. "We have arms, Raoul." I held up the fragments of the heavy chain that had yoked us. "Could you reach the trap on a run, without the danger of mistaking your way?" Raoul started. "You are right, Captain--I can. It is barely possible they may visit us to-night. If so, any chance for life is better than none at all." By a tacit understanding each of us took a fragment of the chain--there were but two--and sat down by the door to be ready in case our guards should open it. We sat for over an hour, without exchanging a word. We could hear the shells as they burst upon the housetops, the crashing of torn timbers, and the rumbling of walls rolling over, struck by the heavy shot. We could hear the shouts of men and the wailing of women, with now and then a shriek louder than all others, as some missile carried death into the terror-struck crowd. "_Sacre_!" said Raoul; "if they had only allowed us a couple of days, our friends would have opened these doors for us. _Sacr-r-r-e_!" This last exclamation was uttered in a shriek. Simultaneously a heavy object burst through the roof, tearing the bricks and plaster, and falling with the ring of iron on the floor. Then followed a deafening crash. The whole earth seemed to shake, and the whizzing of a thousand particles filled the air. A cloud of dust and lime, mixed with the smoke of sulphur, was around us. I gasped for breath, nearly suffocated. I endeavoured to cry out, but my voice, husky and coarse, was scarcely audible to myself. I succeeded at length in ejaculating: "Raoul! Raoul!" I heard the voice of my comrade, seemingly at a great distance. I threw out my arms and groped for him. He was close by me, but, like myself, choking for want of air. "It was a shell," said he, in a wheezing voice, "Are you hurt, Captain?" "No," I replied; "and you?" "Sound as a bell--our luck is good--it must have struck every other part of the cell." "Better it had not missed us," said I, after a pause; "we are only spared for the _garrotte_." "I am not so sure of that, Captain," replied my companion, in a manner that seemed to imply he had still hopes of an escape. "Where that shell came in," he continued, "something else may go out. Let us see--was it the roof?" "I think so." We groped our way hand in hand towards the centre of the room, looking upwards. "_Peste_!" ejaculated Raoul; "I can't see a foot before me--my eyes are filled--_bah_!" So were mine. We stood waiting. The dust was gradually settling down, and we could perceive a faint glimmer from above. _There was a large hole through the roof_! Slowly its outlines became defined, and we could see that it was large enough to pass the body of a man; but it was at least fourteen feet from the floor, and we had not timber enough to make a walking-stick! "What is to be done? We are not cats, Raoul. We can never reach it!" My comrade, without making a reply, lifted me up in his arms, telling me to climb. I mounted upon his shoulders, balancing myself like a Bedouin; but with my utmost stretch I could not touch the roof. "Hold!" cried I, a thought striking me. "Let me down, Raoul. Now, if they will only give us a little time." "Never fear for them; they've enough to do taking care of their own yellow carcases." I had noticed that a beam of the roof formed one side of the break, and I proceeded to twist our handcuffs into a clamp, while Raoul peeled off his leather breeches and commenced, tearing them into strips. In ten minutes our "tackle" was ready, and, mounting upon my comrade's shoulders, I flung it carefully at the beam. It failed to catch, and I came down to the floor, my balance being lost in the effort. I repeated the attempt. Again it failed, and I staggered down as before. "_Sacre_!" cried Raoul through his teeth. The iron had struck him on the head. "Come, we shall try and try--our lives depend upon it." The third attempt, according to popular superstition, should be successful. It _was_ so with us. The clamp caught, and the string hung dangling downwards. Mounting again upon my comrade's shoulders, I grasped the thong high up to test its hold. It was secure; and, cautioning Raoul to hold fast lest the hook might be detached by my vibration, I climbed up and seized hold of the beam. By this I was enabled to squeeze myself through the roof. Once outside I crawled cautiously along the azotea, which, like all others in Spanish houses, was flat, and bordered by a low parapet of mason-work. I peeped over this parapet, looking down into the street. It was night, and I could see no one below; but up against the sky, upon distant battlements, I could distinguish armed soldiers busy around their guns. These blazed forth at intervals, throwing their sulphureous glare over the city. I returned to assist Raoul, but, impatient of my delay, he had already mounted, and was dragging up the thong after him. We crawled from roof to roof, looking for a dark spot to descend into the street. None of the houses in the range of our prison were more than one story high, and, after passing several, we let ourselves down into a narrow alley. It was still early, and the people were running to and fro, amidst the frightful scenes of the bombardment. The shrieks of women were in our ears, mingled with the shouts of men, the groans of the wounded, and the fierce yelling of an excited rabble. The constant whizzing of bombs filled the air, and parapets were hurled down. A round-shot struck the cupola of a church as we passed nearly under it, and the ornaments of ages came tumbling down, blocking up the thoroughfare. We clambered over the ruins and went on. There was no need of our crouching into dark shadows. No one thought of observing us now. "We are near the house--will you still make the attempt to take him along?" inquired Raoul, referring to the boy Narcisso. "By all means! Show me the place," replied I, half-ashamed at having almost forgotten, in the midst of our own perils, the object of our enterprise. Raoul pointed to a large house with portals and a great door in the centre. "There, Captain--there it is." "Go under that shadow and wait. I shall be better alone." This was said in a whisper. My companion did as directed. I approached the great door and knocked boldly. "_Quien_?" cried the porter within the _saguan_. "_Yo_," I responded. The door was opened slowly and with caution. "Is the Senorito Narcisso within?" I inquired. The man answered in the affirmative. "Tell him a friend wishes to speak with him." After a moment's hesitation the porter dragged himself lazily up the stone steps. In a few seconds the boy--a fine, bold-looking lad, whom I had seen during our trial--came leaping down. He started on recognising me. "Hush!" I whispered, making signs to him to be silent. "Take leave of your friends, and meet me in ten minutes behind the church of La Magdalena." "Why, Senor," inquired the boy without listening, "how have you got out of prison? I have just been to the governor on your behalf, and--." "No matter how," I replied, interrupting him; "follow my directions-- remember your mother and sisters are suffering." "I shall come," said the boy resolutely. "_Hasta luego_!" (Lose no time then). "_Adios_!" We parted without another word. I rejoined Raoul, and we walked on towards La Magdalena. We passed through the street where we had been captured on the preceding night, but it was so altered that we should not have known it. Fragments of walls were thrown across the path, and here and there lay masses of bricks and mortar freshly torn down. Neither patrol nor sentry thought of troubling us now, and our strange appearance did not strike the attention of the passengers. We reached the church, and Raoul descended, leaving me to wait for the boy. The latter was true to his word, and his slight figure soon appeared rounding the corner. Without losing a moment we all three entered the subterranean passage, but the tide was still high, and we had to wait for the ebb. This came at length, and, clambering over the rocks, we entered the surf and waded as before. After an hour's toil we reached Punta Hornos, and a little beyond this point I was enabled to hail one of our own pickets, and to pass the lines in safety. At ten o'clock I was in my own tent--just twenty-four hours from the time I had left it, and, with the exception of Clayley, not one of my brother officers knew anything of our adventure. Clayley and I agreed to "mount" a party the next night and carry the boy to his friends. This we accordingly did, stealing out of camp after tattoo. It would be impossible to describe the rejoicing of our new acquaintances--the gratitude lavishly expressed--the smiles of love that thanked us. We should have repeated our visits almost nightly; but from that time the guerilleros swarmed in the back-country, and small parties of our men, straggling from camp, were cut off daily. It was necessary, therefore, for my friend and myself to chafe under a prudent impatience, and wait for the fall of Vera Cruz. CHAPTER THIRTY. A SHOT IN THE DARK. The "City of the True Cross" fell upon the 29th of March, 1847, and the American flag waved over the castle of San Juan de Ulloa. The enemy's troops marched out upon parole, most of them taking their way to their distant homes upon the table-lands of the Andes. The American garrison entered the town, but the body of our army encamped upon the green plains to the south. Here we remained for several days, awaiting the order to march into the interior. A report had reached us that the Mexican forces, under the celebrated Santa Anna, were concentrating at Puente Nacional; but shortly after it was ascertained that the enemy would make his next stand in the pass of the Cerro Gordo, about half-way between Vera Cruz and the mountains. After the surrender of the city we were relieved from severe duty, and Clayley and I, taking advantage of this, resolved upon paying another stolen visit to our friends. Several parties of light horse had been sent out to scour the country, and it had been reported that the principal guerilla of the enemy had gone farther up towards the Puente Nacional. We did not, therefore, anticipate any danger from that source. We started after nightfall, taking with us three of our best men-- Lincoln, Chane, and Raoul. The boy Jack was also of the party. We were mounted on such horses as could be had. The major had kept his word with me, and I bestrode the black--a splendid thoroughbred Arab. It was a clear moonlight, and as we rode along we could not help noticing many changes. War had left its black mark upon the objects around. The ranchos by the road were tenantless--many of them wrecked, not a few of them entirely gone; where they had stood, a ray of black ashes marking the outline of their slight walls. Some were represented by a heap of half-burned rubbish still smoking and smouldering. Various pieces of household furniture lay along the path torn or broken--articles of little value, strewed by the wanton hand of the ruthless robber. Here a petate, or a palm hat--there a broken olla; a stringless bandolon, the fragments of a guitar crushed under the angry heel, or some flimsy articles of female dress cuffed into the dust; leaves of torn books--_misas_, or lives of the _Santisima Maria_--the labours of some zealous padre; old paintings of the saints, Guadalupe, Remedios, and Dolores--of the Nino of Guatepec--rudely torn from the walls and perforated by the sacrilegious bayonet, flung into the road, kicked from foot to foot--the dishonoured _penates_ of a conquered people. A painful presentiment began to harass me. Wild stories had lately circulated through the army--stories of the misconduct of straggling parties of our soldiers in the back-country. These had stolen from camp, or gone out under the pretext of "beef-hunting." Hitherto I had felt no apprehension, not believing that any small party would carry their foraging to so distant a point as the house of our friends. I knew that any detachment, commanded by an officer, would act in a proper manner; and, indeed, any respectable body of American soldiers, without an officer. But in all armies, in war-time, there are robbers, who have thrown themselves into the ranks for no other purpose than to take advantage of the licence of a stolen foray. We were within less than a league of Don Cosme's rancho, and still the evidence of ruin and plunder continued--the evidence, too, of a retaliatory vengeance; for on entering a glade, the mutilated body of a soldier lay across the path. He was upon his back, with open eyes glaring upon the moon. His tongue and heart were cut out, and his left arm had been struck off at the elbow-joint. Not ten steps beyond this we passed another one, similarly disfigured. We were now on the neutral ground. As we entered the forest my forebodings became painfully oppressive. I imparted them to Clayley. My friend had been occupied with similar thoughts. "It is just possible," said he, "that nobody has found the way. By heavens!" he added, with an earnestness unusual in his manner, "I have been far more uneasy about the other side--those half-brigands and that villain Dubrosc." "On! on!" I ejaculated, digging the spurs into the flanks of my horse, who sprang forward at a gallop. I could say no more. Clayley had given utterance to my very thoughts, and a painful feeling shot through my heart. My companions dashed after me, and we pressed through the trees at a reckless pace. We entered an opening. Raoul, who was then riding in the advance, suddenly checked his horse, waving on us to halt. We did so. "What is it, Raoul?" I asked in a whisper. "Something entered the thicket, Captain." "At what point?" "There, to the left;" and the Frenchman pointed in this direction. "I did not see it well; it might have been a stray animal." "I seed it, Cap'n," said Lincoln, closing up; "it wur a mustang." "Mounted, think you?" "I ain't confident; I only seed its hips. We were a-gwine too fast to get a good sight on the critter; but it wur a mustang--I seed that cl'ar as daylight." I sat for a moment, hesitating. "I kin tell yer whether it wur mounted, Cap'n," continued the hunter, "if yer'll let me slide down and take a squint at the critter's tracks." "It is out of our way. Perhaps you had better," I added, after a little reflection. "Raoul, you and Chane dismount and go with the sergeant. Hold their horses, Jack." "If yer'll not object, Cap'n," said Lincoln, addressing me in a whisper, "I'd rayther go 'ithout kump'ny. Thar ain't two men I'd like, in a tight fix, better'n Rowl and Chane; but I hev done a smart chance o' trackin' in my time, an' I allers gets along better when I'm by myself." "Very well, Sergeant; as you wish it, go alone. We shall wait for you." The hunter dismounted, and having carefully examined his rifle, strode off in a direction nearly opposite to that where the object had been seen. I was about to call after him, impatient to continue our journey; but, reflecting a moment, I concluded it was better to leave him to his "instincts". In five minutes he had disappeared, having entered the chaparral. We sat in our saddles for half an hour, not without feelings of impatience. I was beginning to fear that some accident had happened to our comrade, when we heard the faint crack of a rifle, but in a direction _nearly opposite to that which Lincoln had taken_. "It's the sergeant's rifle, Captain," said Chane. "Forward!" I shouted; and we dashed into the thicket in the direction whence the report came. We had ridden about a hundred yards through the chaparral, when we met Lincoln coming up, with his rifle shouldered. "Well?" I asked. "'Twur mounted, Cap'n--'tain't now." "What do you mean, Sergeant?" "That the mustang hed a yeller-belly on his back, and that he hain't got ne'er a one now, as I knows on. He got cl'ar away from me--that is, the mustang. The yeller-belly didn't." "What! you haven't--?" "But I hev, Cap'n. I had good, soun' reason." "What reason?" I demanded. "In the first place, the feller wur a gurillye; and in the next, he wur an outpost picket." "How know you this?" "Wal, Cap'n, I struck his trail on the edge of the thicket. I knowed he hedn't kum fur, as I looked out for sign whar we crossed the crik bottom, an' seed none. I tuk the back track, an' soon come up with him under a big button-wood. He had been thar some time, for the ground wur stamped like a bullock-pen." "Well?" said I, impatient to hear the result. "I follered him up till I seed him leanin' for'ard on his horse, clost to the track we oughter take. From this I suspicioned him; but, gettin' a leetle closter, I seed his gun an' fixin's strapped to the saddle. So I tuk a sight, and whumelled him. The darned mustang got away with his traps. This hyur's the only thing worth takin' from his carcage: it wudn't do much harm to a grizzly b'ar." "Good heaven!" I exclaimed, grasping the glittering object which the hunter held towards me; "what have you done?" It was a silver-handled stiletto. I recognised the weapon. I had given it to the boy Narcisso. "No harm, I reckin, Cap'n?" "The man--the Mexican? How did he look?--what like?" I demanded anxiously. "Like?" repeated the hunter. "Why, Cap'n, I 'ud call him as ugly a skunk as yer kin skeer up any whar--'ceptin' it mout be among the Digger Injuns; but yer kin see for yurself--he's clost by." I leaped from my horse, and followed Lincoln through the bushes. Twenty paces brought us to the object of our search, upon the border of a small glade. The body lay upon its back, where it had been flung by the rearing mustang. The moon was shining full upon the face. I stooped down to examine it. A single glance was sufficient. I had never seen the features before. They were coarse and swart, and the long black locks were matted and woolly. He was a zambo; and, from the half-military equipments that clung around his body, I saw that he had been a guerillero. Lincoln was right. "Wal, Cap'n," said he, after I had concluded my examination of the corpse, "ain't he a picter?" "You think he was waiting for us?" "For us or some other game--that's sartin." "There's a road branches off here to Medellin," said Raoul, coming up. "It could not have been for us: they had no knowledge of our intention to come out." "Possibly enough, Captain," remarked Clayley in a whisper to me. "That villain would naturally expect us to return here. He will have learned all that has passed: Narcisso's escape--our visits. You know he would watch night and day to trap either of us." "Oh, heavens!" I exclaimed, as the memory of this man came over me; "why did I not bring more men? Clayley, we must go on now. Slowly, Raoul--slowly, and with caution--do you hear." The Frenchman struck into the path that led to the rancho, and rode silently forward. We followed in single file, Lincoln keeping a look-out some paces in the rear. CHAPTER THIRTY ONE. CAPTURED BY GUERILLEROS. We emerged from the forest and entered the fields. All silent. No sign or sound of a suspicion. The house still standing and safe. "The guerillero must have been waiting for someone whom he expected by the Medellin road. Ride on, Raoul!" "Captain," said the man in a whisper, and halting at the end of the _guardaraya_ (enclosure). "Well?" "Someone passed out at the other end." "Some of the domestics, no doubt. You may ride on, and--never mind; I will take the advance myself." I brushed past, and kept up the guardaraya. In a few minutes we had reached the lower end of the pond, where we halted. Here we dismounted; and, leaving the men, Clayley and I stole cautiously forward. We could see no one, though everything about the house looked as usual. "Are they abed, think you?" asked Clayley. "No, it is too early--perhaps below, at supper." "Heaven send! we shall be most happy to join them. I am as hungry as a wolf." We approached the house. Still all silent. "Where are the dogs?" We entered. "Strange!--no one stirring. Ha! the furniture gone!" We passed into the porch in the rear, and approached the stairway. "Let us go below--can you see any light?" I stooped and looked down. I could neither hear nor see any signs of life. I turned, and was gazing up at my friend in wonderment, when my eye was attracted by a strange movement upon the low branches of the olive-trees. The next moment a dozen forms dropped to the ground; and, before we could draw sword or pistol, myself and comrade were bound hand and foot and flung upon our backs. At the same instant we heard a scuffle down by the pond. Two or three shots were fired; and a few minutes after a crowd of men came up, bringing with them Chane, Lincoln, and Raoul as prisoners. We were all dragged out into the open ground in front of the rancho, where our horses were also brought and picketed. Here we lay upon our backs, a dozen guerilleros remaining to guard us. The others went back among the olives, where we could hear them laughing, talking, and yelling. We could see nothing of their movements, as we were tightly bound, and as helpless as if under the influence of nightmare. As we lay, Lincoln was a little in front of me. I could perceive that they had doubly bound him in consequence of the fierce resistance he had made. He had killed one of the guerilleros. He was banded and strapped all over, like a mummy, and he lay gnashing his teeth and foaming with fury. Raoul and the Irishman appeared to take things more easily, or rather more recklessly. "I wonder if they are going to hang us to-night, or keep us till morning? What do you think, Chane?" asked the Frenchman, laughing as he spoke. "Be the crass! they'll lose no time--ye may depind on that same. There's not an ounce av tinder mercy in their black hearts; yez may swear till that, from the way this eel-skin cuts." "I wonder, Murt," said Raoul, speaking from sheer recklessness, "if Saint Patrick couldn't help us a bit. You have him round your neck, haven't you?" "Be the powers, Rowl! though ye be only jokin', I've a good mind to thry his holiness upon thim. I've got both him and the mother undher me jacket, av I could only rache thim." "Good!" cried the other. "Do!" "It's aisy for ye to say `Do', when I can't budge so much as my little finger." "Never mind. I'll arrange that," answered Raoul. "_Hola, Senor_!" shouted he to one of the guerilleros. "_Quien_?" (Who?) said the man, approaching. "_Usted su mismo_," (Yourself), replied Raoul. "_Que cosa_?" (What is it?) "This gentleman," said Raoul, still speaking in Spanish, and nodding towards Chane, "has a pocket full of money." A hint upon that head was sufficient; and the guerilleros, who, strangely enough, seemed to have overlooked this part of their duty, immediately commenced rifling our pockets, ripping them open with their long knives. They were not a great deal the richer for their pains, our joint purse yielding about twenty dollars. Upon Chane there was no money found; and the man whom Raoul had deceived repaid the latter by a curse and a couple of kicks. The saint, however, turned up, attached to the Irishman's neck by a leathern string; and along with him a small crucifix, and a pewter image of the Virgin Mary. This appeared to please the guerilleros; and one of them, bending over the Irishman, slackened his fastenings a little--still, however, leaving him bound. "Thank yer honner," said Chane; "that's dacent of ye. That's what Misther O'Connell wud call _amaylioration_. I'm a hape aysier now." "_Mucho bueno_," said the man, nodding and laughing. "Och, be my sowl, yes!--_mucho bueno_. But I'd have no objecshun if yer honner wud make it _mucho bettero_. Couldn't ye just take a little turn aff me wrist here?--it cuts like a rayzyer." I could not restrain myself from laughing, in which Clayley and Raoul joined me; and we formed a chorus that seemed to astonish our captors. Lincoln alone preserved his sullenness. He had not spoken a word. Little Jack had been placed upon the ground near the hunter. He was but loosely tied, our captors not thinking it worth while to trouble themselves about so diminutive a subject. I had noticed him wriggling about, and using all his Indian craft to undo his fastenings; but he appeared not to have succeeded, as he now lay perfectly still again. While the guerilleros were occupied with Chane and his saints, I observed the boy roll himself over and over, until he lay close up against the hunter. One of the guerilleros, noticing this, picked Jack up by the waistbelt, and, holding him at arm's length, shouted out: "_Mira, camarados! qui briboncito_!" (Look, comrades! what a little rascal!) Amidst the laughing of the guerilleros, Jack was swung out, and fell in a bed of shrubs and flowers, where we saw no more of him. As he was bound, we concluded that he could not help himself, and was lying where he had been thrown. My attention was called away from this incident by an exclamation of Chane. "Och! blood, turf, and murther! If there isn't that Frinch scoundhrel Dubrosc!" I looked up. The man was standing over us. "Ah, Monsieur le Capitaine!" cried he, in a sneering voice, "_comment vous portez-vous_? You came up dove-hunting--_eh_? The birds, you see, are not in the cot." Had there been only a thread around my body, I could not have moved at that moment. I felt cold and rigid as marble. A thousand agonising thoughts crowded upon me at once--my doubts, my fears on _her_ account, drowning all ideas of personal danger. I could have died at that moment, and without a groan, to have ensured her safety. There was something so fiendish in the character of this man--a polished brutality, too--that caused me to fear the worst. "Oh, heaven!" I muttered, "in the power of such a man!" "Ho!" cried Dubrosc, advancing a pace or two, and seizing my horse by the bridle, "a splendid mount! An Arab, as I live! Look here, Yanez!" he continued, addressing a guerillero who accompanied him, "I claim this, if you have no objection." "Take him," said the other, who was evidently the leader of the party. "Thank you. And you, Monsieur le Capitaine," he added ironically, turning to me, "thank you for this handsome present. He will just replace my brave mustang, for whose loss I expect I am indebted to you, you great brute!--_sacre_!" The last words were addressed to Lincoln; and, as though maddened by the memory of La Virgen, he approached the latter, and kicked him fiercely in the side. The wanton foot had scarcely touched his ribs, when the hunter sprang up, as if by galvanic action, _the thongs flying from his body_ in fifty spiral fragments. With a bound he leaped to his rifle; and, clutching it--he knew it was empty--struck the astonished Frenchman a blow upon the head. The latter fell heavily to the earth. In an instant a dozen knives and swords were aimed at the hunter's throat. Sweeping his rifle around him, he cleared an opening, and, dashing past his foes with a wild yell, bounded off through the shrubbery. The guerilleros followed, screaming with rage; and we could hear an occasional shot, as they continued the pursuit into the distant woods. Dubrosc was carried back into the rancho, apparently lifeless. We were still wondering how our comrade had untied himself, when one of the guerilleros, lifting a piece of the thong, exclaimed: "_Carajo! ha cortado el briboncito_!" (The little rascal has cut it!) and the man darted into the shrubbery in search of little Jack. It was with us a moment of fearful suspense. We expected to see poor Jack sacrificed instantly. We watched the man with intense emotion, as he ran to and fro. At length he threw up his arms with a gesture of surprise, calling out at the same time: "_Por todos santos! se fue_!" (By all the saints! he's gone!) "Hurrah!" cried Chane; "holies!--such a gossoon as that boy!" Several of the guerilleros dived into the thicket; but their search was in vain. We were now separated, so that we could no longer converse, and were more strictly watched, two sentries standing over each of us. We spent about an hour in this way. Straggling parties at intervals came back from the pursuit, and we could gather, from what we overheard, that neither Lincoln nor Jack had yet been retaken. We could hear talking in the rear of the rancho, and we felt that our fate was being determined upon. It was plain Dubrosc was not in command of the party. Had he been so, we should never have been carried beyond the olive-grove. It appeared we were to be hung elsewhere. At length a movement was visible that betokened departure. Our horses were taken away, and saddled mules were led out in front of the rancho. Upon these we were set, and strapped tightly to the saddles. A serape was passed over each of us, and we were blinded by tapojos. A bugle then sounded the "forward". We could hear a confusion of noises, the prancing of many hoofs, and the next moment we felt ourselves moving along at a hurried pace through the woods. CHAPTER THIRTY TWO. A BLIND RIDE. We rode all night. The mule-blinds, although preventing us from seeing a single object, proved to be an advantage. They saved our eyes and faces from the thorny claws of the acacia and mezquite. Without hands to fend them off, these would have torn us badly, as we could feel them, from time to time, penetrating even the hard leather of the tapojos. Our thongs chafed us, and we suffered great pain from the monotonous motion. Our road lay through thick woods. This we could perceive from the constant rustle of the leaves and the crackling of branches, as the cavalcade passed on. Towards morning our route led over hills, steep and difficult, we could tell from the attitudes of our animals. We had passed the level plains, and were entering among the "foothills" of the Mexican mountains. There was no passing or repassing of one another. From this I concluded that we were journeying along a narrow road, and in single file. Raoul was directly in front of me, and we could converse at times. "Where do you think they are taking us, Raoul?" I inquired, speaking in French. "To Cenobio's hacienda. I hope so, at least!" "Why do you hope so?" "Because we shall stand some chance for our lives. Cenobio is a noble fellow." "You know him, then?" "Yes, Captain; I have helped him a little in the contraband trade." "A smuggler, is he?" "Why, in this country it is hardly fair to call it by so harsh a name, as the Government itself dips out of the same dish. Smuggling here, as in most other countries, should be looked upon rather as the offspring of necessity and maladministration than as a vice in itself. Cenobio is a _contrabandisto_, and upon a large scale." "And you are a political philosopher, Raoul!" "Bah! Captain; it would be bad if I could not defend my own calling," replied my comrade, with a laugh. "You think, then, that we are in the hands of Cenobio's men." "I am sure of it, Captain. _Sacre_! had it been Jarauta's band, we would have been in heaven--that is, our souls--and our bodies would now be embellishing some of the trees upon Don Cosme's plantation. Heaven protect us from Jarauta! The robber-priest gives but short shrift to any of his enemies; but if he could lay his hands on your humble servant, you would see hanging done in double-quick time." "Why think you we are with Cenobio's guerilla?" "I know Yanez, whom we saw at the rancho. He is one of Cenobio's officers, and the leader of this party, which is only a detachment. I am rather surprised that _he_ has brought us away, considering that Dubrosc is with him; there must have been some influence in our favour which I cannot understand." I was struck by the remark, and began to reflect upon it in silence. The voice of the Frenchman again fell upon my ear. "I cannot be mistaken. No--this hill--it runs down to the San Juan River." Again, after a short interval, as we felt ourselves fording a stream, Raoul said: "Yes, the San Juan--I know the stony bottom--just the depth, too, at this season." Our mules plunged through the swift current, flinging the spray over our heads. We could feel the water up to the saddle-flaps, cold as ice; and yet we were journeying in the hot tropic. But we were fording a stream fed by the snows of Orizava. "Now I am certain of the road," continued Raoul, after we had crossed. "I know this bank well. The mule slides. Look out, Captain." "For what?" I asked, with some anxiety. The Frenchman laughed as he replied: "I believe I am taking leave of my senses. I called to you to look out, as if you had the power to help yourself in case the accident should occur." "What accidents?" I inquired, with a nervous sense of some impending danger. "Falling over: we are on a precipice that is reckoned dangerous on account of the clay; if your mule should stumble here, the first thing you would strike would be the branches of some trees five hundred feet below, or thereabout." "Good heaven!" I ejaculated; "is it so?" "Never fear, Captain; there is not much danger. These mules appear to be sure-footed; and certainly," he added, with a laugh, "their loads are well packed and tied." I was in no condition just then to relish a joke, and my companion's humour was completely thrown away upon me. The thought of my mule missing his foot and tumbling over a precipice, while I was stuck to him like a centaur, was anything else than pleasant. I had heard of such accidents, and the knowledge did not make the reflection any easier. I could not help muttering to myself: "Why, in the name of mischief, did the fellow tell me this till we had passed it?" I crouched closer to the saddle, allowing my limbs to follow every motion of the animal, lest some counteracting shock might disturb our joint equilibrium. I could hear the torrent, as it roared and hissed far below, appearing directly under us; and the "sough" grew fainter and fainter as we ascended. On we went, climbing up--up--up; our strong mules straining against the precipitous path. It was daybreak. There was a faint glimmer of light under our tapojos. At length we could perceive a brighter beam. We felt a sudden glow of heat over our bodies; the air seemed lighter; our mules walked on a horizontal path. We were on the ridge, and warmed by the beams of the rising sun. "Thank heaven we have passed it!" I could not help feeling thus: and yet perhaps we were riding to an ignominious death! CHAPTER THIRTY THREE. A DRINK A LA CHEVAL. The guerilleros now halted and dismounted. We were left in our saddles. Our mules were picketed upon long lazos, and commenced browsing. They carried us under the thorny branches of the wild locust. The maguey, with its bill-shaped claws, had torn our uniform overalls to shreds. Our limbs were lacerated, and the cactus had lodged its poisoned prickles in our knees. But these were nothing to the pain of being compelled to keep our saddles, or rather saddle-trees--for we were upon the naked wood. Our hips ached intensely, and our limbs smarted under the chafing thong. There was a crackling of fires around us. Our captors were cooking their breakfasts, and chattering gaily over their chocolate. Neither food nor drink was offered to us, although we were both thirsty and hungry. We were kept in this place for about an hour. "They have joined another party here," said Raoul, "with pack-mules." "How know you?" I inquired. "I can tell by the shouts of the arrieros. Listen!--they are making ready to start." There was a mingling of voices--exclamations addressed to their animals by the arrieros, such as: "_Mula! anda! vaya! levantate! carrai! mula--mulita!--anda!--st!--st_!" In the midst of this din I fancied that I heard the voice of a woman. "Can it be--?" The thought was too painful. A bugle at length sounded, and we felt ourselves again moving onward. Our road appeared to run along the naked ridge. There were no trees, and the heat became intense. Our serapes, that had served us during the night, should have been dispensed with now, had we been consulted in relation to the matter. I did not know, until some time after, why these blankets had been given to us, as they had been hitherto very useful in the cold. It was not from any anxiety in regard to our comfort, as I learned afterwards. We began to suffer from thirst, and Raoul asked one of the guerilleros for water. "_Carajo_!" answered the man, "it's no use: you'll be choked by and by with something else than thirst." The brutal jest called forth a peal of laughter from his comrades. About noon we commenced descending a long hill. I could hear the sound of water ahead. "Where are we, Raoul?" I inquired faintly. "Going down to a stream--a branch of the Antigua." "We are coming to another precipice?" I asked, with some uneasiness, as the roar of the torrent began to be heard more under our feet, and I snuffed the cold air from below. "There is one, Captain. There is a good road, though, and well paved." "Paved! why, the country around is wild--is it not?" "True; but the road was paved by the priests." "By the priests!" I exclaimed with some astonishment. "Yes, Captain; there's a convent in the valley, near the crossing; that is, there _was_ one. It is now a ruin." We crept slowly down, our mules at times seeming to walk on their heads. The hissing of the torrent grew gradually louder, until our ears were filled with its hoarse rushing. I heard Raoul below me shouting some words in a warning voice, when suddenly he seemed borne away, as if he had been tumbled over the precipice. I expected to feel myself next moment launched after him into empty space, when my mule, uttering a loud whinny, sprang forward and downward. Down--down! the next leap into eternity! No--she keeps her feet! she gallops along a level path! I am safe! I was swung about until the thongs seemed to cut through my limbs; and with a heavy plunge I felt myself carried thigh-deep into water. Here the animal suddenly halted. As soon as I could gain breath I shouted at the top of my voice for the Frenchman. "Here, Captain!" he answered, close by my side, but, as I fancied, with a strange, gurgling voice. "Are you hurt, Raoul?" I inquired. "Hurt? No, Captain." "What was it, then?" "Oh! I wished to warn you, but I was too late. I might have known they would stampede, as the poor brutes have been no better treated than ourselves. Hear how they draw it up!" "I am choking!" I exclaimed, listening to the water as it filtered through the teeth of my mule. "Do as I do, Captain," said Raoul, speaking as if from the bottom of a well. "How?" I asked. "Bend down, and let the water run into your mouth." This accounted for Raoul's voice sounding so strangely. "They may not give us a drop," continued he. "It is our only chance." "I have not even that," I replied, after having vainly endeavoured to reach the surface with my face. "Why?" asked my comrade. "I cannot reach it." "How deep are you?" "To the saddle-flaps." "Ride this way, Captain. It's deeper here." "How can I? My mule is her own master, as far as I am concerned." "_Parbleu_!" said the Frenchman. "I did not think of that." But, whether to oblige me, or moved by a desire to cool her flanks, the animal plunged forward into a deeper part of the stream. After straining myself to the utmost, I was enabled to "duck" my head. In this painful position I contrived to get a couple of swallows; but I should think I took in quite as much at my nose and ears. Clayley and Chane followed our example, the Irishman swearing loudly that it was a "burnin' shame to make a dacent Christyin dhrink like a horse in winkers." Our guards now commenced driving our mules out of the water. As we were climbing the bank, someone touched me lightly upon the arm; and at the same instant a voice whispered in my ear, "Courage, Captain!" I started--it was the voice of a female. I was about to reply, when a soft, small hand was thrust under the tapojo, and pushed something between my lips. The hand was immediately withdrawn, and I heard the voice urging a horse onward. The clatter of hoofs, as of a horse passing me in a gallop, convinced me that this mysterious agent was gone, and I remained silent. "Who can it be Jack? No. Jack has a soft voice--a small hand; but how could he be here, and with his hands free? No--no--no! Who then? It was certainly the voice of a woman--the hand, too. What other should have made this demonstration? I know no other--it must--it must have been--." I continued my analysis of probabilities, always arriving at the same result. It was both pleasant and painful: pleasant to believe _she_ was thus, like an angel, watching over me--painful to think that she might be in the power of my fiendish enemy. But is she so? Lincoln's blow may have ended him. We have heard nothing of him since. Would to heaven--! It was an impious wish, but I could not control it. "What have I got between my lips? A slip of paper! Why was it placed there, and not in my bosom or my button-hole? Ha! there is more providence in the manner of the act than at first thought appears. How could I have taken it from either the one or the other, bound as I am? Moreover it may contain what would destroy the writer, if known to--. Cunning thought--for one so young and innocent, too--but love--." I pressed the paper against the tapojo, covering it with my lips, so as to conceal it in case the blind should be removed. "Halted again?" "It is the ruin, Captain--the old convent of Santa Bernardina." "But why do they halt here?" "Likely to noon and breakfast--that on the ridge was only their _desayuna_. The Mexicans of the _tierra caliente_ never travel during mid-day. They will doubtless rest here until the cool of the evening." "I trust they will extend the same favour to us," said Clayley: "God knows we stand in need of rest. I'd give them three months' pay for an hour upon the treadmill, only to stretch my limbs." "They will take us down, I think--not on our account, but to ease the mules. Poor brutes! they are no parties to this transaction." Raoul's conjecture proved correct. We were taken out of our saddles, and, being carefully bound as before, we were hauled into a damp room, and flung down upon the floor. Our captors went out. A heavy door closed after them, and we could hear the regular footfall of a sentry on the stone pavement without. For the first time since our capture we were left alone. This my comrades tested by rolling themselves all over the floor of our prison to see if anyone was present with us. It was but a scant addition to our liberty; but we could converse freely, and that was something. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Note. Desayuna is a slight early meal. CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR. AN ODD WAY OF OPENING A LETTER. "Has any of you heard of Dubrosc on the route?" I inquired of my comrades. No; nothing had been heard of him since the escape of Lincoln. "Faix, Captain," said the Irishman, "it's meself that thinks Mister Dubrosc won't throuble any ov us any more. It was a purty lick that same, ayquil to ould Donnybrook itself." "It is not easy to kill a man with a single blow of a clubbed rifle," observed Clayley; "unless, indeed, the lock may have struck into his skull. But _we_ are still living, and I think that is some evidence that the deserter is dead. By the way, how has the fellow obtained such influence as he appeared to have among them, and so soon, too?" "I think, Lieutenant," replied Raoul, "Monsieur Dubrosc has been here before." "Ha! say you so?" I inquired, with a feeling of anxiety. "I remember, Captain, some story current at Vera Cruz, about a Creole having married or run away with a girl of good family there. I am almost certain Dubrosc was the name; but it was before my time, and I am unacquainted with the circumstances, I remember, however, that the fellow was a gambler, or something of the sort; and the occurrence made much noise in the country." I listened with a sickening anxiety to every word of these details. There was a painful correspondence between them and what I already knew. The thought that this monster could be in any way connected with _her_ was a disagreeable one. I questioned Raoul no further. Even could he have detailed every circumstance, I should have dreaded the relation. Our conversation was interrupted by the creaking of a rusty hinge. The door opened, and several men entered. Our blinds were taken off, and, oh, how pleasant to look upon the light! The door had been closed again, and there was only one small grating, yet the slender beam through this was like the bright noonday sun. Two of the men carried earthen platters filled with frijoles, a single tortilla in each platter. They were placed near our heads, one for each of us. "It's blissid kind of yez, gentlemen," said Chane; "but how are we goin' to ate it, if ye plaze?" "The plague!" exclaimed Clayley; "do they expect us to lick this up without either hands, spoons, or knives?" "Won't you allow us the use of our fingers?" asked Raoul, speaking to one of the guerilleros. "No," replied the man gruffly. "How do you expect us to eat, then?" "With your mouths, as brutes should. What else?" "Thank you, sir; you are very polite." "If you don't choose that, you can leave it alone," added the Mexican, going out with his companions, and closing the door behind them. "Thank you, gentlemen!" shouted the Frenchman after them, in a tone of subdued anger. "I won't please you so much as to leave it alone. By my word!" he continued, "we may be thankful--it's more than I expected from Yanez--that they've given us any. Something's in the wind." So saying, the speaker rolled himself on his breast, bringing his head to the dish. "Och! the mane haythins!" cried Chane, following the example set by his comrade; "to make dacent men ate like brute bastes! Och! murder an' ouns!" "Come, Captain; shall we feed?" asked Clayley. "Go on. Do not wait for me," I replied. Now was my time to read the note. I rolled myself under the grating, and, after several efforts, succeeded in gaining my feet. The window, which was not much larger than a pigeon-hole, widened inwards like the embrasure of a gun-battery. The lower slab was just the height of my chin; and upon this, after a good deal of dodging and lip-jugglery, I succeeded in spreading out the paper to its full extent. "What on earth are you at, Captain?" inquired Cayley, who had watched my manoeuvres with some astonishment. Raoul and the Irishman stopped their plate-licking and looked up. "Hush! go on with your dinners--not a word!" I read as follows: _To-night your cords shall be cut, and you must escape as you best can afterwards. Do not take the road back, as you will be certain to be pursued in that direction; moreover, you run the risk of meeting other parties of the guerilla. Make for the National Road at San Juan or Manga de Clavo. Your posts are already advanced beyond these points. The Frenchman can easily guide you. Courage, Captain! Adieu_! _P.S.--They waited for you. I had sent one to warn you; but he has either proved traitor or missed the road. Adieu! adieu_! "Good heavens!" I involuntarily exclaimed; "the man that Lincoln--." I caught the paper into my lips again, and chewed it into a pulp, to avoid the danger of its falling into the hands of the guerilla. I remained turning over its contents in my mind. I was struck with the masterly style--the worldly cunning exhibited by the writer. There was something almost _unfeminine_ about it. I could not help being surprised that one so young, and hitherto so secluded from the world, should possess such a knowledge of men and things. I was already aware of the presence of a powerful intellect, but one, as I thought, altogether unacquainted with practical life and action. Then there was the peculiarity of her situation. Is she a prisoner like myself? or is she disguised, and perilling her life to save mine? or can she be--Patience! To-night may unravel the mystery. CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE. THE COBRA-DI-CAPELLO. Up to this moment my intention had been engrossed with the contents of the note, and I had no thought of looking outward. I raised myself on tiptoe, stretching my neck as far as I could into the embrasure. A golden sunlight was pouring down upon broad, green leaves, where the palms grew wildly. Red vines hung in festoons, like curtains of scarlet satin. There were bands of purple and violet--the maroon-coloured morus, and the snowy flowers of the magnolia--a glittering opal. Orange-trees, with white, wax-like flowers, were bending under their golden globes. The broad plumes of the corozo palm curved gracefully over, their points trailing downwards, and without motion. A clump of these grew near, their naked stems laced by a parasite of the lliana species, which rose from the earth, and, traversing diagonally, was lost in the feathery frondage above. These formed a canopy, underneath which, from tree to tree, three hammocks were extended. One was empty; the other two were occupied. The elliptical outlines, traceable through the gauzy network of Indian grass, proved that the occupants were females. Their faces were turned from me. They lay motionless: they were asleep. As I stood gazing upon this picture, the occupant of the nearest hammock awoke, and turning, with a low murmur upon her lips, again fell asleep. Her face was now towards me. My heart leaped, and my whole frame quivered with emotion. I recognised the features of Guadalupe Rosales. One limb, cased in silk, had fallen over the selvage of her pendent couch, and hung negligently down. The small satin slipper had dropped off, and was lying on the ground. Her head rested upon a silken pillow, and a band of her long black hair, that had escaped from the comb, straggling over the cords of the hammock, trailed along the grass. Her bosom rose with a gentle heaving above the network as she breathed and slept. My heart was full of mixed emotions--surprise, pleasure, love, pain. Yes, pain; for she could thus sleep--sleep sweetly, tranquilly--while I, within a few paces of her couch, was bound and brutally treated! "Yes, she can sleep!" I muttered to myself, as my chagrin predominated in the tumult of emotions. "Ha! heavens!" My attention was attracted from the sleeper to a fearful object. I had noticed a spiral-like appearance upon the lliana. It had caught my eye once or twice while looking at the sleeper; but I had not dwelt upon it, taking it for one vine twined round another--a peculiarity often met with in the forests of Mexico. A bright sparkle now attracted my eye; and, on looking at the object attentively, I discovered, to my horror, that the spiral protuberance upon the vine was nothing else than the folds of a snake! Squeezing himself silently down the parasite--for he had come from above--the reptile slowly uncoiled two or three of the lowermost rings, and stretched his glistening neck horizontally over the hammock. Now, for the first time, I perceived the horned protuberance on his head, and recognised the dreaded reptile--the _macaurel_ (the _cobra_ of America). In this position he remained for some moments, perfectly motionless, his neck proudly curved like that of a swan, while his head was not twelve inches from the face of the sleeper. I fancied that I could see the soft down upon her lip playing under his breath! He now commenced slowly vibrating from side to side, while a low, hissing sound proceeded from his open jaws. His horns projected out, adding to the hideousness of his appearance; and at intervals his forked tongue shot forth, glancing in the sun like a purple diamond. He appeared to be gloating over his victim, in the act of charming her to death. I even fancied that her lips moved, and her head began to stir backward and forward, following the oscillations of the reptile. All this I witnessed without the power to move. My soul as well as my body was chained; but, even had I been free, I could have offered no help. I knew that the only hope of her safety lay in silence. Unless disturbed and angered, the snake might not bite; but was he not at that moment distilling some secret venom upon her lips? "Oh, Heaven!" I gasped out, in the intensity of my fears, "is this the fiend himself? She moves!--now he will strike! Not yet--she is still again. Now--now!--mercy! she trembles!--the hammock shakes--she is quivering under the fascin-- Ha!" A shot rang from the walls--the snake suddenly jerked back his head--his rings flew out, and he fell to the earth, writhing as if in pain! The girls started with a scream, and sprang simultaneously from their hammocks. Grasping each other by the hand, with terrified looks they rushed from the spot and disappeared. Several men ran up, ending the snake with their sabres. One of them stooped, and examining the carcase of the dead reptile, exclaimed: "_Carai_! there is a hole in his head--he has been shot!" A moment after, half a dozen of the guerilleros burst open the door and rushed in, crying out as they entered: "_Quien tira_?" (Who fired?) "What do you mean?" angrily asked Raoul, who had been in ill-humour ever since the guerillero had refused him a draught of water. "I ask you who fired the shot?" repeated the man. "Fired the shot!" echoed Raoul, knowing nothing of what had occurred outside. "We look like firing a shot, don't we? If I possessed that power, my gay friend, the first use I should make of it would be to send a bullet through that clumsy skull of yours." "_Santissima_!" ejaculated the Mexican, with a look of astonishment. "It could not be these--they are all tied!" And the Mexicans passed out again, leaving us to our reflections. CHAPTER THIRTY SIX. THE HEAD-QUARTERS OF THE GUERILLA. Mine were anything but agreeable. I was pained and puzzled. I was pained to think that _she_--dearer to me than life--was thus exposed to the dangers that surrounded us. It was her sister that had occupied the other hammock. "Are they alone? Are they prisoners in the hands of these half-robbers? May not their hospitality to us have brought them under proscription? And are they not being carried--father, mother, and all--before some tribunal? Or are they travelling for protection with this band-- protection against the less scrupulous robbers that infest the country?" It was not uncommon upon the Rio Grande, when rich families journeyed from point to point, to pay for an escort of this sort. This may elucidate--. "But I tell yez I did hear a crack; and, be my sowl! it was the sargint's rifle, or I've lost me sinses intirely." "What is it?" I asked, attracted to the conversation of my comrades. "Chane says he heard a shot, and thinks it was Lincoln's," answered Clayley. "His gun has a quare sound, Captain," said the Irishman, appealing to me. "It's diffirint intirely from a Mexican piece, and not like our own nayther. It's a way he has in loadin' it." "Well--what of that?" "Why, Raowl says one of them axed him who fired. Now, I heerd a shot, for my ear was close till the door here. It was beyant like; but I cud swear upon the blissed crass it was ayther the sargint's rifle or another as like it as two pays." "It is very strange!" I muttered, half in soliloquy, for the same thought had occurred to myself. "I saw the boy, Captain," said Raoul; "I saw him crossing when they opened the door." "The boy!--what boy?" I asked. "The same we brought out of the town." "Ha! Narcisso!--you saw him?" "Yes; and, if I'm not mistaken, the white mule that the old gentleman rode to camp. I think that the family is with the guerilla, and that accounts for our being still alive." A new light flashed upon me. In the incidents of the last twenty hours I had never once thought of Narcisso. Now all was clear--clear as daylight. The zambo whom Lincoln had killed--poor victim!--was our friend, sent to warn us of danger; the dagger, Narcisso's--a token for us to trust him. The soft voice--the small hand thrust under the tapojo--yes, all were Narcisso's! A web of mystery was torn to shreds in a single moment. The truth did not yield gratification. No--but the contrary. I was chagrined at the indifference exhibited in another quarter. "She must know that I am here, since her brother is master of the fact-- here, bleeding and bound. Yet where is her sympathy? She sleeps! She journeys within a few paces of me, where I am tied painfully; yet not a word of consolation. No! She is riding upon her soft cushion, or carried upon a _litera_, escorted, perhaps, by this accomplished villain, who plays the gallant cavalier upon my own barb! They converse together, perhaps of the poor captives in their train, and with jest and ridicule--he at least; and _she_ can hear it, and then fling herself into her soft hammock and sleep--sleep sweetly--calmly?" These bitter reflections were interrupted. The door creaked once more upon its hinges. Half a dozen of our captors entered. Our blinds were put on, and we were carried out and mounted as before. In a few minutes a bugle rang out, and the route was resumed. We were carried up the stream bottom--a kind of glen, or _Canada_. We could feel by the cool shade and the echoes that we were travelling under heavy timber. The torrent roared in our ears, and the sound was not unpleasant. Twice or thrice we forded the stream, and sometimes left it, returning after having travelled a mile or so. This was to avoid the _canons_, where there is no path by the water. We then ascended a long hill, and after reaching its summit commenced going downwards. "I know this road well," said Raoul. "We are going down to the hacienda of Cenobio." "_Pardieu_!" he continued. "I ought to know this hill!" "For what reason?" "First, Captain, because I have carried many a _bulto_ of cochineal and many a bale of smuggled tobacco over it; ay, and upon nights when my eyes were of as little service to me as they are at present." "I thought that you _contrabandistas_ hardly needed the precaution of dark nights?" "True, at times; but there were other times when the Government became lynx-eyed, and then smuggling was no joke. We had some sharp skirmishing. _Sacre_! I have good cause to remember this very hill. I came near making a jump into purgatory from the other side of it." "Ha! how was that?" "Cenobio had got a large lot of cochineal from a crafty trader at Oaxaca. It was _cached_ about two leagues from the hacienda in the hills, and a vessel was to drop into the mouth of the Medellin to take it on board. "A party of us were engaged to carry it across to the coast; and, as the cargo was very valuable, we were all of us armed to the teeth, with orders from the _patrone_ to defend it at all hazards. His men were just the fellows who would obey that order, coming, as it did, from Cenobio. "The Government somehow or other got wind of the affair, and slipped a strong detachment out of Vera Cruz in time to intercept us. We met them on the other side of this very hill, where a road strikes off towards Medellin." "Well! and what followed?" "Why, the battle lasted nearly an hour; and, after having lost half a score of their best men, the valiant lancers rode back to Vera Cruz quicker than they came out of it." "And the smugglers?" "Carried the goods safe on board. Three of them--poor fellows!--are lying not far off, and I came near sharing their luck. I have a lance-hole through my thigh, here, that pains me at this very moment." My ear at this moment caught the sound of dogs barking hoarsely below. Horses of the cavalcade commenced neighing, answered by others from the adjacent fields, who recognised their old companions. "It must be near night," I remarked to Raoul. "I think, about sunset, Captain," rejoined he. "It _feels_ about that time." I could not help smiling. There was something ludicrous in my comrade's remark about "feeling" the sunset. The barking of the dogs now ceased, and we could hear voices ahead welcoming the guerilleros. The hoofs of our mules struck upon a hard pavement, and the sounds echoed as if under an arched way. Our animals were presently halted, and we were unpacked and flung rudely down upon rough stones, like so many bundles of merchandise. We lay for some minutes listening to the strange voices around. The neighing of horses, the barking and growling of dogs, the lowing of cattle, the shouts of the arrieros unpacking their mules, the clanking of sabres along the stone pavement, the tinkling of spurs, the laughter of men, and the voices of women--all were in our ears at once. Two men approached us, conversing. "They are of the party that escaped us at La Virgen. Two of them are officers." "_Chingaro_! I got this at La Virgen, and a full half-mile off. 'Twas some black jugglery in their bullets. I hope the _patrone_ will hang the Yankee savages." "_Quien sabe_?" (Who knows?) replied the first speaker. "Pinzon has been taken this morning at Puenta Moreno, with several others. They had a fandango with the Yankee dragoons. You know what the old man thinks of Pinzon. He'd sooner part with his wife." "You think he will exchange them, then?" "It is not unlikely." "And yet he wouldn't trouble much if you or I had been taken. No--no; he'd let us be hanged like dogs!" "Well; that's always the way, you know." "I begin to get tired of him. By the Virgin! Jose, I've half a mind to slip off and join the Padre." "Jarauta?" "Yes; he's by the Bridge, with a brave set of Jarochos--some of our old comrades upon the Rio Grande among them. They are living at free quarters along the road, and having gay times of it, I hear. If Jarauta had taken these Yankees yesterday, the zopilote would have made his dinner upon them to-day." "That's true," rejoined the other; "but come--let us un-blind the devils and give them their beans. It may be the last they'll ever eat." With this consoling remark, Jose commenced unbuckling our _tapojos_, and we once more looked upon the light. The brilliance at first dazzled us painfully, and it was some minutes before we could look steadily at the objects around us. We had been thrown upon the pavement in the corner of the _patio_--a large court, surrounded by massive walls and flat-roofed houses. These buildings were low, single-storied, except the range in front, which contained the principal dwellings. The remaining three sides were occupied by stables, granaries, and quarters for the guerilleros and servants. A portale extended along the front range, and large vases, with shrubs and flowers, ornamented the balustrade. The portale was screened from the sun by curtains of bright-coloured cloth. These were partially drawn, and objects of elegant furniture appeared within. Near the centre of the patio was a large fountain, boiling up into a reservoir of hewn mason-work; and around this fountain were clumps of orange-trees, their leaves in some places dropping down into the water. Various arms hung or leaned against the walls--guns, pistols, and sabres--and two small pieces of cannon, with their caissons and carriages, stood in a prominent position. In these we recognised our old acquaintances of La Virgen. A long trough stretched across the patio, and out of this a double row of mules and mustangs were greedily eating maize. The saddle-tracks upon their steaming sides showed them to be the companions of our late wearisome journey. Huge dogs lay basking upon the hot stones, growling at intervals as someone galloped in through the great doorway. Their broad jaws and tawny hides bespoke the Spanish bloodhound--the descendants of that race with which Cortez had harried the conquered Aztecs. The guerilleros were seated or standing in groups around the fires, broiling jerked beef upon the points of their sabres. Some mended their saddles, or were wiping out an old carbine or a clumsy escopette. Some strutted around the yard, swinging their bright mangas, or trailing after them the picturesque serape. Women in rebozos and coloured skirts walked to and fro among the men. The women carried jars filled with water. They knelt before smooth stones, and kneaded tortillas. They stirred chile and chocolate in earthen ollas. They cooked frijoles in flat pans; and amidst all these occupations they joked and laughed and chatted with the men. Several men--officers, from their style of dress--came out of the portale, and, after delivering orders to the guerilleros on guard, returned to the house. Packages of what appeared to be merchandise lay in one corner of the court. Around this were groups of arrieros, in their red leathern garments, securing their charge for the night, and laying out their _alparejas_ in long rows by the wall. Over the opposite roofs--for our position was elevated--we could see the bright fields and forest, and far beyond, the Cofre de Perote and the undulating outlines of the Andes. Above all, the white-robed peak of Orizava rose up against the heavens like a pyramid of spotless snow. The sun had gone down behind the mountains, but his rays still rested upon Orizava, bathing its cone with a yellow light, like a mantle of burnished gold. Clouds of red and white and purple hung like a glory upon his track, and, descending, rested upon the lower summits of the Cordillera. The peak of the "Burning Star" alone appeared above the clouds, towering in sublime and solitary grandeur. There was a picturesque loveliness about the scene--an idea of sublimity--that caused me for the moment to forget where I was or that I was a captive. My dream was dispelled by the harsh voice of Jose, who at that moment came up with a couple of peons, carrying a large earthen dish that contained our supper. This consisted of black beans, with half a dozen tortillas; but as we were all half-famished we did not offer any criticism on the quality of the viands. The dish was placed in our midst, and our arms were untied for the first time since our capture. There were neither knives, forks, nor spoons; but Raoul showed us the Mexican fashion of "eating our spoons", and, twisting up the tortillas, we scooped and swallowed "right ahead." CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN. CHANE'S COURTSHIP. The dish was emptied, as Clayley observed, in a "squirrel's jump." "Be my sowl! it ates purty well, black as it is," said Chane, looking ruefully into the empty vessel. "It's got a worse complaint than the colour, didn't yez fetch us a thrifle more of it, my darlint boy?" he added, squinting up at Jose. "_No entiende_," (Don't understand), said the Mexican, shaking his head. "No in tin days!" cried Chane, mistaking the "_no entiende_" for a phrase of broken English, to which, indeed, its pronunciation somewhat assimilates it. "Och! git out wid you! Bad luck to yer picther! In tin days it's Murtagh Chane that'll ayther be takin' his tay in purgathory or atin' betther than black banes in some other part of the world." "_No entiende_," repeated the Mexican as before. "Tin days, indade! Sure we'd be did wid hunger in half the time. We want the banes _now_." "_Que quiere_?" (What do you want?) asked the Mexican, speaking to Raoul, who was by this time convulsed with laughter. "Phwhat's that he sez, Raowl?" inquired Chane sharply. "He says he don't understand you." "Thin spake to him yerself, Raowl. Till him we want more banes, and a few more ov thim pancakes, if he plazes." Raoul translated the Irishman's request. "_No hay_" (There are none), answered the Mexican, shaking his forefinger in front of his nose. "No I--is that phwhat ye say, my darlint? Well, iv yez won't go yerself, sind somebody else; it's all the same thing, so yez bring us the ateables." "_No entiende_" said the man, with the same shake of the head. "Oh! there agin with your tin days--but it's no use; yez understand me well enough, but yez don't want to bring the banes." "He tells you there is no more," said Raoul. "Oh! the desavin' Judas! and five hundred ov thim grazers atin' over beyant there. No more banes! oh, the lie!" "_Frijoles--no hay_," said the Mexican, guessing at the purport of Chane's remarks. "Fray holeys!" repeated Chane, imitating the Mexican's pronunciation of the word "frijoles". "Och! git out wid your fray holeys! There isn't the size of a flay of holiness about the place. Git out!" Raoul, and indeed all of us except the Irishman himself, were bursting with laughter. "I'm chokin'," said the latter, after a pause; "ask him for wather, Raowl--sure he can't deny that, with that purty little sthrame boilin' up undher our noses, as clear as the potteen of Ennishowen." Raoul asked for water, which we all needed. Our throats were as dry as charcoal. The Mexican made a sign to one of the women, who shortly came up with an earthen jar filled with water. "Give it first to the captin, misthress," said Chane, pointing to me; "sarve all ayqually, but respict rank." The woman understood the sign, and handed me the jar. I drank copiously, passing it to my comrades, Clayley and Raoul. Chane at length took the jar; but instead of drinking immediately, as might have been expected, he set it between his knees and looked quizzically up at the woman. "I say, my little darlint," said he, winking, and touching her lightly under the ribs with his outstretched palm, "my little _moochacha_-- that's what they call thim--isn't it, Raowl?" "_Muchacha_? oh yes!" "Well, thin, my purty little _moochacha_, cudn't yez?--ye know what I mane--cudn't yez? Och! ye know well enough--only a little--jist a mouthful to take the cowld taste aff the wather." "_No entiende_," said the woman, smiling good-naturedly at Chane's comical gestures. "Och, the plague! there's that tin days agin. Talk to her, Raowl. Tell her what I mane." Raoul translated his comrade's wishes. "Tell her, Raowl, I've got no money, becase I have been rabbed, de ye see? but I'll give her ayther of these saints for the smallest thrifle of agwardent;" and he pulled the images out of his jacket as he spoke. The woman, seeing these, bent forward with an exclamation; and, recognising the crucifix, with the images of the saint and Virgin, dropped upon her knees and kissed them devoutly, uttering some words in a language half Spanish, half Aztec. Rising up, she looked kindly at Chane, exclaiming, "_Bueno Catolico_!" She then tossed the rebozo over her left shoulder, and hurried off across the yard. "De yez think, Raowl, she's gone after the licker?" "I am sure of it," answered the Frenchman. In a few minutes the woman returned, and, drawing a small flask out of the folds of her rebozo, handed it to Chane. The Irishman commenced undoing the string that carried his "relics." "Which ov them de yez want, misthress?--the saint, or the Howly Mother, or both?--it's all the same to Murtagh." The woman, observing what he was after, rushed forward, and, placing her hands upon his, said in a kind tone: "_No, Senor. Su proteccion necesita usted_." "Phwhat diz she say, Raowl?" "She says, keep them; you will need their protection yourself." "Och, be me sowl! she's not far asthray there. I need it bad enough now, an' a hape ov good they're likely to do me. They've hung there for tin years--both of thim; and this nate little flask's the first raal binifit I iver resaved from ayther of them. Thry it, Captin. It'll do yez good." I took the bottle and drank. It was the _chingarito_--a bad species of _aguardiente_ from the wild aloe--and hot as fire. A mouthful sufficed. I handed the flask to Clayley, who drank more freely. Raoul followed suit, and the bottle came back to the Irishman. "Your hilth, darlint!" said he, nodding to the Mexican woman. "May yez live till _I_ wish ye dead!" The woman smiled, and repeated, "_No entiende_." "Och! nivir mind the tin days--we won't quarrel about that. Ye're a swate crayteur," continued he, winking at the woman; "but sure yer petticoats is mighty short, an' yez want a pair of stockin's bad, too; but nivir mind--yez stand well upon thim illigant ankles--'dade ye do; and yez have a purty little futt into the bargain." "_Que dice_?" (What does he say?) asked the Mexican, speaking to Raoul. "He is complimenting you on the smallness of your feet," answered the Frenchman. The woman was evidently pleased, and commenced cramping up what was in fact a very small foot into its faded satin slipper. "Tell me, my dear," continued Chane, "are yez married?" "_Que dice_?" again asked the woman. "He wants to know if you are married." She smiled, waving her forefinger in front of her nose. Raoul informed the Irishman that this was a negative answer to his question. "By my sowl, thin," said Chane, "I wudn't mind marryin' ye meself, an' joinin' the thribe--that is, if they'll let me off from the hangin'. Tell her that, Raowl." As desired, Raoul explained his comrade's last speech, at which the woman laughed, but said nothing. "Silence gives consint. But tell her, Raowl, that I won't buy a pig in a poke: they must first let me off from the hangin', de ye hear?--tell her that." "_El senor esta muy alegre_," (The gentleman is very merry), said the woman; and, picking up her jar, with a smile, she left us. "I say, Raowl, does she consint?" "She hasn't made up her mind yet." "By the holy vistment! thin it's all up wid Murt. The saints won't save him. Take another dhrap, Raowl!" CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT. THE DANCE OF THE TAGAROTA. Night fell, and the blazing fagots threw their glare over the patio, striking upon objects picturesque at all times, but doubly so under the red light of the pine fires. The grouping of guerilleros--their broad, heavy hats, many of them plumed--their long black hair and pointed beards--their dark, flashing eyes--their teeth, fierce and white--the half-savage expression of their features--their costumes, high-coloured and wild-like--all combined in impressing us with strange feelings. The mules, the mustangs, the dogs, the peons, the slippered wenches, with their coarse trailing tresses, the low roofs, the iron-barred windows, the orange-trees by the fountain, the palms hanging over the wall, the glistening cocuyos, were all strange sights to us. The sounds that rang in our ears were not more familiar. Even the voices of the men, unlike the Saxon, sounded wild and sharp. It was the Spanish language, spoken in the _patois_ of the Aztec Indians. In this the guerilleros chatted, and sang, and swore. There was a medley of other sounds, not less strange to our ears, as the dogs howled and barked their bloodhound notes--as the mustangs neighed or the mules whinnied--as the heavy sabre clanked or the huge spur tinkled its tiny bells--as the _poblanas_ (peasant-women), sitting by some group, touched the strings of their bandolons, and chanted their half-Indian songs. By a blazing pile, close to where we sat, a party of guerilleros, with their women, were dancing the _tagarota_, a species of fandango. Two men, seated upon raw-hide stools, strummed away upon a pair of bandolons, while a third pinched and pulled at the strings of an old guitar--all three aiding the music with their shrill, disagreeable voices. The dancers formed the figure of a parallelogram, each standing opposite his partner, or rather moving, for they were never at rest, but kept constantly beating time with feet, head, and hands. The last they struck against their cheeks and thighs, and at intervals clapped them together. One would suddenly appear as a hunchback, and, dancing out into the centre of the figure, perform various antics to attract his partner. After a while she would dance up--deformed also--and the two, bringing their bodies into contact, and performing various disgusting contortions, would give place to another pair. These would appear without arms or legs, walking on their knees, or sliding along on their hips! One danced with his head under his arm, and another with one leg around his neck; all eliciting more or less laughter, as the feat was more or less comical. During the dance every species of deformity was imitated and caricatured, for this is the tagarota. It was a series of grotesque and repulsive pictures. Some of the dancers, flinging themselves flat, would roll across the open space without moving hand or foot. This always elicited applause, and we could not help remarking its resemblance to the gymnastics we had lately been practising ourselves. "Och, be me sowl! we can bate yez at that!" cried Chane, who appeared to be highly amused at the tagarota, making his comments as the dance went on. I was sick of the scene, and watched it no longer. My eyes turned to the portale, and I looked anxiously through the half-drawn curtains. "It is strange I have seen nothing of _them_! Could they have turned off on some other route? No--they must be here. Narcisso's promise for to-night! He at least is here. And she?--perhaps occupied within--gay, happy, indifferent--oh!" The pain shot afresh through my heart. Suddenly the curtain was drawn aside, and a brilliant picture appeared within--brilliant, but to me like the glimpse which some condemned spirit might catch over the walls of Paradise. Officers in bright uniforms, and amongst these I recognised the elegant person of Dubrosc. Ladies in rich dresses, and amongst these--. Her sister, too, was there, and the Dona Joaquiana, and half a dozen other ladies, rustling in silks and blazing with jewels. Several of the gentlemen--young officers of the band--wore the picturesque costume of the guerilleros. They were forming for the dance. "Look, Captain!" cried Clayley; "Don Cosme and his people, by the living earthquake!" "Hush! do not touch me--do not speak to me!" I felt as though my heart would stop beating. It rose in my bosom, and seemed to hang for minutes without moving. My throat felt dry and husky, and a cold perspiration broke out upon my skin. He approaches her--he asks her to dance--she consents! No: she refuses. Brave girl! She has strayed away from the dancers, and looks over the balustrade. She is sad. Was it a sigh that caused her bosom to rise? Ha! he comes again. She is smiling!--he touches her hand! "Fiend! false woman!" I shouted at the top of my voice as I sprang up, impelled by passion. I attempted to rush towards them. My feet were bound, and I fell heavily upon my face! The guards seized me, tying my hands. My comrades, too, were re-bound. We were dragged over the stones into a small room in one corner of the patio. The door was bolted and locked, and we were left alone. CHAPTER THIRTY NINE. A KISS IN THE DARK. It would be impossible to describe my feelings as I was flung upon the floor of our prison. This was cold, damp, and filthy; but I heeded not these grievances. Greater sorrows absorbed the less. There is no torture so racking, no pain so painful as the throbbings of a jealous heart; but how much harder to bear under circumstances like mine! She could sleep, smile, dance--dance by my prison, and with my jailer! I felt spiteful--vengeful. I was stung to a desire for retaliation, and along with this came an eagerness to live for the opportunity of indulging in this passion. I began to look around our prison, and see what chances it afforded for escape. "Good heavens! if our being transferred to the cell should destroy the plans of Narcisso! How is he to reach us? The door is double-locked, and a sentry is pacing without." After several painful efforts I raised myself upon my feet, propping my body against the side of the prison. There was an aperture--a window about as large as a loophole for musketry. I spun myself along the wall until I stood directly under it. It was just the height of my chin. Cautioning my companions to silence, I placed my ear to the aperture and listened. A low sound came wailing from the fields without. I did not heed this. I knew it was the wolf. It rose again, louder than before. A peculiarity in the howl struck me, and I turned, calling to Raoul. "What is it, Captain?" inquired he. "Do you know if the prairie wolf is found here?" "I do not know if it be the true prairie wolf, Captain. There is one something like the _coyote_." I returned to the aperture and listened. "Again the howl of the prairie wolf--the bark! By heavens! it is Lincoln!" Now it ceased for several minutes, and then came again, but from another direction. "What is to be done? if I answer him, it will alarm the sentry. I will wait until he comes closer to the wall." I could tell that he was creeping nearer and nearer. Finding he had not been answered, the howling ceased. I stood listening eagerly to every sound from without. My comrades, who had now become apprised of Lincoln's proximity, had risen to their feet and were leaning against the walls. We were about half an hour in this situation, without exchanging a word, when a light tap was heard from without, and a soft voice whispered: "_Hola, Capitan_!" I placed my ear to the aperture. The whisper was repeated. It was not Lincoln--that was clear. It must be Narcisso. "_Quien_?" I asked. "_Yo, Capitan_." I recognised the voice that had addressed me in the morning. It is Narcisso. "Can you place your hands in the aperture?" said he. "No; they are tied behind my back." "Can you bring them opposite, then?" "No; I am standing on my toes, and my wrists are still far below the sill." "Are your comrades all similarly bound?" "All." "Let one get on each side of you, and raise you up on their shoulders." Wondering at the astuteness of the young Spaniard, I ordered Chane and Raoul to lift me as he directed. When my wrists came opposite the window I cautioned them to hold on. Presently a soft hand touched mine, passing all over them. Then I felt the blade of a knife pressed against the thong, and in an instant it leaped from my wrists. I ordered the men to set me down, and I listened as before. "Here is the knife. You can release your own ankles and those of your comrades. This paper will direct you further. You will find the lamp inside." A knife, with a folded and strangely shining note, was passed through by the speaker. "And now, Capitan--one favour," continued the voice, in a trembling tone. "Ask it! ask it!" "I would kiss your hand before we part." "Dear, noble boy!" cried I, thrusting my hand into the aperture. "Boy! ah, true--you think me a boy. I am no boy, Capitan, but _a woman--one who loves you with all her blighted, broken heart_!" "Oh, heavens! It is, then--dearest Guadalupe!" "Ha! I thought as much. Now I will not. But no; what good would it be to me? No--no--no! I shall keep my word." This appeared to be uttered in soliloquy, and the tumult of my thoughts prevented me from noticing the strangeness of these expressions. I thought of them afterwards. "Your hand! your hand!" I ejaculated. "You would kiss my hand? Do so!" The little hand was thrust through, and I could see it in the dim light, flashing with brilliants. I caught it in mine, covering it with kisses. It seemed to yield to the fervid pressure of my lips. "Oh!" I exclaimed, in the transport of my feelings, "let us not part; let us fly together! I was wronging you, loveliest, dearest Guadalupe--!" A slight exclamation, as if from some painful emotion, and the hand was plucked away, leaving one of the diamonds in my fingers. The next moment the voice whispered, with a strange sadness of tone, as I thought: "Adieu, Capitan! adieu! _In this world of life we never know who best loves us_!" I was puzzled, bewildered. I called out, but there was no answer. I listened until the patience of my comrades was well-nigh exhausted, but still there was no voice from without; and with a strange feeling of uneasiness and wonderment I commenced cutting the thongs from my ankles. Having set Raoul at liberty, I handed him the knife, and proceeded to open the note. Inside I found a cocuyo; and, using it as I had been already instructed, I read: "_The walls are adobe. You have a knife. The side with the loop-hole fronts outward. There is a field of magueys, and beyond this you will find the forest. You may then trust to yourselves. I can help you no farther_. Carissimo caballero, adios!" I had no time to reflect upon the peculiarities of the note, though the boldness of the style struck me as corresponding with the other. I flung down the firefly, crushing the paper into my bosom; and, seizing the knife, was about to attack the adobe wall, when voices reached me from without. I sprang forward, and placed my ear to listen. It was an altercation--a woman--a man! "By heaven! it is Lincoln's voice!" "Yer cussed whelp! ye'd see the cap'n hung, would yer?--a man that's good vally for the full of a pararer of green-gutted greasers; but I ain't a-gwine to let _you_ look at his hangin'. If yer don't show me which of these hyur pigeon-holes is his'n, an' help me to get him outer it, I'll skin yer like a mink!" "I tell you, Mister Lincoln," replied a voice which I recognised as the one whose owner had just left me, "I have this minute given the captain the means of escape, through that loophole." "Whar!" "This one," answered the female voice. "Wal, that's easy to circumstantiate. Kum along hyur! I ain't a-gwine to let yer go till it's all fixed. De ye hear?" I heard the heavy foot of the hunter as he approached, and presently his voice calling through the loophole in a guarded whisper: "Cap'n!" "Hush, Bob! it's all right," I replied, speaking in a low tone, for the sentries were moving suspiciously around the door. "Good!" ejaculated he. "Yer kin go now," he added to the other, whose attention I endeavoured to attract, but dared not call to loud enough, lest the guards should hear me. "Dash my buttons! I don't want yer to go--yer a good 'un arter all. Why can't yer kum along? The cap'n 'll make it all straight agin about the desartion." "Mr Lincoln, I cannot go with you. Please suffer me to depart!" "Wal! yer own likes! but if I can do yer a good turn, you can depend on Bob Linkin--mind that." "Thank you! thank you!" And before I could interfere to prevent it, she was gone. I could hear the voice, sad and sweet in the distance, calling back, "_Adios_!" I had no time for reflection, else the mystery that surrounded me would have occupied my thoughts for hours. It was time to act. Again I heard Lincoln's voice at the loophole. "What is it?" I inquired. "How are yer ter get out, Cap'n?" "We are cutting a hole through the wall." "If yer can give me the spot, I'll meet yer half-ways." I measured the distance from the loophole, and handed the string to Lincoln. We heard no more from the hunter until the moonlight glanced through the wall upon the blade of his knife. Then he uttered a short ejaculation, such as may be heard from the "mountain men" at peculiar crises; and after that we could hear him exclaiming: "Look out, Rowl! Hang it, man! ye're a-cuttin' my claws!" In a few minutes the hole was large enough to pass our bodies; and one by one we crawled out, and were once more at liberty. CHAPTER FORTY. MARIA DE MERCED. There was a deep ditch under the wall, filled with cactus-plants and dry grass. We lay in the bottom of this for some minutes, panting with fatigue. Our limbs were stiff and swollen, and we could hardly stand upright. A little delay then was necessary, to bring back the blood and determine our future course. "We had best ter keep the gully," whispered Lincoln. "I kum across the fields myself, but that 'ar kiver's thin, and they may sight us." "The best route is the ditch," assented Raoul: "there are some windows, but they are high, and we can crawl under them." "Forward, then!" I whispered to Raoul. We crept down the ditch on all-fours, passing several windows that were dark and shut. We reached one, the last in the row, where the light streamed through. Notwithstanding our perilous situation, I resolved to look in. There was an impulse upon me which I could not resist. I was yearning for some clue to the mystery that hung around me. The window was high up, but it was grated with heavy bars; and, grasping two of these, I swung myself to its level. Meanwhile my comrades had crept into the magueys to wait for me. I raised my head cautiously and looked in. It was a room somewhat elegantly furnished, but my eye did not dwell long on that. A man sitting by the table engrossed my attention. This man was Dubrosc. The light was full upon his face, and I gazed upon its hated lines until I felt my frame trembling with passion. I can give no idea of the hate this man had inspired me with. Had I possessed firearms, I could not have restrained myself from shooting him; and but for the iron grating, I should have sprung through the sash and grappled him with my hands. I have thought since that some providence held me back from making a demonstration that would have baffled our escape. I am sure at that moment I possessed no restraint within myself. As I gazed at Dubrosc, the door of the apartment opened, and a young man entered. He was strangely attired, in a costume half-military, half-ranchero. There was a fineness, a silky richness, about the dress and manner of this youth that struck me. His features were dark and beautiful. He advanced and sat down by the table, placing his hand upon it. Several rings sparkled upon his fingers. I observed that he was pale, and that his hand trembled. After looking at him for a moment, I began to fancy I had seen the features before. It was not Narcisso; him I should have known; and yet there was a resemblance. Yes--he even resembled _her_! I started as this thought crossed me. I strained my eyes; the resemblance grew stronger. Oh, Heaven! could it be?--dressed thus? No, no! those eyes--ha! I remember! The boy at the rendezvous--on board the transport--the island--the picture! It is she--the cousin--_Maria de Merced_! These recollections came with the suddenness of a single thought, and passed as quickly. Later memories crowded upon me. The adventure of the morning--the strange words uttered at the window of my prison--the small hand! This, then, was the author of our deliverance. A hundred mysteries were explained in a single moment. The unexpected elucidation came like a shock--like a sudden light. I staggered back, giving way to new and singular emotions. "Guadalupe knows nothing of my presence, then. _She_ is innocent." This thought alone restored me to happiness. A thousand others rushed through my brain in quick succession--some pleasant, others painful. There was an altercation of voices over my head. I caught the iron rods, and, resting my toes upon a high bank, swung my body up, and again looked into the room. Dubrosc was now angrily pacing over the floor. "Bah!" he ejaculated, with a look of cold brutality; "you think to make me jealous, I believe. That isn't possible. I was never so, and _you_ can't do it. I know you love the cursed Yankee. I watched you in the ship--on the island, too. You had better keep him company where he is going. Ha, ha! Jealous, indeed! Your pretty cousins have grown up since I saw them last." The insinuation sent the blood in a hot stream through my veins. It appeared to have a similar effect upon the woman; for, starting from her seat, she looked towards Dubrosc, her eyes flashing like globes of fire. "Yes!" she exclaimed; "and if you dare whisper your polluting thoughts to either of them, lawless as is this land, you know that I still possess the power to punish _you_. You are villain enough, Heaven knows, for anything; but _they_ shall not fall: one victim is enough-- and such a one!" "Victim, indeed!" replied the man, evidently cowed by the other's threat. "You call yourself victim, Marie? The _wife_ of the handsomest man in Mexico? Ha, ha!" There was something of irony in the latter part of the speech, and the emphasis placed on the word "wife." "Yes; you may well taunt me with your false priest, you unfeeling wretch! _Oh, Santisima Madre_!" continued she, dropping back into her chair, and pressing her head between her hands. "Beguiled--beggared-- almost unsexed! and yet I never loved the man! It was not love, but madness--madness and fascination!" The last words were uttered in soliloquy, as though she regarded not the presence of her companion. "I don't care a claco," cried he fiercely, and evidently piqued at her declaration; "not one claco whether you ever loved me or not! That's not the question now, but _this is_: You must make yourself known to your Croesus of an uncle here, and demand that part of your fortune that he still clutches within his avaricious old fingers. You must do this to-morrow." "I will not!" "But you shall, or--." The woman rose suddenly, and walked towards the door as if she intended to go out. "No, not to-night, dearest!" said Dubrosc, grasping her rudely by the arm. "I have my reasons for keeping you here. I noted you to-day speaking with that cursed Yankee, and you're just traitor enough to help him to escape. I'll look to him myself, so you may stay where you are. If you should choose to rise early enough to-morrow morning, you will have the felicity of seeing him dance upon the tight-rope. Ha! ha! ha!" And with a savage laugh the Creole walked out of the room, locking the door behind him. A strange expression played over the features of the woman--a blending of triumph with anxiety. She ran forward to the window, and, pressing her small lips close to the glass, strained her eyes outward. I held the diamond in my fingers, and, stretching up until my hand was opposite her face, I wrote the word "_Gracias_." At first seeing me she had started back. There was no time to be lost. My comrades were already chafing at my delay; and, joining them, we crept through the magueys, parting the broad, stiff leaves with our fingers. We were soon upon the edge of the chaparral wood. I looked back towards the window. The woman stood holding the lamp, and its light was full upon her face. She had read the scrawl, and was gazing out with an expression I shall never forget. Another bound, and we were "in the woods." CHAPTER FORTY ONE. THE PURSUIT. For a time there was a strange irresolution in my flight. The idea of leaving Guadalupe in such company--that after all they might be prisoners, or, even if not, the thought that they were in the power of Dubrosc to any extent--was enough to render me wretched and irresolute. But what could we do--five men, almost unarmed? "It would be madness to remain--madness and death. The woman--she possesses some mysterious power over this brute, her paramour: she will guard them." This thought decided me, and I yielded myself freely to flight. We had but little fear of being caught again. We had too much confidence, particularly Lincoln and myself, in our forest-craft. Raoul knew all the country, the thickets and the passes. We stopped a moment to deliberate on the track we should take. A bugle rang out behind us, and the next instant the report of a cannon thundered in a thousand echoes along the glen. "It is from the hacienda," said Raoul; "they have missed us already." "Is that a `sign', Rowl," asked Lincoln. "It is," replied the other; "it's to warn their scouts. They're all over these hills. We must look sharp." "I don't like this hyur timber; it's too scant. Cudn't yer put us in the crik bottom, Rowl?" "There's a heavy chaparral," said the Frenchman, musing; "it's ten miles off. If we could reach that we're safe--a wolf can hardly crawl through it. We must make it before day." "Lead on, then, Rowl!" We stole along with cautious steps. The rustling of a leaf or the cracking of a dead stick might betray us; for we could hear signals upon all sides, and our pursuers passing us in small parties, within earshot. We bore to the right, in order to reach the creek bottom of which Lincoln had spoken. We soon came into this, and followed the stream down, but not on the bank. Lincoln would not hear of our taking the bank path, arguing that our pursuers would be "sartin ter foller the cl'ar trail." The hunter was right, for shortly after a party came down the stream. We could hear the clinking of their accoutrements, and even the conversation of some of the men, as follows: "But, in the first place, how did they get loose within? and who cut the wall from the outside, unless someone helped them? _Carajo_! it's not possible." "That's true, Jose," said another voice. "Someone must, and I believe it was that giant that got away from us at the rancho. The shot that killed the snake came from the chaparral, and yet we searched and found nobody. Mark my words, it was he; and I believe he has hung upon our track all the way." "_Vaya_!" exclaimed another; "I shouldn't much like to be under the range of his rifle; they say he can kill a mile off, and hit wherever he pleases. He shot the snake right through the eyes." "By the Virgin!" said one of the guerilleros, laughing, "he must have been a snake of good taste, to be caught toying around that dainty daughter of the old Spaniard! It reminds me of what the Book tells about Mother Eve and the old serpent. Now, if the Yankee's bullet--." We could hear no more, as the voices died away in the distance and under the sound of the water. "Ay," muttered Lincoln, finishing the sentence; "if the Yankee's bullet hadn't been needed for the varmint, some o' yer wudn't a' been waggin' yer clappers as ye air." "It _was_ you, then?" I asked, turning to the hunter. "'Twur, Cap'n; but for the cussed catawampus, I 'ud 'a gin Mister Dubrosc _his_ ticket. I hed a'most sighted him when I seed the flash o' the thing's eye, an' I knowed it wur a-gwine to strike the gal." "And Jack?" I inquired, now for the first time thinking of the boy. "I guess he's safe enuf, Cap'n. I sent the little feller back with word ter the kurnel." "Ha! then we may expect them from camp?" "No doubt on it, Cap'n; but yer see, if they kum, they may not be able to foller us beyond the rancho. So it'll be best for us not to depend on them, but ter take Rowl's track." "You are right. Lead on, Raoul!" After a painful journey we reached the thicket of which Raoul had spoken; and, dragging ourselves into it, we came to a small opening, covered with long dry grass. Upon this luxurious couch we resolved to make a bivouac. We were all worn down by the fatigues of the day and night preceding, and, throwing ourselves upon the grass, in a few minutes were asleep. CHAPTER FORTY TWO. A NEW AND TERRIBLE ENEMY. It was daylight when I awoke--broad daylight. My companions, all but Clayley, were already astir, and had kindled a fire with a species of wood known to Raoul, that produced hardly any smoke. They were preparing breakfast. On a limb close by hung the hideous, human-like carcass of an iguana, still writhing. Raoul was whetting a knife to skin it, while Lincoln was at some distance, carefully reloading his rifle. The Irishman lay upon the grass, peeling bananas and roasting them over the fire. The iguana was soon skinned and broiled, and we all of us commenced eating with good appetites. "Be Saint Pathrick!" said Chane, "this bates frog-atin' all hollow. It's little meself dhramed, on the Owld Sod, hearin' of thim niggers in furrin parts, that I'd be turning kannybawl meself some day!" "Don't you like it, Murtagh?" asked Raoul jocosely. "Och! indade, yes; it's betther than an empty brid-basket; but if yez could only taste a small thrifle ov a Wicklow ham this mornin', an' a smilin' pratie, instid of this brown soap, yez--." "Hisht!" said Lincoln, starting suddenly, and holding the bite half-way to his mouth. "What is it?" I asked. "I'll tell yer in a minit, Cap'n." The hunter waved his hand to enjoin silence, and, striding to the edge of the glade, fell flat to the ground. We knew he was listening, and waited for the result. We had not long to wait, for he had scarce brought his ear in contact with the earth when he sprang suddenly up again, exclaiming: "_Houn's trailin' us_!" He wore a despairing look unusual to the bold character of his features. This, with the appalling statement, acted on us like a galvanic shock, and by one impulse we leaped from the fire and threw ourselves flat upon the grass. Not a word was spoken as we strained our ears to listen. At first we could distinguish a low moaning sound, like the hum of a wild bee; it seemed to come out of the earth. After a little it grew louder and sharper; then it ended in a yelp and ceased altogether. After a short interval it began afresh, this time still clearer; then came the yelp, loud, sharp, and vengeful. There was no mistaking that sound. _It was the bark of the Spanish bloodhound_. We sprang up simultaneously, looking around for weapons, and then staring at each other with an expression of despair. The rifle and two case-knives were all the weapons we had. "What's to be done!" cried one, and all eyes were turned upon Lincoln. The hunter stood motionless, clutching his rifle and looking to the ground. "How fur's the crik, Rowl?" he asked after a pause. "Not two hundred yards; this way it lies." "I kin see no other chance, Cap'n, than ter take the water: we may bamfoozle the houn's a bit, if thar's good wadin'." "Nor I." I had thought of the same plan. "If we hed hed bowies, we mouter fit the dogs whar we air, but yer see we hain't; an' I kin tell by thar growl thar ain't less nor a dozen on 'em." "It's no use to remain here; lead us to the creek, Raoul;" and, following the Frenchman, we dashed recklessly through the thicket. On reaching the stream we plunged in. It was one of those mountain torrents common in Mexico--spots of still water alternating with cascades, that dash, and foam over shapeless masses of amygdaloidal basalt. We waded through the first pool, and then, clambering among the rocks, entered a second. This was a good stretch, a hundred yards or more of still, crystal water, in which we were waist-deep. We took the bank at the lower, and on the same side, and, striking back into the timber, kept on parallel to the course of the stream. We did not go far away from the water, lest we might be pushed again to repeat the _ruse_. All this time the yelping of the bloodhounds had been ringing in our ears. Suddenly it ceased. "They have reached the water," said Clayley. "No," rejoined Lincoln, stopping a moment to listen: "they're chawin' the bones of the varmint." "There again!" cried one, as their deep voices rang down the glen in the chorus of the whole pack. The next minute the dogs were mute a second time, speaking at intervals in a fierce growl that told us they were at fault. Beyond an occasional bark we heard nothing of the bloodhounds until we had gained at least two miles down the stream. We began to think we had baffled them in earnest, when Lincoln, who had kept in the rear, was seen to throw himself flat upon the grass. We all stopped, looking at him with breathless anxiety. It was but a minute. Rising up with a reckless air, he struck his rifle fiercely upon the ground, exclaiming: "They're arter us agin!" By one impulse we all rushed back to the creek, and, scrambling over the rocks, plunged into the water and commenced wading down. A sudden exclamation burst from Raoul in the advance. We soon learnt the cause, and to our dismay. We had struck the water at a point where the stream canoned. On each side rose a frowning precipice, straight as a wall. Between these the black torrent rushed through a channel only a few feet in width so swiftly that, had we attempted to descend by swimming, we should have been dashed to death against the rocks below. To reach the stream farther down it would be necessary to make a circuit of miles; and the hounds would be on our heels before we could gain three hundred yards. We looked at each other and at Lincoln, all panting and pale. "Stumped at last!" cried the hunter, gritting his teeth with fury. "No!" I shouted, a thought at that moment flashing upon me. "Follow me, comrades! We'll fight the bloodhounds upon the cliff." I pointed upward. A yell from Lincoln announced his approval. "Hooray!" he cried, leaping on the bank; "that idee's jest like yer, Cap. Hooray! Now, boys, for the bluff!" Next moment we were straining up the gorge that led to the precipice; and the next we had reached the highest point, where the cliff, by a bold projection, butted over the stream. There was a level platform covered with tufted grass, and upon this we took our stand. CHAPTER FORTY THREE. A BATTLE WITH BLOODHOUNDS. We stood for some moments gathering breath and nerving ourselves for the desperate struggle. I could not help looking over the precipice. It was a fearful sight. In a vertical line two hundred feet below, the stream rushing through the canon broke upon a bed of sharp, jagged rocks, and then glided on in seething, snow-white foam. There was no object between the eye and the water; no jutting ledge, not even a tree, to break the fall--nothing but the spiky boulders below, and the foaming torrent that washed them. It was some minutes before our unnatural enemies made their appearance, but every howl sounded nearer and nearer. Our trail was warm, and we knew they were scenting it on a run. At length the bushes crackled, and we could see their white breasts gleaming through the leaves. A few more springs, and the foremost bloodhound bounded out upon the bank, and, throwing up his broad jaw, uttered a hideous "growl." He was at fault where we had entered the water. His comrades now dashed out of the thicket, and, joining in a chorus of disappointment, scattered among the stones. An old dog, scarred and cunning, kept along the bank until he had reached the top of the canon. This was where we had made our crossing. Here the hound entered the channel, and, springing from rock to rock, reached the point where we had dragged ourselves out of the water. A short yelp announced to his comrades that he had lifted the scent, and they all threw up their noses and came galloping down. There was a swift current between two large boulders of basalt. We had leaped this. The old dog reached it, and stood straining upon the spring, when Lincoln fired, and the hound, with a short "wough", dropped in upon his head, and was carried off like a flash. "Counts one less to pitch over," said the hunter, hastily reloading his rifle. Without appearing to notice the strange conduct of their leader, the others crossed in a string, and, striking the warm trail, came yelling up the pass. It was a grassy slope, such as is often seen between two tables of a cliff; and as the dogs strained upward we could see their white fangs and the red blood that had baited them clotted along their jaws. Another crack from Lincoln's rifle, and the foremost hound tumbled back down the gorge. "Two rubbed out!" cried the hunter; and at the same moment I saw him fling his rifle to the ground. The hounds kept the trail no longer. Their quarry was before them; their howling ended, and they sprang upon us with the silence of the assassin. The next moment we were mingled together, dogs and men, in the fearful struggle of life and death! I know not how long this strange encounter lasted. I felt myself grappling with the tawny monsters, and hurling them over the cliff. Now they sprang at my throat, and I threw out my arms, thrusting them fearlessly between the shining rows of teeth. Then I was free again, and, seizing a leg, or a tail, or the loose flaps of the neck, I dragged a savage brute towards the brink, and, summoning all my strength, dashed him against its brow, and saw him tumble howling over. Once I lost my balance and nearly staggered over the precipice, and at length, panting, bleeding, and exhausted, I fell to the earth. I could struggle no longer. I looked around for my comrades. Clayley and Raoul had sunk upon the grass, and lay torn and bleeding. Lincoln and Chane, holding a hound between them, were balancing him over the bluff. "Now, Murter," cried the hunter, "giv' him a good heist, and see if we kin pitch him cl'ar on t'other side; hee-woop!--hoo!" And with this ejaculation the kicking animal was launched into the air. I could not resist looking after. The yellow body bounded from the face of the opposite cliff, and fell with a heavy plash upon the water below. He was the last of the pack! CHAPTER FORTY FOUR. AN INDIAN RUSE. A wild shout now drew our attention, and, looking up the creek, we saw our pursuers just debouching from the woods. They were all mounted, and pressing their mustangs down to the bank, where they halted with a strange cry. "What is that, Raoul? Can you tell the meaning of that cry?" "They are disappointed, Captain. They must dismount and foot it like ourselves; there is no crossing for horses." "Good! Oh, if we had but a rifle each! This pass--." I looked down the gorge. We could have defended it against the whole party, but we were unarmed. The guerilleros now dismounted, tying their horses to the trees and preparing to cross over. One, who seemed to be their leader, judging from his brilliant dress and plumes, had already advanced into the stream, and stood upon a projecting rock with his sword drawn. He was not more than three hundred yards from the position we occupied on the bluff. "Do you think you can reach him?" I said to Lincoln, who had reloaded his gun, and stood eyeing the Mexican, apparently calculating the distance. "I'm feerd, Cap'n, he's too fur. I'd guv a half-year's sodger-pay for a crack out o' the major's Dutch gun. We can lose nothin' in tryin'. Murter, will yer stan' afore me? Thar ain't no kiver, an' the feller's watchin'. He'll dodge like a duck if he sees me takin' sight on 'im." Chane threw his large body in front, and Lincoln, cautiously slipping his rifle over his comrade's shoulder, sighted the Mexican. The latter had noticed the manoeuvre, and, perceiving the danger he had thrust himself into, was about turning to leap down from the rock when the rifle cracked--his plumed hat flew off, and throwing out his arms, he fell with a dead plunge upon the water! The next moment his body was sucked into the current, and, followed by his hat and plumes, was borne down the canon with the velocity of lightning. Several of his comrades uttered a cry of terror; and those who had followed him out into the open channel ran back towards the bank, and screened themselves behind the rocks. A voice, louder than the rest, was heard exclaiming: "_Carajo! guardaos!--esta el rifle del diablo_!" (Look out! it is the devil's rifle!) It was doubtless the comrade of Jose, who had been in the skirmish of La Virgen, and had felt the bullet of the _zundnadel_. The guerilleros, awed by the death of their leader--for it was Yanez who had fallen--crouched behind the rocks. Even those who had remained with the horses, six hundred yards off, sheltered themselves behind trees and projections of the bank. The party nearest us kept loading and firing their escopettes. Their bullets flattened upon the face of the cliff or whistled over our heads. Clayley, Chane, Raoul, and myself, being unarmed, had thrown ourselves behind the scarp to avoid catching a stray shot. Not so Lincoln, who stood boldly out on the highest point of the bluff, as if disdaining to dodge their bullets. I never saw a man so completely soaring above the fear of death. There was a sublimity about him that I remember being struck with at the time; and I remember, too, feeling the inferiority of my own courage. It was a stupendous picture, as he stood like a colossus clutching his deadly weapon, and looking over his long brown beard at the skulking and cowardly foe. He stood without a motion--without even winking--although the leaden hail hurtled past his head, and cut the grass at his feet with that peculiar "zip-zip" so well remembered by the soldier who has passed the ordeal of a battle. There was something in it awfully grand--awful even to us; no wonder that it awed our enemies. I was about to call upon Lincoln to fall back and shelter himself, when I saw him throw up his rifle to the level. The next instant he dropped the butt to the ground with a gesture of disappointment. A moment after, the manoeuvre was repeated with a similar result, and I could hear the hunter gritting his teeth. "The cowardly skunks!" muttered he; "they keep a-gwine like a bull's tail in fly-time." In fact, every time Lincoln brought his piece to a level, the guerilleros ducked, until not a head could be seen. "They ain't as good as thar own dogs," continued the hunter, turning away from the cliff. "If we hed a lot of loose rocks, Cap'n, we mout keep them down thar till doomsday." A movement was now visible among the guerilleros. About one-half of the party were seen to mount their horses and gallop off up the creek. "They're gone round by the ford," said Raoul: "it's not over a mile and a half. They can cross with their horses there and will be on us in half an hour." What was to be done? There was no timber to hide us now--no chaparral. The country behind the cliff was a sloping table, with here and there a stunted palm-tree or a bunch of "Spanish bayonet" (_Yucca angustifolia_). This would be no shelter, for from the point we occupied, the most elevated on the ridge, we could have descried an object of human size five miles off. At that distance from us the woods began; but could we reach them before our pursuers would overtake us? Had the guerilleros all gone off by the ford we should have returned to the creek bottom, but a party remained below, and we were cut off from our former hiding-place. We must therefore strike for the woods. But it was necessary first to decoy the party below, otherwise they would be after us before the others, and experience had taught us that these Mexicans could run like hares. This was accomplished by an old Indian trick that both Lincoln and myself had practised before. It would not have "fooled" a Texan Ranger, but it succeeded handsomely with the guerilleros. We first threw ourselves on the ground in such a position that only our heads could be seen by the enemy, who still kept blazing away from their escopettes. After a short while our faces gradually sank behind the crest of the ridge, until nothing but our forage-caps appeared above the sward. We lay thus for some moments, showing a face or two at intervals. Our time was precious, and we could not perform the pantomime to perfection; but we were not dealing with Comanches, and for "Don Diego" it was sufficiently artistical. Presently we slipped our heads one by one out of their covers, leaving the five caps upon the grass inclining to each other in the most natural positions. We then stole back lizard-fashion, and, after sprawling a hundred yards or so, rose to our feet and ran like scared dogs. We could tell that we had duped the party below, as we heard them firing away at our empty caps long after we had left the scene of our late adventure. CHAPTER FORTY FIVE. A COUP D'ECLAIR. Many an uneasy look was thrown over our shoulders as we struggled down that slope. Our strength was urged to its utmost; and this was not much, for we had all lost blood in our encounter with the sleuth-hounds, and felt weak and faint. We were baffled, too, by a storm--a fierce, tropical storm. The rain, thick and heavy, plashed in our faces, and made the ground slippery under our feet. The lightning flashed in our eyes, and the electric sulphur shortened our breathing. Still we coughed and panted and staggered onward, nerved by the knowledge that death was behind us. I shall never forget that fearful race. I thought it would never end. I can only liken it to one of those dreams in which we are always making endeavours to escape from some horrible monster, and are as often hindered by a strange and mysterious helplessness. I remember it now as then. I have often repeated that flight in my sleep, and always awoke with a feeling of shuddering horror. We had got within five hundred yards of the timber. Five hundred yards is not much to a fresh runner; but to us, toiling along at a trot that much more resembled a walk, it seemed an infinity. A small prairie, with a stream beyond, separated us from the edge of the woods--a smooth sward without a single tree. We had entered upon it--Raoul, who was light of foot, being in the advance, while Lincoln from choice hung in the rear. An exclamation from the hunter caused us to look back. We were too much fatigued and worn out to be frightened at the sight. Along the crest of the hill a hundred horsemen were dashing after us in full gallop, and the next moment their vengeful screams were ringing in our ears. "Now, do yer best, boys!" cried Lincoln, "an' I'll stop the cavortin' of that 'ere foremost feller afore he gits much furrer." We trailed our bodies on, but we could hear the guerilleros fast closing upon us. The bullets from their escopettes whistled in our ears, and cut the grass around our feet. I saw Raoul, who had reached the timber, turn suddenly round and walk back. He had resolved to share our fate. "Save yourself, Raoul!" I called with my weak voice, but he could not have heard me above the din. I saw him still walking towards us. I heard the screams behind; I heard the shots, and the whizzing of bullets, and the fierce shouts. I heard the clatter of hoofs and the rasping of sabres as they leaped out of their iron sheaths; and among these I heard the crack of Lincoln's rifle, and the wild yell of the hunter. Then a peal of thunder drowned all other sounds: the heavens one moment seemed on fire, then black--black. I felt the stifling smell of sulphur--a hot flash--a quick stroke from some invisible hand--and I sank senseless to the earth! Something cool in my throat and over my face brought back the consciousness that I lived. It was water. I opened my eyes, but it was some moments before I could see that Raoul was bending over me, and laving my temples with water from his boot. I muttered some half-coherent inquiries. "It was a _coup d'eclair_, Captain," said Raoul. Good heavens! _We had been struck by lightning_! Raoul, being in the advance, had escaped. The Frenchman soon left me and went to Clayley, who, with Chane and the hunter, lay close by--all three, as I thought, dead. They were pale as corpses, with here and there a spot of purple, or a livid line traced over their skins, while their lips presented the whitish, bloodless hue of death. "Are they dead?" I asked feebly. "I think not--we shall see;" and the Frenchman poured some water into Clayley's mouth. The latter sighed heavily, and appeared to revive. Raoul passed on to the hunter, who, as soon as he felt the water, started to his feet, and, clutching his comrade fiercely by the throat, exclaimed: "Yur cussed catamount! yer wud hang me, wud yur?" Seeing who it was, he stopped suddenly, and looked round with an air of extreme bewilderment. His eye now fell upon the rifle, and, all at once seeming to recollect himself, he staggered towards it and picked it up. Then, as if by instinct, he passed his hand into his pouch and coolly commenced loading. While Raoul was busy with Clayley and the Irishman, I had risen to my feet and looked back over the prairie. The rain was falling in torrents, and the lightning still flashed at intervals. At the distance of fifty paces a black mass was lying upon the ground motionless--a mass of men and horses, mingled together as they had fallen in their tracks. Here and there a single horse and his rider lay prostrate together. Beyond these, twenty or thirty horsemen were galloping in circles over the plain, and vainly endeavouring to head their frightened steeds towards the point where we were. These, like Raoul, had escaped the stroke. "Come!" cried the Frenchman, who had now resuscitated Clayley and Chane; "we have not a moment to lose. The mustangs will get over their fright, and these fellows will be down upon us." His advice was instantly followed, and before the guerilleros could manage their scared horses we had entered the thicket, and were crawling along under the wet leaves. CHAPTER FORTY SIX. A BRIDGE OF MONKEYS. Raoul thought that their superstition might prevent the enemy from pursuing us farther. They would consider the lightning as an interference from above--a stroke of the _hrazos de Dios_. But we had little confidence in this, and, notwithstanding our exhaustion, toiled on through the chaparral. Wearied with over-exertion, half-famished-- for we had only commenced eating when roused from our repast in the morning--wet to the skin, cut by the bushes, and bitten by the poisoned teeth of the bloodhounds--blinded, and bruised, and bleeding, we were in but poor travelling condition. Even Lincoln, whose buoyancy had hitherto borne up, appeared cowed and broken. For the first mile or two he seemed vexed at something and "out of sorts", stopping every now and again, and examining his rifle in a kind of bewilderment. Feeling that he was once more "in the timber", he began to come to himself. "Thet sort o' an enemy's new ter me," he said, speaking to Raoul. "Dog-gone the thing! it makes the airth look yeller!" "You'll see better by and by," replied his comrade. "I had need ter, Rowl, or I'll butt my brainpan agin one of these hyur saplin's. Wagh! I cudn't sight a b'ar, if we were to scare him up jest now." About five miles farther on we reached a small stream. The storm had abated, but the stream was swollen with the rain, and we could not cross it. We were now a safe distance from our pursuers--at least, we thought so--and we resolved to "pitch our camp" upon the bank. This was a simple operation, and consisted in pitching ourselves to the ground under the shade of a spreading tree. Raoul, who was a tireless spirit, kindled a fire, and commenced knocking down the nuts of the corozo palm, that hung in clusters over our heads. We dried our wet garments, and Lincoln set about dressing our numerous wounds. In this surgical process our shirts suffered severely; but the skill of the hunter soothed our swelling limbs, and after a frugal dinner upon palm-nuts and pitahayas we stretched ourselves along the greensward, and were soon asleep. I was in that dreamy state, half-sleeping half-waking, when I was aroused by a strange noise that sounded like a multitude of voices--the voices of children. Raising my head I perceived the hunter in an attitude of listening. "What is it, Bob?" I inquired. "Dod rot me if I kin tell, Cap'n! Hyur, Rowl! what's all this hyur channerin?" "It's the _araguatoes_," muttered the Frenchman, half-asleep. "Harry-gwaters! an what i' the name o' Nick's them? Talk plain lingo, Rowl. What are they?" "Monkeys, then," replied the latter, waking up, and laughing at his companion. "Thar's a good grist on 'em, then, I reckin," said Lincoln, throwing himself back unconcernedly. "They are coming towards the stream. They will most likely cross by the rocks yonder," observed Raoul. "How?--swim it?" I asked. "It is a torrent there." "Oh, no!" answered the Frenchman; "monkeys would rather go into fire than water. If they cannot leap the stream, they'll bridge it." "Bridge it! and how?" "Stop a moment, Captain; you shall see." The half-human voices now sounded nearer, and we could perceive that the animals were approaching the spot where we lay. Presently they appeared upon the opposite bank, headed by an old grey-bearded chieftain, and officered like a regiment of soldiers. They were, as Raoul had stated, the _araguatoes_ (_Simia ursina_) of the tribe of "_alouattes_," or "_howlers_." They were of that species known as "_monos colorados_" (red monkeys). They were about the size of foxhounds, though there was a difference in this respect between the males and females. Many of the latter were mothers, and carried their human-like infants upon their shoulders as they marched along, or, squatted upon their hams, tenderly caressed them, fondling and pressing them against their _mammas_. Both males and females were of a tawny-red or lion-colour; both had long beards, and the hair upon their bodies was coarse and shaggy. Their tails were, each of them, three feet in length; and the absence of hair on the under side of these, with the hard, _callous_ appearance of the cuticle, showed that these appendages were extremely prehensile. In fact, this was apparent from the manner in which the young "held on" to their mothers; for they appeared to retain their difficult seats as much by the grasp of their tails as by their arms and hands. On reaching the bank of the "arroyo" the whole troop came to a sudden halt. One--an _aide-de-camp_, or chief pioneer, perhaps--ran forward upon a projecting rock; and, after looking across the stream, as if calculating its width, and then carefully examining the trees overhead, he scampered back to the troop, and appeared to communicate with the leader. The latter uttered a cry--evidently a command--which was answered by many individuals in the band, and these instantly made their appearance in front, and running forward upon the bank of the stream, collected around the trunk of a tall cotton-wood that grew over the narrowest part of the arroyo. After uttering a chorus of discordant cries, twenty or thirty of them were seen to scamper up the trunk of the cotton-wood. On reaching a high point, the foremost--a strong fellow-- ran out upon a limb, and, taking several turns of his tail around it, slipped off and hung head downwards. The next on the limb--also a stout one--climbed down the body of the first, and, whipping his tail tightly around the neck and fore-arm of the latter, dropped off in his turn, and hung head down. The third repeated this manoeuvre upon the second, and the fourth upon the third, and so on, until the last one upon the string rested his fore-paws upon the ground. The living chain now commenced swinging backwards and forwards, like the pendulum of a clock. The motion was slight at first, but gradually increased, the lowermost monkey striking his hands violently on the earth as he passed the tangent of the oscillating curve. Several others upon the limbs above aided the movement. The absence of branches upon the lower part of the tree, which we have said was a cotton-wood (_Populus angulata_), enabled them to execute this movement freely. The oscillation continued to increase until the monkey at the end of the chain was thrown among the branches of a tree on the opposite bank. Here, after two or three vibrations, he clutched a limb and held fast. This movement was executed adroitly, just at the culminating point of the "swing", in order to save the intermediate links from the violence of a too sudden jerk. The chain was now fast at both ends, forming a complete suspension-bridge, over which the whole troop, to the number of four or five hundred, passed with the rapidity of thought. It was one of the most comical sights I ever beheld, to witness the quizzical expression of countenances along that living chain. To see the mothers, too, making the passage, with their tiny infants clinging to their backs, was a sight at once comical and curious. The monkeys that formed the chain kept up an incessant talking, and, as we fancied, _laughing_, and frequently they would bite at the legs of the individuals passing over, as if to hurry them on! The troop was soon on the other side; but how were the animals forming the bridge to get themselves over? This was the question that suggested itself. Manifestly, thought we, by number one letting go his tail. But then the _point d'appui_ on the other side was much lower down, and number one, with half a dozen of his neighbours, would be dashed against the opposite bank, or soused into the water. Here, then, was a problem, and we waited with some curiosity for its solution. It was soon solved. A monkey was now seen attaching his tail to the lowest on the bridge; another girdled him in a similar manner, and another, and so on until a dozen more were added to the string. These last were all powerful fellows; and running up to a high limb, they lifted the bridge into a position almost horizontal. Then a scream from the last monkey of the new formation warned the _tail end_ that all was ready; and the next moment the whole chain was swung over, and landed safely on the opposite bank! The lowermost links now dropped off to the ground, while the higher ones leaped to the branches and came down by the trunk. The whole troop then scampered off into the chaparral and disappeared. "Aw, be the powers of Moll Kelly! iv thim little crayteurs hasn't more sinse than the humans av these parts! It's a quare counthry, anyhow. Be me sowl! it bates Banagher intirely!" A general laugh followed the Irishman's remarks; and we all sprang to our feet, refreshed by our sleep, and lighter in spirits. The storm had disappeared, and the sun, now setting, gleamed in upon us through the broad leaves of the palms. The birds were abroad once more--brilliant creatures--uttering their sweet songs. Parrots and trogons, and tanagers flashed around our heads; and the great-billed and silly-looking toucans sat silent in the branches above. The stream had become fordable, and leaving our "lair", we crossed over, and struck into the woods on the opposite side. CHAPTER FORTY SEVEN. THE JARACHOS. We headed towards the National Bridge. Raoul had a friend half-way on the route--an old comrade upon whom he could depend. His rancho was in a secluded spot, near the road that leads to the rinconada [Note 1] of San Martin. We should find refreshment there; and, if not a bed, "at least", said Raoul, "a roof and a petate." We should not be likely to meet anyone, as it was ten miles off, and it would be late when we reached it. It _was_ late--near midnight--when we dropped in upon the contrabandista, for such was the friend of Raoul; but he and his family were still astir, under the light of a very dull wax candle. Jose Antonio--that was his name--was a little "sprung" at the five bareheaded apparitions that burst so suddenly upon him; but, recognising Raoul, we were cordially welcomed. Our host was a spare, bony old fellow, in leathern jacket and _calzoneros_ (breeches), with a keen, shrewd eye, that took in our situation at a single glance, and saved the Frenchman a great deal of explanation. Notwithstanding the cordiality with which his friend received him, I noticed that Raoul seemed uneasy about something as he glanced around the room; for the rancho, a small cane structure, had only one. There were two women stirring about--the wife of the contrabandista, and his daughter, a plump, good-looking girl of eighteen or thereabout. "_No han cenado, caballeros_?" (You have not supped, gentlemen), inquired, or rather affirmed, Jose Antonio, for our looks had answered the question before it was asked. "_Ni comido--ni almorzado_!" (Nor dined--nor breakfasted!) replied Raoul, with a grin. "_Carambo! Rafaela! Jesusita_!" shouted our host, with a sign, such as, among the Mexicans, often conveys a whole chapter of intelligence. The effect was magical. It sent Jesusita to her knees before the tortilla-stones; and Rafaela, Jose's wife, seized a string of tassajo, and plunged it into the olla. Then the little palm-leaf fan was handled, and the charcoal blazed and crackled, and the beef boiled, and the black beans simmered, and the chocolate frothed up, and we all felt happy under the prospect of a savoury supper. I had noticed that, notwithstanding all this, Raoul seemed uneasy. In the corner I discovered the cause of his solicitude in the shape of a small, spare man, wearing the shovel-hat and black _capote_ of a priest. I knew that my comrade was not partial to priests, and that he would sooner have trusted Satan himself than one of the tribe; and I attributed his uneasiness to this natural dislike of the clerical fraternity. "Who is he, Antone?" I heard him whisper to the contrabandista. "The cure of San Martin," was the reply. "He is new, then?" said Raoul. "_Hombre de bien_," (A good man), answered the Mexican, nodding as he spoke. Raoul seemed satisfied, and remained silent. I could not help noticing the "_hombre de bien_" myself; and no more could I help fancying, after a short observation, that the rancho was indebted for the honour of his presence more to the black eyes of Jesusita than to any zeal on his part regarding the spiritual welfare of the contrabandista or his family. There was a villainous expression upon his lips as he watched the girl moving over the floor; and once or twice I caught him scowling upon Chane, who, in his usual Irish way, was "blarneying" with Jesusita, and helping her to fan the charcoal. "Where's the padre?" whispered Raoul to our host. "He was in the _rinconada_ this morning." "In the _rinconada_!" exclaimed the Frenchman, starting. "They're gone down to the Bridge. The band has had a fandango with your people and lost some men. They say they have killed a good many stragglers along the road." "So he was in the _rinconada_, you say? and this morning, too?" inquired Raoul, in a half-soliloquy, and without heeding the last remark of the contrabandista. "We've got to look sharp, then," he added, after a pause. "There's no danger," replied the other, "if you keep from the road. Your people have already reached El Plan, and are preparing to attack the Pass of the Cerro. `_El Cojo_,' they say, has twenty thousand men to defend it." During this dialogue, which was carried on in whispers, I had noticed the little padre shifting about uneasily in his seat. At its conclusion he rose up, and bidding our host "_buenas noches_," was about to withdraw, when Lincoln, who had been quietly eyeing him for some time with that sharp, searching look peculiar to men of his kidney, jumped up, and, placing himself before the door, exclaimed in a drawling, emphatic tone: "_No, yer don't_!" "_Que cosa_?" (What's the matter?) asked the padre indignantly. "Kay or no kay--cosser or no cosser--yer don't go out o' hyur afore we do. Rowl, axe yur friend for a piece o' twine, will yer?" The padre appealed to our host, and he in turn appealed to Raoul. The Mexican was in a dilemma. He dared not offend the cure, and on the other hand he did not wish to dictate to his old comrade Raoul. Moreover, the fierce hunter, who stood like a huge giant in the door, had a voice in the matter; and therefore Jose Antonio had three minds to consult at one time. "It ain't Bob Linkin 'd infringe the rules of hospertality," said the hunter; "but this hyur's a peculiar case, an' I don't like the look of that 'ar priest, nohow yer kin fix it." Raoul, however, sided with the contrabandista, and explained to Lincoln that the padre was the peaceable cure of the neighbouring village, and the friend of Don Antonio; and the hunter, seeing that I did not interpose--for at the moment I was in one of those moods of abstraction, and scarcely noticed what was going on--permitted the priest to pass out. I was recalled to myself more by some peculiar expression which I heard Lincoln muttering after it was over than by the incidents of the scene itself. The occurrence had rendered us all somewhat uneasy; and we resolved upon swallowing our suppers hastily, and, after pushing forward some distance, to sleep in the woods. The tortillas were by this time ready, and the pretty Jesusita was pouring out the chocolate; so we set to work like men who had appetites. The supper was soon despatched, but our host had some _puros_ in the house--a luxury we had not enjoyed lately; and, hating to hurry away from such comfortable quarters, we determined to stay and take a smoke. We had hardly lit our cigars when Jesusita, who had gone to the door, came hastily back, exclaiming: "_Papa--papa! hay gente fuera_!" (Papa, there are people outside!) As we sprang to our feet several shadows appeared through the open walls. Lincoln seized his rifle and ran to the door. The next moment he rushed back, shouting out: "I told yer so!" And, dashing his huge body against the back of the rancho, he broke through the cane pickets with a crash. We were hastening to follow him when the frail structure gave way; and we found ourselves buried, along with our host and his women, under a heavy thatch of saplings and palm-leaves. We heard the crack of our comrade's rifle without--the scream of a victim--the reports of pistols and escopettes--the yelling of savage men; and then the roof was raised again, and we were pulled out and dragged down among the trees, and tied to their trunks and taunted and goaded, and kicked and cuffed, by the most villainous-looking set of desperadoes it has ever been my misfortune to fall among. They seemed to take delight in abusing us--yelling all the while like so many demons let loose. Our late acquaintance--the cure--was among them; and it was plain that he had brought the party on us. His "reverence" looked high and low for Lincoln; but, to his great mortification, the hunter had escaped. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Note 1. Rinconada. Literally _corner_; here it means a village. CHAPTER FORTY EIGHT. PADRE JARAUTA. We were not long in learning into whose hands we had fallen; for the name "Jarauta" was on every tongue. _They were the dreaded "Jarochos" of the bandit priest_. "We're in for it now," said Raoul, deeply mortified at the part he had taken in the affair with the cure. "It's a wonder they have kept us so long. Perhaps _he's_ not here himself, and they're waiting for him." As Raoul said this the clatter of hoofs sounded along the narrow road; and a horseman came galloping up to the rancho, riding over everything and everybody with a perfect recklessness. "That's Jarauta," whispered Raoul. "If he sees _me_--but it don't matter much," he added, in a lower tone: "we'll have a quick shrift all the same: he can't more than _hang_--and that he'll be sure to do." "Where are these Yankees?" cried Jarauta, leaping out of his saddle. "Here, Captain," answered one of the Jarochos, a hideous-looking griffe [Note 1] dressed in a scarlet uniform, and apparently the lieutenant of the band. "How many?" "Four, Captain." "Very well--what are you waiting for?" "To know whether I shall _hang_ or _shoot_ them." "Shoot them, by all means! _Carambo_! we have no time for neck-stretching!" "There are some nice trees here, Captain," suggested another of the band, with as much coolness as if he had been conversing about the hanging of so many dogs. He wished--a curiosity not uncommon--to witness the spectacle of hanging. "_Madre de Dios_! stupid! I tell you we haven't time for such silly sport. Out with you there! Sanchez! Gabriel! Carlos! send your bullets through their Saxon skulls! Quick!" Several of the Jarochos commenced unslinging their carbines, while those who guarded us fell back, to be out of range of the lead. "Come," exclaimed Raoul, "it can't be worse than this--we can only die; and I'll let the padre know whom he has got before I take leave of him. I'll give him a _souvenir_ that won't make him sleep any sounder to-night. _Oyez, Padre Jarauta_!" continued he, calling out in a tone of irony; "have you found Marguerita yet?" We could see between us and the dim rushlight that the Jarocho started, as if a shot had passed through his heart. "Hold!" he shouted to the men, who were about taking aim; "drag those scoundrels hither! A light there!--fire the thatch! _Vaya_!" In a moment the hut of the contrabandista was in flames, the dry palm-leaves blazing up like flax. "Merciful Heaven! _they are going to roast us_!" With this horrible apprehension, we were dragged up towards the burning pile, close to which stood our fierce judge and executioner. The bamboos blazed and crackled, and under their red glare we could now see our captors with a terrible distinctness. A more demon-like set, I think, could not have been found anywhere out of the infernal regions. Most of them were zamboes and mestizoes, and not a few pure Africans of the blackest hue, maroons from Cuba and the Antilles, many of them with their fronts and cheeks tattooed, adding to the natural ferocity of their features. Their coarse woolly hair sticking out in matted tufts, their white teeth set in savage grins, their strange armour and grotesque attitudes, their wild and picturesque attire, formed a _coup d'oeil_ that might have pleased a painter in his studio, but which at the time had no charm for us. There were Pintoes among them, too--spotted men from the tangled forests of Acapulco--pied and speckled with blotches of red, and black, and white, like hounds and horses. They were the first of this race I had ever seen, and their unnatural complexions, even at that fearful moment, impressed me with feelings of disgust and loathing. A single glance at this motley crew would have convinced us, had we not been quite sure of it already, that we had no favour to expect. There was not a countenance among them that exhibited the slightest trait of grace or mercy. No such expression could be seen around us, and we felt satisfied that our time had come. The appearance of their leader did not shake this conviction. Revenge and hatred were playing upon his sharp sallow features, and his thin lips quivered with an expression of malice, plainly habitual. His nose, like a parrot's beak, had been broken by a blow, which added to its sinister shape; and his small black eyes twinkled with metallic brightness. He wore a purplish-coloured manga, that covered his whole body, and his feet were cased in the red leather boots of the country, with heavy silver spurs strapped over them. A black sombrero, with its band of gold bullion and tags of the same material, completed the _tout ensemble_ of his costume. He wore neither beard nor moustache; but his hair, black and snaky, hung down trailing over the velvet embroidery of his _manga_. [See Note 2]. Such was the Padre Jarauta. Raoul's face was before him, upon which he looked for some moments without speaking. His features twitched as if under galvanic action, and we could see that his fingers jerked in a similar manner. They were painful memories that could produce this effect upon a heart of such iron devilry, and Raoul alone knew them. The latter seemed to enjoy the interlude; for he lay upon the ground, looking up at the Jarocho with a smile of triumph upon his reckless features. We were expecting the next speech of the padre to be an order for flinging us into the fire, which now burned fiercely. Fortunately, this fancy did not seem to strike him just then. "Ha, monsieur!" exclaimed he at length, approaching Raoul. "I dreamt that you and I would meet again; I dreamt it--ha! ha! ha!--it was a pleasant dream, but not half so pleasant as the reality--ha! ha! ha! Don't _you_ think so?" he added, striking our comrade over the face with a mule quirt. "Don't _you_ think so?" he repeated, lashing him as before, while his eyes sparkled with a fiendish malignity. "Did _you_ dream of meeting Marguerita again?" inquired Raoul, with a satirical laugh, that sounded strange, even fearful, under the circumstances. I shall never forget the expression of the Jarocho at that moment. His sallow face turned black, his lips white, his eyes burned like a demon's, and, springing forward with a fierce oath, he planted his iron-shod heel upon the face of our comrade. The skin peeled off, and the blood followed. There was something so cowardly--so redolent of a brutal ferocity--in the act, that I could not remain quiet. With a desperate wrench I freed my hands, skinning my wrists in the effort, and, flinging myself upon him, I clutched at the monster's throat. He stepped back; my ankles were tied, and I fell upon my face at his feet. "Ho! ho!" cried he, "what have we here? An officer, eh? Come!" he continued, "rise up from your prayers and let me look at you. Ha! a captain? And this?--a lieutenant! Gentlemen, you're too dainty to be shot like common dogs; we'll not let the wolves have you; we'll put you out of their reach; ha! ha! ha! Out of reach of wolves, do you hear! And what's this?" continued he, turning to Chane and examining his shoulders. "Bah! _soldado raso--Irlandes, carajo_!" (A common soldier--an Irishman, too!) "What do _you_ do fighting among these heretics against your own religion? There, renegade!" and he kicked the Irishman in the ribs. "Thank yer honner!" said Chane, with a grunt, "small fayvours thankfully received; much good may it do yer honner!" "Here, Lopez!" shouted the brigand. "Now for the fire!" thought we. "Lopez, I say!" continued he, calling louder. "_Aca, aca_!" (here!) answered a voice, and the griffe who had guarded us came up, swinging his scarlet manga. "Lopez, these I perceive are gentlemen of rank, and we must send them out of the world a little more gracefully, do you hear?" "Yes, Captain," answered the other, with stoical composure. "Over the cliffs, Lopez. _Facilis descensus Averni_--but you don't understand Latin, Lopez. Over the cliffs, do you hear? You understand that?" "Yes, Captain," repeated the Jarocho, moving only his lips. "You will have them at the Eagle's Cave by six in the morning; by six, do you hear?" "Yes, Captain," again replied the subordinate. "And if any of them is missing--is missing, do you hear?" "Yes, Captain." "You will take his place in the dance--the dance--ha! ha! ha! You understand that, Lopez?" "Yes, Captain." "Enough then, good Lopez--handsome Lopez! beautiful Lopez!--enough, and good-night to you!" So saying, the Jarocho drew his quirt several times across the red cheek of Raoul, and with a curse upon his lips he leaped upon his mustang and galloped off. Whatever might be the nature of the punishment that awaited us at the Eagle's Cave, it was evident that Lopez had no intention of becoming proxy in it for any of us. This was plain from the manner in which he set about securing us. We were first gagged with bayonet-shanks, and then dragged out into the bushes. Here we were thrown upon our backs, each of us in the centre of four trees that formed a parallelogram. Our arms and legs were stretched to their full extent, and tied severally to the trees; and thus we lay, spread out like raw hides to dry. Our savage captors drew the cords so taut that our joints cracked under the cruel tension. In this painful position, with a Jarocho standing over each of us, we passed the remainder of the night. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Note 1. Griffe, a cross-breed between a negro and a Carib. Note 2. Manga, a jacket with loose sleeves. CHAPTER FORTY NINE. A HANG BY THE HEELS. It was a long night--the longest I can remember--a night that fully illustrated the horror of monotony. I can compare our feelings to those of one under the influence of the nightmare. But, no--worse than that. Our savage sentries occasionally sat down upon our bodies, and, lighting their cigaritos, chatted gaily while we groaned. We could not protest; we were gagged. But it would have made little difference; they would only have mocked us the more. We lay glaring upon the moon as she coursed through a cloudy heaven. The wind whistled through the leaves, and its melancholy moaning sounded like our death-dirge. Several times through the night I heard the howl of the prairie wolf, and I knew it was Lincoln; but the Jarochos had pickets all around, and the hunter dared not approach our position. He could not have helped us. The morning broke at last; and we were taken up, tied upon the backs of vicious mules, and hurried off through the woods. We travelled for some distance along a ridge, until we had reached its highest point, where the cliff beetled over. Here we were unpacked, and thrown upon the grass. About thirty of the Jarochos guarded us, and we now saw them under the broad light of day; but they did not look a whit more beautiful than they had appeared under the glare of the blazing rancho on the preceding night. Lopez was at their head, and never relaxed his vigilance for a moment. It was plain that he considered the padre a man of his word. After we had remained about half an hour on the brow of the cliff, an exclamation from one of the men drew our attention; and, looking round, we perceived a band of horsemen straggling up the hill at a slow gallop. It was Jarauta, with about fifty of his followers. They were soon close up to us. "_Buenos dias, caballeros_!" (Good day, gentlemen!) cried their leader in a mocking tone, leaping down and approaching us, "I hope you passed the night comfortably. Lopez, I am sure, provided you with good beds. Didn't you, Lopez?" "Yes, Captain," answered the laconic Lopez. "The gentlemen rested well; didn't they, Lopez?" "Yes, Captain." "No kicking or tumbling about, eh?" "No, Captain." "Oh! then they rested well; it's a good thing: they have a long journey before them--haven't they, Lopez?" "Yes, Captain." "I hope, gentlemen, you are ready for the road. Do you think you are ready?" As each of us had the shank of a bayonet between his teeth, besides being tied neck and heels, it is not likely that this interrogatory received a reply; nor did his "reverence" expect any, as he continued putting similar questions in quick succession, appealing occasionally to his lieutenant for an answer. The latter, who was of the taciturn school, contented himself, and his superior too, with a simple "yes" or "no." Up to this moment we had no knowledge of the fate that awaited us. We knew we had to die--that we knew; but in what way we were still ignorant. I, for one, had made up my mind that the padre intended pitching us over the cliffs. We were at length enlightened upon this important point. We were not to take that awful leap into eternity which I had been picturing to myself. A fate more horrible still awaited us. _We were to be hanged over the precipice_! As if to aid the monster in his inhuman design, several pine-trees grew out horizontally from the edge of the cliff; and over the branches of these the Jarochos commenced reeving their long lazos. Expert in the handling of ropes, as all Mexicans are, they were not long in completing their preparations, and we soon beheld our gallows. "According to rank, Lopez," cried Jarauta, seeing that all was ready; "the captain first--do you hear?" "Yes, Captain," answered the imperturbable brigand who superintended the operations. "I shall keep _you_ to the last, Monsieur," said the priest, addressing Raoul; "you will have the pleasure of bringing up the rear in your passage through purgatory. Ha! ha! ha! Won't he, Lopez?" "Yes, Captain." "Maybe some of you would like a priest, gentlemen." This Jarauta uttered with an ironical grin that was revolting to behold. "If you would," he continued, "say so. I sometimes officiate in that capacity myself. Don't I, Lopez?" "Yes, Captain." A diabolical laugh burst from the Jarochos, who had dismounted, and were standing out upon the cliff, the better to witness the spectacle of our hanging. "Well, Lopez, does any of them say `yes'?" "No, Captain." "Ask the Irishman there; ask him--he ought to be a good Catholic." The question was put to Chane, in mockery, of course, for it was impossible for him to answer it; and yet he _did_ answer it, for his look spoke a curse as plainly as if it had been uttered through a trumpet. The Jarochos did not heed that, but only laughed the louder. "Well, Lopez, what says Saint Patrick? `Yes' or `no'?" "`No', Captain." And a fresh peal of ruffian laughter rang out. The rope was now placed around my neck in a running noose. The other end had been passed over the tree, and lay coiled near the edge of the cliff. Lopez held it in his hand a short distance above the coil, in order to direct its movements. "All ready there, Lopez?" cried the leader. "Yes, Captain." "Swing off the captain, then--no, not yet; let him look at the floor on which he is going to dance; that is but fair." I had been drawn forward until my feet projected over the edge of the precipice, and close to the root of the tree. I was now forced into a sitting posture, so that I might look below, my limbs hanging over. Strange to say, I could not resist doing exactly what my tormentor wished. Under other circumstances the sight would have been to me appalling; but my nerves were strung by the protracted agony I had been forced to endure. The precipice on whose verge I sat formed a side of one of those yawning gulfs common in Spanish America, and known by the name _barrancas_. It seemed as if a mountain had been scooped out and carried away. Not two hundred yards horizontally distant was the twin jaw of the chasm, like a black burnt wall; yet the torrent that roared and foamed between them was full six hundred feet below my position! I could have flung the stump of a cigar upon the water; in fact, an object dropping vertically from where I sat--for it was a projecting point--must have fallen plumb into the stream. It was not unlike the canon where we had tossed over the dogs; but it was higher, and altogether more hell-like and horrible. As I looked down, several small birds, whose species I did not stay to distinguish, were screaming below, and an eagle on his broad, bold wing came soaring over the abyss, and flapped up to my very face. "Well, Captain," broke in the sharp voice of Jarauta, "what do you think of it? A nice soft floor to dance upon, isn't it, Lopez?" "Yes, Captain." "All ready there? Stop! some music; we must have music: how can he dance without music? _Hola_, Sanchez, where's your bugle?" "Here, Captain!" "Strike up, then! Play `Yankee Doodle'. Ha! ha! ha! `Yankee Doodle', do you hear?" "Yes, Captain," answered the man; and the next moment the well-known strains of the American national air sounded upon my ear, producing a strange, sad feeling I shall never forget. "Now, Lopez!" cried the padre. I was expecting to be swung out, when I heard him again shout, "Stay!" at the same time stopping the music. "By heavens! Lopez, I have a better plan," he cried: "why did I not think of it before? It's not too late yet. Ha! ha! ha! _Carambo_! They shall dance upon their heads! That's better--isn't it, Lopez?" "Yes, Captain." A cheer from the Jarochos announced their approval of this change in the programme. The padre made a sign to Lopez, who approached him, appearing to receive some directions. I did not at first comprehend the novelty that was about to be introduced. I was not kept long in ignorance. One of the Jarochos, seizing me by the collar, dragged me back from the ledge, and transferred the noose from my neck to my ankles. Horror heaped upon horror! I was to be _hung head downwards_! "That will be much prettier--won't it, Lopez?" "Yes, Captain." "The gentleman will have time to make himself ready for heaven before he dies--won't he, Lopez?" "Yes Captain." "Take out the gag--let him have his tongue free; he'll need that to pray with--won't he, Lopez?" "Yes, Captain." One of the Jarochos jerked the bayonet roughly from my mouth, almost dislocating my jaw. The power of speech was gone. I could not, if I had wished it, have uttered an intelligible word. "Give him his hands, too; he'll need them to keep off the zopilotes; won't he, Lopez?" "Yes, Captain." The thong that bound my wrists was cut, leaving my hands free. I was on my back, my feet towards the precipice. A little to my right stood Lopez, holding the rope that was about to launch me into eternity. "Now the music--take the music for your cue, Lopez; then jerk him up!" cried the sharp voice of the fiend. I shut my eyes, waiting for the pull. It was but a moment, but it seemed a lifetime. There was a dead silence--a stillness like that which precedes the bursting of a rock or the firing of a jubilee-gun. Then I heard the first note of the bugle, and along with it a crack--the crack of a rifle; a man staggered over me, besprinkling my face with blood, and, falling forward, disappeared! Then came the pluck upon my ankles, and I was jerked head downwards into the empty air. I felt my feet touching the branches above, and, throwing up my arms, I grasped one, and swung my body upwards. After two or three efforts I lay along the main trunk, which I embraced with the hug of despair. I looked downward. A man was hanging below--far below--at the end of the lazo! It was Lopez. I knew his scarlet manga at a glance. He was hanging by the thigh in a snarl of the rope. His hat had fallen off. I could see the red blood running over his face and dripping from his long, snaky locks. He hung head down. I could see that he was dead! The hard thong was cutting my ankles, and--oh, heaven!--under our united weight the roots were cracking! Appalling thought! "_The tree will give way_!" I held fast with one arm. I drew forth my knife-- fortunately I still had one--with the other. I opened the blade with my teeth, and, stretching backward and downward, I drew it across the thong. It parted with a "snig", and the red object left me like a flash of light. There was a plunge upon the black water below--a plunge and a few white bubbles; but the body of the Jarocho, with its scarlet trappings, was seen no more after that plunge. CHAPTER FIFTY. A VERY SHORT TRIAL. During all this time shots were ringing over me. I could hear the shouts and cheering of men, the trampling of heavy hoofs, and the clashing of sabres. I knew that some strange deliverance had reached us. I knew that a skirmish was going on above me, but I could see nothing. I was below the level of the cliff. I lay in a terrible suspense, listening. I dared not change my posture--I dared not move. The weight of the Jarocho's body had hitherto held my feet securely in the notch; but that was gone, and my ankles were still tied. A movement and my legs might fall off the limb and drag me downward. I was faint, too, from the protracted struggle for life and death, and I hugged the tree and held on like a wounded squirrel. The shots seemed less frequent, the shouts appeared to recede from the cliffs. Then I heard a cheer--an Anglo-Saxon cheer--an American cheer, and the next moment a well-known voice rang in my ears. "By the livin' catamount, he's hyur yit! Whooray--whoop! Niver say die! Hold on, Cap'n, teeth an' toenail! Hyur, boys! clutch on, a lot o' yer! Quick!--hook my claws, Nat! Now pull--all thegether!--Hooray!" I felt a strong hand grasping the collar of my coat, and the next moment I was raised from my perch and landed upon the top of the cliff. I looked around upon my deliverers. Lincoln was dancing like a lunatic, uttering his wild, half-Indian yells. A dozen men, in the dark-green uniform of the "mounted rifles", stood looking on and laughing at this grotesque exhibition. Close by another party were guarding some prisoners, while a hundred others were seen in scattered groups along the ridge, returning from the pursuit of the Jarochos, whom they had completely routed. I recognised Twing, and Hennessy, and Hillis, and several other officers whom I had met before. We were soon _en rapport_, and I could not have received a greater variety of congratulations had it been the hour after my wedding. Little Jack was the guide of the rescue. After a moment spent in explanation with the major, I turned to look for Lincoln. He was standing close by, holding in his hands a piece of lazo, which he appeared to examine with a strange and puzzled expression. He had recovered from his burst of wild joy and was "himself again." "What's the matter, Bob?" I inquired, noticing his bewildered look. "Why, Cap'n, I'm a sorter bamfoozled yeer. I kin understan' well enuf how the feller; irked yer inter the tree afore he let go. But how did this hyur whang kum cuf? An' whar's the other eend?" I saw that he held in his hand the noose of the lazo which he had taken from my ankles, and I explained the mystery of how it had "kum cut". This seemed to raise me still higher in the hunter's esteem. Turning to one of the riflemen, an old hunter like himself, he whispered--I overheard him: "I'll tell yer what it is, Nat: he kin whip his weight in wild-cats or grizzly b'ars any day in the year--_he_ kin, or my name ain't Bob Linkin." Saying this, he stepped forward on the cliff and looked over; and then he examined the tree, and then the piece of lazo, and then the tree again, and then he commenced dropping pebbles down, as if he was determined to measure every object, and fix it in his memory with a proper distinctness. Twing and the others had now dismounted. As I turned towards them Clayley was taking a pull at the major's pewter--and a good long pull, too. I followed the lieutenant's example, and felt the better for it. "But how did you find us, Major?" "This little soldier," said he, pointing to Jack, "brought us to the rancho where you were taken. From there we easily tracked you to a large hacienda." "Ha! you routed the guerilla, then?" "Routed the guerilla! We saw no guerilla." "What! at the hacienda?" "Peons and women; nothing more. Yes, there was, too--what am I thinking about? There was a party there that routed _us_; Thornley and Hillis here have both been wounded, and are not likely to recover--poor fellows!" I looked towards these gentlemen for an explanation. They were both laughing, and I looked in vain. "Hennessy, too," said the major, "has got a stab under the ribs." "Och, by my soul have I, and no mistake!" cried the latter. "Come, Major--an explanation, if you please." I was in no humour to enjoy this joke. I half divined the cause of their mirth, and it produced in me an unaccountable feeling of annoyance, not to say pain. "Be my faith, then, Captain," said Hennessy, speaking for the major, "if ye must know all about it, I'll tell ye myself. We overhauled a pair of the most elegant crayteurs you ever clapped eyes upon; and rich--rich as Craysus--wasn't they, boys?" "Oh, plenty of tin," remarked Hillis. "But, Captain," continued Hennessy, "how they took on to your `tiger'! I thought they would have eaten the little chap, body, bones, and all." I was chafing with impatience to know more, but I saw that nothing worth knowing could be had in that quarter. I determined, therefore, to conceal my anxiety, and find an early opportunity to talk to Jack. "But beyond the hacienda?" I inquired, changing the subject. "We trailed you down stream to the canon, where we found blood upon the rocks. Here we were at fault, when a handsome, delicate-looking lad, known somehow or other to your Jack, came up and carried us to the crossing above, where the lad gave us the slip, and we saw no more of him. We struck the hoofs again where he left us, and followed them to a small prairie on the edge of the woods, where the ground was strangely broken and trampled. There they had turned back, and we lost all trace." "But how, then, did you come here?" "By accident altogether. We were striking to the nearest point on the National Road when that tall sergeant of yours dropped down upon us out of the branches of a tree." "Whom did you see, Jack?" I whispered to the boy, after having drawn him aside. "I saw them all, Captain." "Well?" "They asked where you were, and when I told them--" "Well--well!" "They appeared to wonder--" "Well?" "And the young ladies--" "And the young ladies?" "They ran round, and cried, and--" Jack was the dove that brought the olive-branch. "Did they say where they were going?" I inquired, after one of those sweet waking dreams. "Yes, Captain, they are going up the country to live." "Where--where?" "I could not recollect the name--it was so strange." "Jalapa? Orizava? Cordova? Puebla? Mexico?" "I think it was one of them, but I cannot tell which. I have forgotten it, Captain." "Captain Haller!" called the voice of the major; "here a moment, if you please. These are some of the men who were going to hang you, are they not?" Twing pointed to _five_ of the Jarachos who had been captured in the skirmish. "Yes," replied I, "I think so; yet I could not swear to their identity." "By the crass, Major, I can swear to ivery mother's son av thim! There isn't a scoundhrel among thim but has given me rayzon to remimber him, iv a harty kick in the ribs might be called a rayzon. Oh! ye ugly spalpeens! kick me now, will yez?--will yez jist be plazed to trid upon the tail av my jacket?" "Stand out here, my man," said the major. Chane stepped forward, and swore away the lives of the five Jarochos in less than as many minutes. "Enough!" said the major, after the Irishman had given his testimony. "Lieutenant Claiborne," continued he, addressing an officer the youngest in rank, "what sentence?" "Hang!" replied the latter in a solemn voice. "Lieutenant Hillis?" "Hang!" was the reply. "Lieutenant Clayley?" "Hang!" said Clayley in a quick and emphatic tone. "Captain Hennessy?" "Hang them!" answered the Irishman. "Captain Haller?" "Have you determined, Major Twing?" I asked, intending, if possible, to mitigate this terrible sentence. "We have no time, Captain Haller," replied my superior, interrupting me, "nor opportunity to carry prisoners. Our army has reached Plan del Rio, and is preparing to attack the pass. An hour lost, and we may be too late for the battle. You know the result of that as well as I." I knew Twing's determined character too well to offer further opposition, and the Jarochos were condemned to be hung. The following extract from the major's report of the affair will show how the sentence was carried out: _We killed five of them, and captured as many more, but the leader escaped. The prisoners were tried, and sentenced to be hung. They had a gallows already rigged for Captain Haller and his companions, and for want of a better we hanged them upon that_. CHAPTER FIFTY ONE. A BIRD'S-EYE VIEW OF A BATTLE. It was still only an hour by sun as we rode off from the Eagle's Cave. At some distance I turned in my saddle and looked back. It was a singular sight, those _five_ hanging corpses, and one not easily forgotten. What an appalling picture it must have been to their own comrades, who doubtless watched the spectacle from some distant elevation! Motionless they hung, in all the picturesque drapery of their strange attire--draggling--dead! The pines bent slightly over, the eagle screamed as he swept past, and high in the blue air a thousand bald vultures wheeled and circled, descending at every curve. Before we had ridden out of sight the Eagle's Cliff was black with zopilotes, hundreds clustering upon the pines, and whetting their fetid beaks over their prey, still warm. I could not help being struck with this strange transposition of victims. We forded the stream below, and travelled for some hours in a westerly course over a half-naked ridge. At mid-day we reached an arroyo--a clear, cool stream that gurgled along under a thick grove of the _palma redonda_. Here we "nooned", stretching our bodies along the green-sward. At sundown we rode into the _pueblito_ (hamlet) of Jacomulco, where we had determined to pass the night. Twing levied on the _alcalde_ for forage for "man and beast". The horses were picketed in the plaza, while the men bivouacked by their fires--strong mounted pickets having been thrown out on the roads or tracks that led to the village. By daybreak we were again in our saddles, and, riding across another ridge, we struck the Plan River five miles above the bridge, and commenced riding down the stream. We were still far from the water, which roared and "soughed" in the bottom of a barranca, hundreds of feet below our path. On crossing an eminence a sight suddenly burst upon us that caused us to leap in our saddles. Directly before us, and not a mile distant, rose a high round hill like a semi-globe, and from a small tower upon its top waved the standard of Mexico. Long lines of uniformed men girdled the tower, formed in rank. Horsemen in bright dresses galloped up and down the hill. We could see the glitter of brazen helmets, and the glancing of a thousand bayonets. The burnished howitzer flashed in the sunbeams, and we could discern the cannoniers standing by their posts. Bugles were braying and drums rolling. So near were they that we could distinguish the call. _They were sounding the "long roll_!" "Halt! Great Heaven!" cried Twing, jerking his horse upon its haunches; "we are riding into the enemy's camp! Guide," he added, turning fiercely to Raoul, and half-drawing his sword, "what's this?" "The hill, Major," replied the soldier coolly, "is `El Telegrafo'. It is the Mexican head-quarters, I take it." "And, sir, what mean you? It is not a mile distant?" "It is ten miles, Major." "Ten! Why, sir, I can trace the eagle upon that flag! It is not one mile, by Heaven!" "By the eye, true; but by the road, Major, it is what I have said--ten miles. We passed the crossing of the barranca some time ago; there is no other before we reach El Plan." It was true. Although within range of the enemy's lightest metal, we were ten miles off! A vast chasm yawned between us and them. The next moment we were upon its brink, and, wheeling sharply to the right, we trotted on as fast as the rocky road would allow us. "O heavens! Haller, we shall be too late. Gallop!" shouted Twing, as we pressed our horses side by side. The troop at the word sprang into a gallop. El Plan, the bridge, the hamlet, the American camp with its thousand white pyramids, all burst upon us like a flash--below, far below, lying like a map. We are still opposite El Telegrafo! "By heavens!" cried Twing, "our camp is empty!" A few figures only were visible, straggling among the tents: the teamster, the camp-guard, the invalid soldier. "Look! look!" I followed the direction indicated. Against the long ridge that rose over the camp a dark-blue line could be traced--a line of uniformed men, glistening as they moved with the sparkle of ten thousand bayonets. It wound along the hill like a bristling snake, and, heading towards El Telegrafo, disappeared for a moment behind the ridge. A gun from the globe-shaped hill--and then another! another! another!--a roll of musketry!--drums--bugles--shouts--cheering! "The battle's begun!" "We are too late!" We were still eight miles from the scene of action. We checked up, and sat chafing in our saddles. And now the roll of musketry became incessant, and we could hear the crack! crack! of the American rifles. And bombs hurtled and rockets hissed through the air. The round hill was shrouded in a cloud of sulphur, and through the smoke we could see small parties creeping up from rock to rock, from bush to bush, firing as they went. We could see some tumbling back under the leaden hail that was poured upon them from above. And then a strong band debouched from the woods below, and strained upwards, daring all danger. Up, up!--and bayonets were crossed, and sabres glistened and grew red, and wild cries filled the air. And then came a cheer, long, loud, and exulting, and under the thinning smoke thousands were seen rushing down the steep, and flinging themselves into the woods. We knew not as yet which party it was that were thus flying. We looked at the tower in breathless suspense. The cloud was around its base, where musketry was still rolling, sending its deadly missiles after the fugitives below. "Look! look!" cried a voice: "the Mexican flag--it is down! _See_! `_the star-spangled banner_!'" The American standard was slowly unfolding itself over the blue smoke, and we could easily distinguish the stripes, and the dark square in the corner with its silvery stars; and, as if with one voice, our troops broke into a wild "Hurrah!" In less time than you have taken in reading this account of it the battle of Cerro Gordo was lost and won. CHAPTER FIFTY TWO. AN ODD WAY OF ESCAPING FROM A BATTLE-FIELD. We sat on our horses, facing the globe-shaped summit of El Telegrafo, and watching our flag as it swung out from the tower. "Look yonder! what is that?" cried an officer, pointing across the barranca. All eyes were now turned in the direction indicated. A white line was slowly moving down the face of the opposite cliff. "Rein back, men! rein back!" shouted Twing, as his eye rested upon the strange object. "Throw yourselves under cover of the hill!" In a minute our whole party--dragoons, officers, and all--had galloped our horses into the bed of a dry arroyo, where we were completely screened from observation. Three or four of us, dismounting, along with Twing, crept cautiously forward to the position we had just left, and, raising our heads over the bunch-grass, looked across the chasm. We were close to its edge, and the opposite "cheek" of the barranca, a huge wall of trap-rock, about a mile horizontally distant, rose at least a thousand feet from the river bottom. Its face was almost perpendicular, with the exception of a few stairs or platforms in the basaltic strata, and from these hung out stunted palms, cedars, and dark, shapeless masses of cacti and agave. Down this front the living line was still moving--slowly, zigzag--along narrow ledges and over jutting points, as though some white liquid or a train of gigantic insects were crawling down the precipice. The occasional flash of a bright object would have told us the nature of this strange phenomenon, had we not guessed it already. They were armed men--Mexicans--escaping from the field of battle; and in a wood upon the escarpment of the cliff we could perceive several thousands of their comrades huddled up, and waiting for an opportunity to descend. They were evidently concealed, and out of all danger from their pursuers on the other side. Indeed, the main body of the American army had already passed their position, and were moving along the Jalapa road, following up the clouds of dust that hung upon the retreating squadrons of Santa Anna. We lay for some time observing the motions of these cunning fugitives as they streamed downward. The head of their line had nearly reached the timbered bottom, through whose green fringes the Plan River swept onward, curving from cliff to cliff. Impatient looks were cast towards the major, whose cold grey eye showed no signs of action. "Well, Major--what's to be done?" asked one. "Nothing!" was the impressive reply. "Nothing!" echoed everyone. "Why, what could we do?" "Take them prisoners--every one of them." "Whom prisoners?" "These Mexicans--these before us." "Ha! before you they are--a long way, too. Bah! they are ten miles off, and, even if we could ride straight down the bluff with winged horses, what could our hundred men do in that jungle below? Look yonder!--there are a thousand of them crawling over the rocks?" "And what signify numbers?" asked I, now speaking for the first time. "They are already defeated and flying--half of them, I'll wager, without arms. Come, Major, let us go! We can capture the whole party without firing a shot." "But, my dear Captain, we cannot reach them where they are." "It is not necessary. If we ride up the cliffs, they will come to us." "How?" "You see this dark line. It is not three miles distant. You know that timber like that does not grow on the naked face of a cliff. It is a gorge, and, I'll warrant, a watercourse too. They will pass through it." "Beautiful! We could meet them as they came up it," cried several at once. "No, lads--no! You are all wrong. They will keep the bottom--the heavy timber, I warrant you. It's no use losing time. We must round to the road, and forward. Who knows that we may not find work enough yet? Come!" So saying, our commanding officer rose up, and, walking back to the arroyo, leapt into his saddle. Of course we followed his example, but with no very amiable feelings. I, for one, felt satisfied that we might have made a dashing thing of it, and entered the camp with flying colours. I felt, and so did my friend Clayley, like a schoolboy who had come too late for his lesson, and would gladly have been the bearer of a present to his master: moreover, we had learned from our comrades that it was the expressed intention of the commander-in-chief to capture as many of the enemy as possible on this occasion. This determination arose from the fact, well authenticated, that hundreds who had marched out of Vera Cruz on parole had gone direct to Cerro Gordo, with the intention of fighting us again; and no doubt some of these honourable soldiers were among the gentry now climbing down the barranca. With these feelings, Clayley and I were anxious to do something that might cover our late folly, and win our way back to favour at head-quarters. "Let me take fifty of your men and try this. You know, Major Twing, I have a score to rub out." "I cannot, Captain--I cannot. We must on. Forward!" And the next moment we were moving at a trot in the direction of El Plan. For the first time I felt angry at Twing; and, drawing my bridle tighter, I fell back to the rear. What would I not have given for the "Rifle Rangers" at that moment? I was startled from a very sullen reverie by a shot, the whistling of a rifle bullet, and the loud "Halt" of the major in front. Raising myself on the instant, I could see a greenish-looking object just disappearing over the spur of a ridge. It was a vidette, who had fired and run in. "Do you think they are any of our people?" "That 'ar's one of our kump'ny, Cap'n; I seed the green on his cap," said Lincoln. I galloped to the front. Twing was just detaching a small party to reconnoitre. I fell in along with this, and after riding a hundred yards we looked over the ridge, and saw, not four hundred yards distant, a ten-inch howitzer, that had just been wheeled round, and now stood gaping at us. In the rear of the gun stood a body of artillerists, and on their flanks a larger body of what appeared to be light infantry or rifles. It would have been anything but a pleasing sight, but that a small flag with red and white stripes was playing over the gun; and our party, heedless of their orders, leaped their horses on the ridge, and, pulling off their caps, saluted it with a cheer. The soldiers by the battery still stood undecided, not knowing what to make of our conduct, as they were the advanced outpost in this direction, when a mounted rifleman galloped up and displayed the flag of his regiment. A wild cheer echoed back from the battery; and the next moment both parties had met, and were shaking each other's hands with the hearty greetings of long-parted friends. Not the least interesting to me was the fact that my own corps, under the command of its lieutenant, formed the principal guard of the gun; and the welcome of our old comrades was such as we should have received had we come back from the grave. They had long since made up their minds that they had seen the last of us; and it was quite amusing to witness these brave _tirailleurs_ as they gathered around Lincoln and his comrades to hear the story of our adventures. CHAPTER FIFTY THREE. A WHOLESALE CAPTURE. In a few minutes our greetings were over. Twing moved on, taking with him his squadron of mounted men. I had made up my mind to take the _opposite road_--the "back track". I was now in command of a force--my own--and I felt keenly the necessity of doing something to redeem my late folly. Clayley was as anxious as myself. "You do not need them any longer?" said I to Ripley, a gallant young fellow, who commanded the howitzer. "No, Captain; I have thirty artillerists here. It is strange if we can't keep the piece and manage it against ten times that number of such heroes as we have seen over yonder." And he pointed to the flying enemy on the other side of the barranca. "What say you to going with us?" "I should like it well; but duty, my dear H.--duty! I must stay by the gun." "Good-bye, then, comrade! We have no time to lose--farewell!" "Good-bye; and if you're whipped, fall back on me. I'll keep the piece here until you return, and there'll be a good load of grape ready for anybody that may be in pursuit of you." The company had by this time formed on the flank of the howitzer, and at the words "Forward!--quick time!" started briskly across the hills. In a few minutes we had reached the point where the road trended for some distance along the brow of the precipice. Here we halted a moment; and taking Lincoln and Raoul, I crawled forward to our former point of observation. Our time spent at the battery had been so short that, with the difficulty which the enemy experienced in descending the cliff, the head of their line had only now reached the bottom of the barranca. They were running in twos and threes towards the stream, which, near this point, impinged upon the foot of the precipice. With a small glass that I had obtained from Ripley I could see their every movement. Some of them were without arms--they had doubtless thrown them away--while others still carried their muskets, and not a few were laden with knapsacks, and heavy burdens too; the household gods--perhaps stolen ones--of their own camp. As they reached the green-sward, dropping down in a constant stream, they rushed forward to the water, scrambling into it in thirsty crowds, and falling upon their knees to drink. Some of them filled their canteens and went on. "They intend to take the hills," thought I. I knew there was no water for miles in that direction. As I swept the glass round the bottom of the cliff, I was struck with an object that stood in a clump of palm-trees. It was a mule saddled, and guarded by several soldiers more richly uniformed than the masses who were struggling past them. "They are waiting for some officer of rank," thought I. I moved the glass slowly along the line of descending bodies, and upward against the rocks to a small platform, nearly halfway up the cliff. Several bright uniforms flashed upon the lens. The platform was shaded with palms; and I could see that this party had halted a moment for the purpose (as I then conjectured) of allowing the foremost fugitives to pioneer the wooded bottom. I was right. As soon as these had crossed the stream, and made some way in the jungle along its banks, the former continued their descent; and now I saw what caused my pulse to beat feverishly-- that one of these carried a dark object on his back. An object?--a man--and that man could be no other than the lame tyrant of Mexico. I can scarcely describe my feelings at this moment. The young hunter who sees noble game--a bear, a panther, a buffalo--within reach of his rifle for the first time, might feel as I did. I hated this man, as all honest men must and should hate a cowardly despot. During our short campaign I had heard many a well-authenticated story of his base villainy, and I believe at that moment I would have willingly parted with my hand to have brought him as near to me as he appeared under the field of the telescope. I thought I could even distinguish the lines, deep furrowed by guilt, on his dark, malice-marked face; and, as I became sure of the identity, I drew back my head, cautioning my companions to do the same. Now was the time for action, and, putting up the glass, we crawled back to our comrades. I had learned from Raoul that the dark line which I had noticed before was, as I had conjectured, the canon of a small arroyo, heavily timbered, and forming a gap or pass that led to the Plan River. It was five miles distant, instead of three. So much the better, and with a quick, crouching gait we were once more upon our way. I had told my comrades enough to make some of them as eager as I. Many of them would have given half a life for a shot at game like that. Not a few of them remembered they had lost a brother on the plains of Goliad, or at the fortress of the Alamo. The Rangers, moreover, had been chafing "all day for a fight", and now, so unexpectedly led at something like it, they were just in the humour. They moved as one man, and the five miles that lay between us and the gorge were soon passed to the rear. We reached it, I think, in about half an hour. Considering the steep pass through which the enemy must come, we knew there was a breathing-time, though not long, for us; and during this I matured my plans, part of which I had arranged upon the route. A short survey of the ground convinced us that it could not have been better fitted for an ambuscade had we chosen it at our leisure. The gorge or canon did not run directly up the cliff, but in a _zigzag_ line, so that a man at the top could only alarm another coming up after him by shouting or firing his piece. This was exactly what we wanted, knowing that, although we might capture a few of the foremost, those in the rear, being alarmed, could easily take to the river bottom and make their escape through the thickets. It was our design to make our prisoners, if possible, without firing a single shot; and this, under the circumstances, we did not deem an impossible matter. The pass was a dry arroyo, its banks fringed with large pines and cotton-woods, matted together by llianas and vines. Where the gorge debouched into the uplands its banks were high and naked, with here and there a few scattered palmettos that grew up from huge hassocks of bunch-grass. Behind each of these branches a rifleman was stationed, forming a deployed line, with its concave arc facing the embouchure of the gorge, and gradually closing in, so that it ended in a clump of thick chaparral upon the very verge of the precipice. At this point, on each side of the path, were stationed half a dozen men, in such a position as to be hidden from any party passing upward, until it had cleared the canon and its retreat was secured against. At the opposite end of the elliptical deployment a stronger party was stationed, Clayley in command and Raoul to act as interpreter. Oakes and I took our places, commanding the separate detachments on the brow. Our arrangements occupied us only a few minutes. I had to deal with men, many of whom had "surrounded" buffaloes in a somewhat similar manner; and it did not require much tact to teach them a few modifications in the game. In five minutes we were all in our places, waiting anxiously and in perfect silence. As yet not a murmur had reached us from below, except the sighing of the wind through the tall trees, and the "sough" of the river as it tumbled away over its pebbly bed. Now and then we heard a stray shot, or the quick, sharp notes of a cavalry bugle; but these were far off, and only told of the wild work that was still going on along the road towards Encerro and Jalapa. Not a word was spoken by us to each other. The men who were deployed along the hill lay hidden behind the hassocks of the palmettos, and from our position not one of them was to be seen. I must confess I felt strange emotions at this moment--one of the most anxious of my life; and although I felt no hate towards the enemy--no desire to injure one of them, excepting him of whom I have spoken--there was something so wild, so thrilling, in the excitement of thus entrapping _man_, the highest of all animals, that I could not have foregone the inhuman sport. I had no intention that it should be inhuman. I well knew what would be their treatment as prisoners of war; and I had given orders that not a shot should be fired nor a blow struck, in case they threw down their arms and yielded without resistance. But for _him_--humanity had many a score to settle with him; and at the time I did not feel a very strong inclination to resist what would be the Rangers' desire on that question. "Is not all our fine ambuscade for nothing?" I said to myself, after a long period of waiting, and no signs of an enemy. I had begun to fancy as much, and to suspect that the flying Mexicans had kept along the river, when a sound like the humming of bees came up the pass. Presently it grew louder, until I could distinguish the voices of men. _Our_ hearts as yet beat louder than their voices. Now the stones rattled, as, loosened from their sloping beds, they rolled back and downwards. "_Guardaos, hombre_!" (Look out, man!) shouted one. "_Carrajo_!" cried another; "take care what you're about! I haven't escaped the Yankee bullets to-day to have my skull cloven in that fashion. _Arriba! arriba_!" "I say, Antonio--you're sure this road leads out above?" "Quite sure, _camarado_." "And then on to Orizava?" "On to Orizava--_derecho, derecho_" (straight). "But how far--_hombre_?" "Oh! there are halting-places--_pueblitos_." "_Vaya_! I don't care how soon we reach them. I'm as hungry as a famished coyote." "_Carrai_! the coyotes of these parts won't be hungry for some time. _Vaya_!" "Who knows whether they've killed `El Cojo'?" "`Catch a fox, kill a fox.' No. He's found some hole to creep through, I warrant him. "`El que mata un ladron Tiene cien anos de perdon.'" (He who kills a robber will receive a hundred years of pardon for the offence.) This was hailed with a sally by the very men who, only one hour ago, were shouting themselves hoarse with the cries of "_Viva el general, Viva Santa Anna_!" And on they scrambled, talking as before, one of them informing his comrades with a laugh that if "los Tejanos" could lay their hands upon "El Cojo", they, the Mexicans, would have to look out for a new president. They had now passed us. We were looking at their backs. The first party contained a string of fifteen or twenty, mostly soldiers of the "raw battalions"--conscripts who wore the white linen jackets and wide, sailor-looking pantaloons of the volunteer. Raw as these fellows were, either from their position in the battle, or, more likely, from a better knowledge of the country, they had been able thus far to make their escape, when thousands of their veteran companions had been captured. But few of them were armed; they had thrown their guns away in the hurry of flight. At this moment we could distinguish the voice of Raoul: "_Alto! abajo las armas_!" (Halt! down with your arms!) At this challenge we could see--for they were still in sight--that some of the Mexicans leaped clear up from the ground. One or two looked back, as if with the intention of re-entering the gorge, but a dozen muzzles met their gaze. "_Adelante! adelante_!--_somos amigos_." (Forward!--we are friends), I said to them in a half-whisper, fearing to alarm their comrades in the rear, at the same time waving them onward. As on one side Clayley presented a white flag, while on the other there was to be seen a bunch of dark yawning tubes, the Mexicans were not long in making their choice. In a minute they had disappeared from our sight, preferring the companionship of Clayley and Raoul, who would know how to dispose of them in a proper manner. We had scarcely got rid of these when another string debouched up the glen, unsuspicious as were their comrades of the fate that awaited them. These were managed in a similar manner; and another and another party, all of whom were obliged to give up their arms and fling themselves to the earth, as soon as they had reached the open ground above. This continued until I began to grow fearful that we were making more prisoners than we could safely hold, and on the knowledge of this fact they might try to overpower us. But the tempting prize had not yet appeared. He could not be far distant, and, allured by this prospect, I determined to hold out a while longer. A termination, however, to our wholesale trapping was brought about by an unexpected event. A party, consisting of some ten or fifteen men, many of them officers, suddenly appeared, and marched boldly out of the gorge. As these struck the level ground we could hear the "_Alto_!" of Raoul; but instead of halting, as their companions had done, several of them drew their swords and pistols and rushed down the pass. A volley from both sides stopped the retreat of some; others escaped along the sides of the cliff; and a few--not over half a dozen-- succeeded in entering the gorge. It was, of course, beyond our power to follow them; and I ordered the deployed line to close in around the prisoners already taken, lest they should attempt to imitate their braver comrades. We had no fear of being assailed from the ravine. Those who had gone down carried a panic along with them that would secure us from that danger. At the same time we knew that the tyrant would now be alarmed and escape. Several of the Rangers--_souvenirs_ of Santa Fe and San Jacinto-- requested my permission to go upon his "trail" and pick him off. This request, under the circumstances, I could not grant, and we set about securing our prisoners. Gun-slings and waist-belts were soon split into thongs, and with these our captives were tied two and two, forming in all a battalion of a hundred and fifteen files--two hundred and thirty men. With these, arranged in such a manner as we could most conveniently guard them, we marched triumphantly into the American camp. CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR. A DUEL, WITH AN ODD ENDING. After the battle of Cerro Gordo, our victorious troops pursued the enemy on to Jalapa, where the army halted to bring up its wounded, and prepare for an advance upon the capital of Mexico. The Jalapenos did not receive us inhospitably--nor the Jalapenas either. They expected, as a matter of course, that we would sack their beautiful city. This we did not do, and their gratitude enabled our officers to pass their time somewhat agreeably. The gay round that always succeeds a battle--for dead comrades are soon forgotten amidst congratulations and new titles--had no fascination for me. The balls, the _tertulias_, the _dias de campo_, were alike insipid and tiresome. _She_ was not there--and where? I knew not. I might never see her again. All I knew was that they had gone up the country-- perhaps to Cordova or Orizava. Clayley shared my feelings. The bright eyes in the balconies, the sweet voices in the orange-shaded patios of Jalapa, had neither brightness nor music for us. We were both thoroughly miserable. To add to this unhappy state of things, a bad feeling had sprung up among the officers of our army--a jealousy between the old and the new. Those of the old standing army, holding themselves as a species of military aristocracy, looked upon their brethren of the new regiments as "interlopers"; and this feeling pervaded all ranks, from the commander-in-chief down to the lowest subaltern. It did not, however, interest all individuals. There were many honourable men on both sides who took no part in a question so ridiculous, but, on the contrary, endeavoured to frown it down. It was the child of idleness and a long spell of garrison duty. On the eve of a battle it always disappeared. I have adverted to this, not that it might interest the reader, but as explaining a result connected with myself. One of the most prominent actors in this quarrel, on the side of the "old regulars", was a young officer named Ransom, a captain in an infantry regiment. He was a good fellow in other respects, and a brave soldier, I believe; his chief weakness lay in a claim to be identified with the "aristocracy." It is strange that this miserable ambition is always strongest where it should exist with the least propriety. I have observed, in travelling through life--and so has the reader, no doubt--that _parvenus_ are the greatest sticklers for aristocratic privilege; and Captain Ransom was no exception to this rule. In tumbling over some old family papers, I had found a receipt from the gallant captain's grandfather to my own progenitor, acknowledging the payment of a bill for leather breeches. It so happened that this very receipt was in my portmanteau at the time; and, nettled at the "carryings-on" of the tailor's grandson, I drew it forth and spread it out upon the mess-table. My brethren of the mess were highly tickled at the document, several of them copying it off for future use. A copy soon reached Ransom, who, in his hour of indignation, made use of certain expressions that, in their turn, soon reached me. The result was a challenge, borne by my friend Clayley, and the affair was arranged for the following morning. The place chosen for our morning's diversion was a sequestered spot upon the banks of the river Zedena, and along the solitary road that leads out towards the Cofre de Perote. At sunrise we rode out in two carriages, six of us, including our seconds and surgeons. About a mile from town we halted, and leaving the carriages upon the road, crossed over into a small glade in the midst of the chaparral. It was as pretty a spot for our purpose as the heart could wish for, and had often, we were informed, been used for similar morning exercises-- that was, before chivalry had died out among the descendants of Cortez and the conquerors. The ground was soon lined off--ten paces--and we took our stands, back to back. We were to wheel at the word "Ready!" and fire at "One, two, three!" We were waiting for the word with that death-like silence which always precedes a similar signal, when Little Jack, who had been left with the carriages, rushed into a glade, calling with all his might: "Captain! Captain!" Every face was turned upon him with scowling inquiry, when the boy, gasping for breath, shouted out: "The Mexicans are on the road!" The words had scarcely passed his lips when the trampling of hoofs sounded in our ears, and the next moment a band of horsemen came driving pell-mell into the opening. At a single glance we recognised the guerilla! Ransom, who was nearest, blazed away at the foremost of the band, missing his aim. With a spring the guerillero was over him, his sabre raised for the blow. I fired, and the Mexican leapt from his saddle with a groan. "Thank you, Haller," cried my antagonist, as we rushed side by side towards the pistols. There were four pairs in all, and the surgeons and seconds had already armed themselves, and were pointing their weapons at the enemy. We seized the remaining two, cocking them as we turned. At this moment my eye fell upon a black horse, and, looking, I recognised the rider. He saw and recognised me at the same moment, and, driving the spurs into his horse's flanks, sprang forward with a yell. With one bound he was over me, his white teeth gleaming like a tiger's. His sabre flashed in my eyes--I fired--a heavy body dashed against me--I was struck senseless to the earth! I was only stunned, and in a few moments I came to my senses. Shots and shouts rang around me. I heard the trampling of hoofs and the groans of wounded men. I looked up. Horsemen in dark uniforms were galloping across the glade and into the woods beyond. I recognised the yellow facings of the American dragoons. I drew my hand over my face; it was wet with blood. A heavy body lay across mine, which Little Jack, with all his strength, was endeavouring to drag off. I crawled from under it, and, bending over, looked at the features. I knew them at a glance. I muttered to my servant: "Dubrosc! He is dead!" His body lay spread out in its picturesque attire. A fair form it was. A bullet--my own--had passed through his heart, killing him instantly. I placed my hand upon his forehead. It was cold already, and his beautiful features were white and ashy. His eyes glared with the ghastly expression of death. "Close them!" I said to the boy, and turned away from the spot. Wounded men lay around, dragoons and Mexicans, and some were already dead. A party of officers was at the moment returning from the pursuit, and I recognised my late adversary, with our seconds and surgeons. My friend Clayley had been wounded in the _melee_, and I observed that he carried his arm in a sling. A dragoon officer galloped up. It was Colonel Harding. "These fellows, gentlemen," cried he, reining up his horse, "just came in time to relieve me from a disagreeable duty. I have orders from the commander-in-chief to arrest Captains Haller and Ransom. "Now, gentlemen," he continued with a smile, "I think you have had fighting enough for one morning, and if you will promise me to be quiet young men, and keep the peace, I shall, for once in my life, take the liberty of disobeying a general's orders. What say you, gentlemen?" It needed not this appeal. There had been no serious cause of quarrel between my adversary and myself, and, moved by a similar impulse, we both stepped forward and grasped one another by the hand. "Forgive me, my dear Haller," said Ransom, "I retract all. I assure you my remarks were only made upon the spur of the moment, when I was angry about those cursed leather breeches." "And I regret to have given you cause," I replied. "Come with me to my quarters. Let us have a glass of wine together, and we shall light our cigars with the villainous document." A burst of laughter followed, in which Ransom good-naturedly joined; and we were soon on our way to town, seated in the same carriage, and the best friends in creation! Some of the soldiers who had "rifled" the body of Dubrosc found a paper upon him which proved that the Frenchman was a spy in the service of Santa Anna. He had thrown himself into the company at New Orleans with the intention of gaining information, and then deserting on his arrival at Mexico. This he succeeded in doing in the manner detailed. Had he been in command of the "Rifle Rangers", he would doubtless have found an opportunity to deliver them over to the enemy at La Virgen or elsewhere. CHAPTER FIFTY FIVE. AN ADIOS. Clayley had now recovered, and I once more enjoyed the society of my light-hearted friend. But neither that nor the smiles of the hospitable Jalapenas could make me happy. My thoughts dwelt upon Guadalupe, and often was I harassed with the painful apprehension that I should never see her again. Better fortune, however, was in store for me. One day Clayley and I were sitting over our wine, along with a gay party of friends, in the Fonda de Diligencias, the principal hotel of Jalapa, when Jack touched me on the shoulder, and whispered in my ear: "Captain, there's a Mexican wants to see ye." "Who is it?" I demanded, somewhat annoyed at the interruption. "It's the brother," replied Jack, still speaking in a whisper. "The brother! What brother?" "Of the young ladies, Captain." I started from my chair, overturning a decanter and several glasses. "Hilloa! what's the matter?" shouted several voices in a breath. "Gentlemen, will you excuse me?--one moment only--I--I--will--" "Certainly! certainly!" cried my companions, all at once, wondering what _was_ the matter. The next moment I was in the _ante-sala_, embracing Narcisso. "And so you are all here! When did you arrive?" "Yesterday, Captain. I came to town for you, but could not find you." "And they are well?--all well?" "Yes, Captain. Papa expects you will come this evening, with the lieutenant and the other officer." "The other officer! Who, Narcisso!" "I think he was with you on your first visit to La Virgen--_un senor gordo_." "Oh! the major! Yes, yes, we shall come; but where have you been since we met, Narcissito?" "To Orizava. Papa has a tobacco-farm near Orizava; he always goes to it when he comes up here. But, Captain, we were so astonished to hear from your people that you had been a prisoner, and travelling along with us! We knew the guerillos had some American prisoners, but we never dreamt of its being you. _Carambo_! if I had known that!" "But how came you, Narcisso, to be with the guerilla?" "Oh! papa had many things to carry up the country; and he, with some other families, paid Colonel Cenobio for an escort--the country is so full of robbers." "Ah! sure. Tell me, Narcisso, how came I by this?" I held out the dagger. "I know not, Captain. I am ashamed to tell you that I lost it the day after you gave it to me!" "Oh! never mind. Take it again, and say to your papa, I shall bring `_el senor gordo_' (the fat gentleman) along with me." "You will know the way, Captain. Yonder is our house." And the lad pointed to the white turrets of an aristocratic-looking mansion that appeared over the tree-tops, about a mile distant from the town. "I shall easily find it." "Adieu, then, Captain; we shall be impatient till you arrive--_hasta la tarde_!" (till the evening). So saying, the youth departed. I communicated to Clayley the cause of my temporary withdrawal; and, seizing the earliest opportunity, we left our companions over their cups. It was now near sundown, and we were about to jump into our saddles, when I recollected my promise to bring the major. Clayley proposed leaving him behind and planning an apology; but a hint that he might be useful in "keeping off" Don Cosme and the senora caused the lieutenant suddenly to change his tactics, and we set out for Blossom's quarters. We had no difficulty in persuading "_el senor gordo_" to accompany us, as soon as he ascertained where we were going. He had never ceased to remember _that_ dinner. Hercules was brought out and saddled, and we all three galloped off for the mansion of our friends. After passing under the shadows, of green trees, and through copses filled with bright flowers, we arrived at the house, one of the fairest mansions it had ever been our fortune to enter. We were just in time to enjoy the soft twilight of an eternal spring--of a landscape _siempre verde_; and, what was more to the major's mind, in time for a supper that rivalled the well-remembered dinner. As I had anticipated, the major proved exceedingly useful during the visit. In his capacity of quarter-master he had already picked up a little Spanish--enough to hold Don Cosme in check over the wine; while Clayley and myself, with "Lupe" and "Luz", walked out into the verandah to "take a peep at the moon". Her light was alluring, and we could not resist the temptation of a stroll through the gardens. It was celestial night; and we dallied along _dos y dos_ (two and two), under the pictured shadows of the orange-trees, and sat upon curiously-formed benches, and gazed upon the moon, and listened to the soft notes of the tropic night-birds. The perils of the past were all forgotten, and the perils of the future--we thought not of them. It was late when we said "_buenas noches_" to our friends, and we parted with a mutual "_hasta la manana_." It is needless to say that we kept our promise in the morning, and made another for the following morning, and kept that too; and so on till the awful bugle summoned us once more to the "route." The detail of our actions during these days would have no interest for the reader, though to us the most interesting part of our lives. There was a sameness--a monotony, it is true; but a monotony that both my friend and myself could have endured for ever. I do not even remember the details. All I can remember is, that on the eve of our march I found myself "cornering" Don Cosme, and telling him plainly, to his teeth, that I meant to marry one of his daughters; and that my friend--who had not yet learned the "lingo", and had duly commissioned me as his "go-between"--would be most happy to take the other off his hands. I remember very well, too, Don Cosme's reply, which was given with a half-smile, half-grin--somewhat cold, though not disagreeable in its expression. It was thus: "Captain--_when the war is over_." Don Cosme had no intention that his daughters should become widows before they had fairly been wives. And we bade adieu once more to the light of love, and walked in the shadow of war; and we toiled up to the high tables of the Andes, and crossed the burning plains of Perote; and we forded the cold streams of Rio Frio, and climbed the snowy spurs of Popocatepec; and, after many a toilsome march, our bayonets bristled along the borders of the Lake Tezcoco. Here we fought--a death-struggle, too--for we knew there was no retreat. But our struggle was crowned with victory, and the starry flag waved over the ancient city of the Aztecs. Neither my friend nor myself escaped unhurt. We were shot "all over"; but, fortunately, no bones were broken, and neither of us was converted into a cripple. And then came the "piping times of peace", and Clayley and I spent our days in riding out upon the Jalapa road, watching for that great old family-carriage, which, it had been promised, should come. And it came rumbling along at length, drawn by twelve mules, and deposited its precious load in a palace in the Calle Capuchinas. And shortly after, two officers in shining uniforms entered the portals of that same palace, sent up their cards, and were admitted on the instant. Ah! these were rare times! But rarer still--for it should only occur once in a man's lifetime--was an hour spent in the little chapel of San Bernardo. There is a convent--Santa Catarina--the richest in Mexico; the richest, perhaps, in the world. There are nuns there--beautiful creatures--who possess property (some of them being worth a million of dollars); and yet these children of heaven never look upon the face of man! About a week after my visit to San Bernardo, I was summoned to the convent, and permitted--a rare privilege for one of my sex--to enter its sacred precincts. It was a painful scene. Poor "Mary of Mercy"! How lovely she looked in her snow-white vestments!--lovelier in her sorrow than I had ever seen her before. May God pour out the balm of oblivion into the heart of this erring but repentant angel! I returned to New Orleans in the latter part of 1848. I was walking one morning along the Levee, with a fair companion on my arm, when a well-known voice struck on my ear, exclaiming: "I'll be dog-goned, Rowl, if it ain't the cap'n!" I turned, and beheld Raoul and the hunter. They had doffed the regimentals, and were preparing to "start" on a trapping expedition to the Rocky Mountains. I need not describe our mutual pleasure at meeting, which was more than shared by my wife, who had often made me detail to her the exploits of my comrades. I inquired for Chane. The Irishman, at the breaking up of the "war-troops", had entered one of the old regiments, and was at this time, as Lincoln expressed it, "the first sargint of a kump'ny." I could not permit my old ranging comrades to depart without a _souvenir_. My companion drew off a pair of rings, and presented one to each on the spot. The Frenchman, with the gallantry of a Frenchman, drew his upon his finger; but Lincoln, after trying to do the same, declared, with a comical grin, that he couldn't "git the eend of his wipin' stick inter it." He wrapped it up carefully, however, and deposited it in his bullet-pouch. My friends accompanied us to our hotel, where I found them more appropriate presents than the rings. To Raoul I gave my revolving pistols, not expecting to have any further use for them myself; and to the hunter, that which he valued more than any other earthly object, the major's "Dutch gun". Doubtless, ere this, the _zundnadel_ has slain many a "grisly b'ar" among the wild ravines of the Rocky Mountains. Courteous reader! I was about to write the word "adieu", when "Little Jack" handed me a letter, bearing the Vera Cruz post-mark. It was dated, "_La Virgen, November 1, 1849_." It concluded as follows: "You were a fool for leaving Mexico, and you'll never be half as happy anywhere else as I am here. You would hardly know the `ranche'--I mean the fields. I have cleared off the weeds, and expect next year to take a couple of hundred bales off the ground. I believe I can raise as good cotton here as in Louisiana; besides, I have a little corner for vanilla. It would do your heart good to see the improvements; and little Luz, too, takes such an interest in all I do. Haller, I'm the happiest man in creation. "I dined yesterday with our old friend Cenobio; and you should have seen him when I told him the man he had in his company. I thought he would have split his sides. He's a perfect old trump this Cenobio, notwithstanding his smuggling propensities. "By the way, you have heard, I suppose, that our `other old friend', the padre, has been shot. He took part with Paredes against the Government. They caught him at Queretaro, and shot him with a dozen or so of his `beauties' in less than a squirrel's jump. "And now, my dear Haller, a last word. We all want you to come back. The house at Jalapa is ready for you, and Dona Joaquina says it is yours, and she wants you to come back. "Don Cosme, too--with whom it appears Lupe was the favourite--he wants you to come back. Old Cenobio, who is still puzzled about how you got the knife to cut through the adobes, he wants you to come back. Luz is fretting after Lupe, and she wants you to come back. And, last of all, _I_ want you to come back. So `stand not on the order' of your coming, but come at once. "Yours for ever,-- "Edward Clayley." Reader, do _you_ want me to come back? THE END. 
23499	----	The Hunters' Feast, by Captain Mayne Reid. ________________________________________________________________________ The story starts in the city of St Louis, towards the end of the summer of some year in the nineteenth century. Reid collects together a group of six men who would pay to take part in an expedition, camping and hunting, into the prairies. They take with them a couple of paid men, professionals who would give them very necessary guidance. They all make a pact that they would each tell a round of tales around the camp fire, such stories to be amusing and instructive. Reid himself is something of a naturalist, as we can learn from his many other books. We are given these tales just as they are told, in good English if told by an educated man, and in the dialect of the less educated ones. This latter arrangement makes the checking of the OCR transcriptions a little difficult, but never mind. What people may find a little tedious is Reid's habit of giving the naturalists' Latin names for the various animals and plants described. ________________________________________________________________________ THE HUNTERS' FEAST, BY CAPTAIN MAYNE REID. CHAPTER ONE. A HUNTING PARTY. On the western bank of the Mississippi, twelve miles below the _embouchure_ of the Missouri, stands the large town of Saint Louis, poetically known as the "Mound City." Although there are many other large towns throughout the Mississippi Valley, Saint Louis is the true metropolis of the "far west"--of that semi-civilised, ever-changing belt of territory known as the "Frontier." Saint Louis is one of those American cities in the history of which there is something of peculiar interest. It is one of the oldest of North-American settlements, having been a French trading port at an early period. Though not so successful as their rivals the English, there was a degree of picturesqueness about French colonisation, that, in the present day, strongly claims the attention of the American poet, novelist, and historian. Their dealings with the Indian aborigines--the facile manner in which they glided into the habits of the latter--meeting them more than half-way between civilisation and savage life--the handsome nomenclature which they have scattered freely, and which still holds over the trans-Mississippian territories--the introduction of a new race (the half blood--peculiarly French)--the heroic and adventurous character of their earliest pioneers, De Salle Marquette, Father Hennepin, etcetera--their romantic explorations and melancholy fate--all these circumstances have rendered extremely interesting the early history of the French in America. Even the Quixotism of some of their attempts at colonisation cannot fail to interest us, as at Gallipolis on the Ohio, a colony composed of expatriated people of the French court;-- perruquiers, coachbuilders, tailors, _modistes_, and the like. Here, in the face of hostile Indians, before an acre of ground was cleared, before the slightest provision was made for their future subsistence, the first house erected was a large log structure, to serve as the _salon du Lal_! Besides its French origin, Saint Louis possesses many other points of interest. It has long been the _entrepot_ and _depot_ of commerce with the wild tribes of prairie-land. There the trader is supplied with his stock for the Indian market--his red and green blanket--his beads and trinkets--his rifles, and powder, and lead; and there, in return, he disposes of the spoils of the prairie collected in many a far and perilous wandering. There the emigrant rests on the way to his wilderness home; and the hunter equips himself before starting forth on some new expedition. To the traveller, Saint Louis is a place of peculiar interest. He will hear around him the language of every nation in the civilised world. He will behold faces of every hue and variety of expression. He will meet with men of every possible calling. All this is peculiarly true in the latter part of the summer season. Then the motley population of New Orleans fly from the annual scourge of the yellow fever, and seek safety in the cities that lie farther north. Of these, Saint Louis is a favourite "city of refuge,"--the Creole element of its population being related to that kindred race in the South, and keeping up with it this annual correspondence. In one of these streams of migration I had found my way to Saint Louis, in the autumn of 18--. The place was at the time filled with loungers, who seemed to have nothing else to do but kill time. Every hotel had its quota, and in every verandah and at the corners of the streets you might see small knots of well-dressed gentlemen trying to entertain each other, and laugh away the hours. Most of them were the annual birds of passage from New Orleans, who had fled from "yellow Jack," and were sojourning here till the cold frosty winds of November should drive that intruder from the "crescent city;" but there were many other _flaneurs_ as well. There were travellers from Europe:--men of wealth and rank who had left behind them the luxuries of civilised society to rough it for a season in the wild West--painters in search of the picturesque-- naturalists whose love of their favourite study had drawn them from their comfortable closets to search for knowledge under circumstances of extremest difficulty--and sportsmen, who, tired of chasing small game, were on their way to the great plains to take part in the noble sport of hunting the buffalo. I was myself one of the last-named fraternity. There is no country in the world so addicted to the _table d'hote_ as America, and that very custom soon makes idle people acquainted with each other. I was not very long in the place before I was upon terms of intimacy with a large number of these loungers, and I found several, like myself, desirous of making a hunting expedition to the prairies. This chimed in with my plans to a nicety, and I at once set about getting up the expedition. I found five others who were willing to join me. After several _conversaziones_, with much discussion, we succeeded at length in "fixing" our plan. Each was to "equip" according to his own fancy, though it was necessary for each to provide himself with a riding horse or mule. After that, a general fund was to be "raised," to be appropriated to the purchase of a waggon and team, with tents, stores, and cooking utensils. A couple of professional hunters were to be engaged; men who knew the ground to be traversed, and who were to act as guides to the expedition. About a week was consumed in making the necessary preparations, and at the end of that time, under the sunrise of a lovely morning, a small cavalcade was seen to issue from the back suburbs of Saint Louis, and, climbing the undulating slopes in its rear, head for the far-stretching wilderness of the prairies. It was our hunting expedition. The cavalcade consisted of eight mounted men, and a waggon with its full team of six tough mules. These last were under the _manege_ of "Jake"-- a free negro, with a shining black face, a thick full mop, and a set of the best "ivories," which were almost always uncovered in a smile. Peeping from under the tilt of the waggon might be seen another face strongly contrasting with that of Jake. This had been originally of a reddish hue, but sun-tan, and a thick sprinkling of freckles, had changed the red to golden-yellow. A shock of fiery hair surmounted this visage, which was partially concealed under a badly-battered hat. Though the face of the black expressed good-humour, it might have been called sad when brought into comparison with that of the little red man, which peeped out beside it. Upon the latter, there was an expression irresistibly comic--the expression of an actor in broad farce. One eye was continually on the wink, while the other looked knowing enough for both. A short clay-pipe, stuck jauntily between the lips, added to the comical expression of the face, which was that of Mike Lanty from Limerick. No one ever mistook the nationality of Michael. Who were the eight cavaliers that accompanied the waggon? Six of them were gentlemen by birth and education. At least half that number were scholars. The other two laid no claim either to gentleness or scholarship--they were rude trappers--the hunters and guides of the expedition. A word about each one of the eight, for there was not one of them without his peculiarity. First, there was an Englishman--a genuine type of his countrymen--full six feet high, well proportioned, with broad chest and shoulders, and massive limbs. Hair of a light brown, complexion florid, moustache and whiskers full and hay-coloured, but suiting well the complexion and features. The last were regular, and if not handsome, at least good humoured and noble in their expression. The owner was in reality a nobleman--a true nobleman--one of that class who, while travelling through the "States," have the good sense to carry their umbrella along, and leave their title behind them. To us he was known as Mr Thompson, and, after some time, when we had all become familiar with each other, as plain "Thompson." It was only long after, and by accident, that I became acquainted with his rank and title; some of our companions do not know it to this day, but that is of no consequence. I mention the circumstance here to aid me in illustrating the character of our travelling companion, who was "close" and modest almost to a fault. His costume was characteristic. A "tweed" shooting jacket, of course, with eight pockets--a vest of the same material with four--tweed browsers, and a tweed cap. In the waggon was _the hat-box_; of strong yellow leather, with straps and padlock. This was supposed to contain the dress hat; and some of the party were merry about it. But no--Mr Thompson was a more experienced traveller than his companions thought him at first. The contents of the hat-case were sundry brushes-- including one for the teeth--combs, razors, and pieces of soap. The hat had been left at Saint Louis. But the umbrella had _not_. It was then under Thompson's arm, with its full proportions of whalebone and gingham. Under that umbrella he had hunted tigers in the jungles of India--under that umbrella he had chased the lion upon the plains of Africa--under that umbrella he had pursued the ostrich and the vicuna over the pampas of South America; and now under that same hemisphere of blue gingham he was about to carry terror and destruction among the wild buffaloes of the prairies. Besides the umbrella--strictly a weapon of defence--Mr Thompson carried another, a heavy double-barrelled gun, marked "Bishop, of Bond Street," no bad weapon with a loading of buck-shot, and with this both barrels were habitually loaded. So much for Mr Thompson, who may pass for Number 1 of the hunting party. He was mounted on a strong bay cob, with tail cut short, and English saddle, both of which objects--the short tail and the saddle-- were curiosities to all of the party except Mr Thompson and myself. Number 2 was as unlike Number 1 as two animals of the same species could possibly be. He was a Kentuckian, full six inches taller than Thompson, or indeed than any of the party. His features were marked, prominent and irregular, and this irregularity was increased by a "cheekful" of half-chewed tobacco. His complexion was dark, almost olive, and the face quite naked, without either moustache or whisker; but long straight hair, black as an Indian's, hung down to his shoulders. In fact, there was a good deal of the Indian look about him, except in his figure. That was somewhat slouched, with arms and limbs of over-length, loosely hung about it. Both, however, though not modelled after the Apollo, were evidently full of muscle and tough strength, and looked as though their owner could return the hug of a bear with interest. There was a gravity in his look, but that was not from any gravity of spirits; it was his swarth complexion that gave him this appearance, aided, no doubt, by several lines of "ambeer" proceeding from the corners of his mouth in the direction of the chin. So far from being grave, this dark Kentuckian was as gay and buoyant as any of the party. Indeed, a light and boyish spirit is a characteristic of the Kentuckian as well as of all the natives of the Mississippi Valley--at least such has been my observation. Our Kentuckian was costumed just as he would have been upon a cool morning riding about the "woodland" of his own plantation, for a "planter" he was. He wore a "Jeans" frock, and over that a long-tailed overcoat of the best green blanket, with side pockets and flaps. His jeans pantaloons were stuck into a pair of heavy horse-leather pegged boots, sometimes known as "nigger" boots; but over these were "wrappers" of green baize, fastened with a string above the knees. His hat was a "broad-brimmed felt," costly enough, but somewhat crushed by being sat upon and slept in. He bestrode a tall raw-boned stood that possessed many of the characteristics of the rider; and in the same proportion that the latter overtopped his companions, so did the steed out-size all the other horses of the cavalcade. Over the shoulders of the Kentuckian were suspended, by several straps, pouch, horn, and haversack, and resting upon his toe was the butt of a heavy rifle, the muzzle of which reached to a level with his shoulder. He was a rich Kentucky planter, and known in his native state as a great deer-hunter. Some business or pleasure had brought him to Saint Louis. It was hinted that Kentucky was becoming too thickly settled for him-- deer becoming scarce, and bear hardly to be found--and that his visit to Saint Louis had something to do with seeking a new "location" where these animals were still to be met with in greater plenty. The idea of buffalo-hunting was just to his liking. The expedition would carry him through the frontier country, where he might afterwards choose his "location"--at all events the sport would repay him, and he was one of the most enthusiastic in regard to it. He that looms up on the retrospect of my memory as Number 3 was as unlike the Kentuckian, as the latter was to Thompson. He was a disciple of Esculapius--not thin and pale, as these usually are, but fat, red, and jolly. I think he was originally a "Yankee," though his long residence in the Western States had rubbed the Yankee out of him to a great extent. At all events he had few of their characteristics about him. He was neither staid, sober, nor, what is usually alleged as a trait of the true bred Yankee, "stingy." On the contrary, our doctor was full of talk and joviality--generous to a fault. A fault, indeed; for, although many years in practice in various parts of the United States, and having earned large sums of money, at the date of our expedition we found him in Saint Louis almost without a dollar, and with no great stock of patients. The truth must be told; the doctor was of a restless disposition, and liked his glass too well. He was a singer too, a fine amateur singer, with a voice equal to Mario's. That may partly account for his failure in securing a fortune. He was a favourite with all--ladies included--and so fond of good company, that he preferred the edge of the jovial board to the bed-side of a patient. Not from any fondness for buffalo-hunting, but rather through an attachment to some of the company, had the doctor volunteered. Indeed, he was solicited by all to make one of us--partly on account of his excellent society, and partly that his professional services might be called into requisition before our return. The doctor still preserved his professional costume of black--somewhat russet by long wear--but this was modified by a close-fitting fur cap, and wrappers of brown cloth, which he wore around his short thick legs. He was not over-well mounted--a very spare little horse was all he had, as his funds would not stretch to a better. It was quite a quiet one, however, and carried the doctor and his "medical saddle-bags" steadily enough, though not without a good deal of spurring and whipping. The doctor's name was "Jopper"--Dr John Jopper. A very elegant youth, with fine features, rolling black eyes, and luxuriant curled hair, was one of us. The hands were well formed and delicate; the complexion silky, and of nearly an olive tint; but the purplish-red broke through upon his cheeks, giving the earnest of health, as well as adding to the picturesque beauty of his face. The form was perfect, and full of manly expression, and the pretty sky-blue plaited pantaloons and close-fitting jacket of the same material, sat gracefully on his well-turned limbs and arms. These garments were of "cottonade," that beautiful and durable fabric peculiar to Louisiana, and so well suited to the southern climate. A costly Panama hat cast its shadow over the wavy curls and pictured cheek of this youth, and a cloak of fine broad cloth, with velvet facings, hung loosely from his shoulders. A slight moustache and imperial lent a manlier expression to his chiselled features. This young fellow was a Creole of Louisiana--a student of one of the Jesuit Colleges of that State--and although very unlike what would be expected from such a dashing personage, he was an ardent, even passionate, lover of nature. Though still young, he was the most accomplished botanist in his State, and had already published several discoveries in the _Flora_ of the South. Of course the expedition was to him a delightful anticipation. It would afford the finest opportunity for prosecuting his favourite study in a new field; one as yet almost unvisited by the scientific traveller. The young Creole was known as Jules Besancon. He was not the only naturalist of the party. Another was with us; one who had already acquired a world-wide fame; whose name was as familiar to the _savans_ of Europe as to his own countrymen. He was already an old man, almost venerable in his aspect, but his tread was firm, and his arm still strong enough to steady his long, heavy, double-barrelled rifle. An ample coat of dark blue covered his body; his limbs were enveloped in long buttoned leggings of drab cloth, and a cap of sable surmounted his high, broad forehead. Under this his blueish grey eye glanced with a calm but clear intelligence, and a single look from it satisfied you that you were in the presence of a superior mind. Were I to give the name of this person, this would readily be acknowledged. For certain reasons I cannot do this. Suffice it to say, he was one of the most distinguished of modern zoologists, and to his love for the study we were indebted for his companionship upon our hunting expedition. He was known to us as Mr A-- the "hunter-naturalist." There was no jealousy between him and the young Besancon. On the contrary, a similarity of tastes soon brought about a mutual friendship, and the Creole was observed to treat the other with marked deference and regard. I may set myself down as Number 6 of the party. Let a short description of me suffice. I was then but a young fellow, educated somewhat better than common; fond of wild sports; not indifferent to a knowledge of nature; fond almost to folly of a good horse, and possessing one of the very best; not ill-looking in the face, and of middle stature; costumed in a light hunting-shirt of embroidered buckskin, with fringed cape and skirt; leggings of scarlet cloth, and cloth forage-cap, covering a flock of dark hair. Powder-flask and pouch of tasty patterns; belt around the waist, with hunting-knife and pistols--revolvers. A light rifle in one hand, and in the other a bridle-rein, which guided a steed of coal blackness; one that would have been celebrated in song by a troubadour of the olden time. A deep Spanish saddle of stamped leather; holsters with bearskin covers in front; a scarlet blanket, folded and strapped on the croup; lazo and haversack hanging from the "horn"--_voila tout_! There are two characters still undescribed. Characters of no mean importance were they--the "guides." They were called respectively, Isaac Bradley and Mark Redwood. A brace of trappers they were, but as different from each other in personal appearance as two men could well be. Redwood was a man of large dimensions, and apparently as strong as a buffalo, while his _confrere_ was a thin, wiry, sinewy mortal, with a tough, weasel-like look and gait. The expression of Redwood's countenance was open and manly, his eyes were grey, his hair light-coloured, and huge brown whiskers covered his cheeks. Bradley, on the other hand, was dark--his eyes small, black, and piercing--his face as hairless as an Indian's, and bronzed almost to the Indian hue, with the black hair of his head closely cropped around it. Both these men were dressed in leather from head to foot, yet they were very differently dressed. Redwood wore the usual buckskin hunting-shirt, leggings, and moccasins, but all of full proportions and well cut, while his large 'coon-skin cap, with the plume-like tail, had an imposing appearance. Bradley's garments, on the contrary, were tight-fitting and "skimped." His hunting-shirt was without cape, and adhered so closely to his body that it appeared only an outer skin of the man himself. His leggings were pinched and tight. Shirt, leggings, and moccasins were evidently of the oldest kind, and as dirty as a cobbler's apron. A close-fitting otter cap, with a Mackinaw blanket, completed the wardrobe of Isaac Bradley. He was equipped with a pouch of greasy leather hanging by an old black strap, a small buffalo-horn suspended by a thong, and a belt of buffalo-leather, in which was stuck a strong blade, with its handle of buckhorn. His rifle was of the "tallest" kind--being full six feet in height--in fact, taller than he was, and at least four fifths of the weapon consisted of barrel. The straight narrow stock was a piece of manufacture that had proceeded from the hands of the trapper himself. Redwood's rifle was also a long one, but of more modern build and fashion, and his equipments--pouch, powder-horn and belt--were of a more tasty design and finish. Such were our guides, Redwood and Bradley. They were no imaginary characters these. Mark Redwood was a celebrated "mountain-man" at that time, and Isaac Bradley will be recognised by many when I give him the name and title by which he was then known,--viz. "Old Ike, the wolf-killer." Redwood rode a strong horse of the half-hunter breed, while the "wolf-killer" was mounted upon one of the scraggiest looking quadrupeds it would be possible to imagine--an old mare "mustang." CHAPTER TWO. THE CAMP AND CAMP-FIRE. Our route was west by south. The nearest point with which we expected to fall in with the buffalo was two hundred miles distant. We might travel three hundred without seeing one, and even much farther at the present day; but a report had reached Saint Louis that the buffalo had been seen that year upon the Osage River, west of the Ozark Hills, and towards that point we steered our course. We expected in about twenty days to fall in with the game. Fancy a cavalcade of hunters making a journey of twenty days to get upon the field! The reader will, no doubt, say we were in earnest. At the time of which I am writing, a single day's journey from Saint Louis carried the traveller clear of civilised life. There were settlements beyond; but these were sparse and isolated--a few small towns or plantations upon the main watercourses--and the whole country between them was an uninhabited wilderness. We had no hope of being sheltered by a roof until our return to the mound city itself, but we had provided ourselves with a couple of tents, part of the freight of our waggon. There are but few parts of the American wilderness where the traveller can depend upon wild game for a subsistence. Even the skilled hunter when stationary is sometimes put to his wits' end for "daily bread." Upon the "route" no great opportunity is found of killing game, which always requires time to approach it with caution. Although we passed through what appeared to be excellent cover for various species of wild animals, we reached our first camp without having ruffled either hair or feathers. In fact, neither bird nor quadruped had been seen, although almost every one of the party had been on the look out for game during most of the journey. This was rather discouraging, and we reasoned that if such was to be our luck until we got into the buffalo-range we should have a very dull time of it. We were well provisioned, however, and we regretted the absence of game only on account of the sport. A large bag of biscuit, and one of flour, several pieces of "hung bacon," some dry ox-tongues, a stock of green coffee, sugar, and salt, were the principal and necessary stores. There were "luxuries," too, which each had provided according to his fancy, though not much of these, as every one of the party had had some time or other in his life a little experience in the way of "roughing it." Most of the loading of the waggon consisted of provender for our horses and mules. We made full thirty miles on the first day. Our road was a good one. We passed over easy undulations, most of them covered with "black-jack." This is a species of dwarf oak, so called from the very dark colour of its wrinkled bark. It is almost worthless as a timber, being too small for most purposes. It is ornamental, however, forming copse-like groves upon the swells of the prairie, while its dark green foliage contrasts pleasantly with the lighter green of the grasses beneath its shade. The young botanist, Besancon, had least cause to complain. His time had been sufficiently pleasant during the day. New foliage fell under his observation--new flowers opened their corollas to his delighted gaze. He was aided in making his collections by the hunter-naturalist, who of course was tolerably well versed in this kindred science. We encamped by the edge of a small creek of clear water. Our camp was laid out in due form, and everything arranged in the order we designed habitually to follow. Every man unsaddled his own horse. There are no servants in prairie-land. Even Lanty's services extended not beyond the _cuisine_, and for this department he had had his training as the cook of a New Orleans trading ship. Jake had enough to do with his mules; and to have asked one of our hunter-guides to perform the task of unsaddling your horse, would have been a hazardous experiment. Menial service to a free trapper! There are no servants in prairie-land. Our horses and mules were picketed on a piece of open ground, each having his "trail-rope," which allowed a circuit of several yards. The two tents were pitched side by side, facing the stream, and the waggon drawn up some twenty feet in the rear. In the triangle between the waggon and the tents was kindled a large fire, upon each side of which two stakes, forked at the top, were driven into the ground. A long sapling resting in the forks traversed the blaze from side to side. This was Lanty's "crane,"--the fire was his kitchen. Let me sketch the camp more minutely, for our first camp was a type of all the others in its general features. Sometimes indeed the tents did not front the same way, when these openings were set to "oblige the wind," but they were always placed side by side in front of the waggon. They were small tents of the old-fashioned conical kind, requiring only one pole each. They were of sufficient size for our purpose, as there were only three of us to each--the guides, with Jake and Lanty, finding their lodgment under the tilt of the waggon. With their graceful shape, and snowy-white colour against the dark green foliage of the trees, they formed an agreeable contrast; and a _coup d'oeil_ of the camp would have been no mean picture to the eye of an artist. The human figures may be arranged in the following manner. Supper is getting ready, and Lanty is decidedly at this time the most important personage on the ground. He is stooping over the fire, with a small but long-handled frying-pan, in which he is parching the coffee. It is already browned, and Lanty stirs it about with an iron spoon. The crane carries the large coffee-kettle of sheet iron, full of water upon the boil; and a second frying-pan, larger than the first, is filled with sliced ham, ready to be placed upon the hot cinders. Our English friend Thompson is seated upon a log, with the hat-box before him. It is open, and he has drawn out from it his stock of combs and brushes. He has already made his ablutions, and is now giving the finish to his toilet, by putting his hair, whiskers, moustache, teeth, and even his nails, in order. Your Englishman is the most comfortable traveller in the world. The Kentuckian is differently engaged. He is upon his feet; in one hand gleams a knife with ivory handle and long shining blade. It is a "bowie," of that kind known as an "Arkansas toothpick." In the other hand you see an object about eight inches in length, of the form of a parallelogram, and of a dark brown colour. It is a "plug" of real "James's River tobacco." With his knife the Kentuckian cuts off a piece--a "chunk," as he terms it--which is immediately transferred to his mouth, and chewed to a pulp. This is his occupation for the moment. The doctor, what of him? Doctor Jopper may be seen close to the water's edge. In his hand is a pewter flask, of the kind known as a "pocket pistol." That pistol is loaded with brandy, and Dr Jopper is just in the act of drawing part of the charge, which, with a slight admixture of cool creek water, is carried aloft and poured into a very droughty vessel. The effect, however, is instantly apparent in the lively twinkle of the doctor's round and prominent eyes. Besancon is seated near the tent, and the old naturalist beside him. The former is busy with the new plants he has collected. A large portfolio-looking book rests upon his knees, and between its leaves he is depositing his stores in a scientific manner. His companion, who understands the business well, is kindly assisting him. Their conversation is interesting, but every one else is too busy with his affairs to listen to it just now. The guides are lounging about the waggon. Old Ike fixes a new flint in his rifle, and Redwood, of a more mirthful disposition, is occasionally cracking a joke with Mike or the "darkey." Jake is still busy with his mules, and I with my favourite steed, whose feet I have washed in the stream, and anointed with a little spare grease. I shall not always have the opportunity of being so kind to him, but he will need it the less, as his hoofs become more hardened by the journey. Around the camp are strewed our saddles, bridles, blankets, weapons, and utensils. These will all be collected and stowed under cover before we go to rest. Such is a picture of our camp before supper. When that meal is cooked, the scene somewhat changes. The atmosphere, even at that season, was cool enough, and this, with Mike's announcement that the coffee was ready, brought all the party-- guides as well--around the blazing pile of logs. Each found his own platter, knife, and cup; and, helping himself from the general stock, set to eating on his own account. Of course there were no fragments, as a strict regard to economy was one of the laws of our camp. Notwithstanding the fatigue, always incidental to a first day's march, we enjoyed this _al fresco_ supper exceedingly. The novelty had much to do with our enjoyment of it, and also the fine appetites which we had acquired since our luncheon at noon halt. When supper was over, smoking followed, for there was not one of the party who was not an inveterate burner of the "noxious weed." Some chose cigars, of which we had brought a good stock, but several were pipe-smokers. The zoologist carried a meerschaum; the guides smoked out of Indian calumets of the celebrated steatite, or red claystone. Mike had his dark-looking "dudeen," and Jake his pipe of corn "cob" and cane-joint shank. Our English friend Thompson had a store of the finest Havannahs, which he smoked with the grace peculiar to the English cigar smoker; holding his cigar impaled upon the point of his knife-blade. Kentucky also smoked cigars, but his was half buried within his mouth, slanted obliquely towards the right cheek. Besancon preferred the paper cigarette, which he made extempore, as he required them, out of a stock of loose tobacco. This is Creole fashion--now also the _mode de Paris_. A song from the doctor enlivened the conversation, and certainly so melodious a human voice had never echoed near the spot. One and all agreed that the grand opera had missed a capital "first tenor" in not securing the services of our companion. The fatigue of our long ride caused us to creep into our tents at an early hour, and rolling ourselves in our blankets we went to sleep. Of course everything had been carefully gathered in lest rain might fall in the night. The trail-ropes of our animals were looked to: we did not fear their being stolen, but horses on their first few days' journey are easily "stampeded," and will sometimes stray home again. This would have been a great misfortune, but most of us were old travellers, and every caution was observed in securing against such a result. There was no guard kept, though we knew the time would come when that would be a necessary duty. CHAPTER THREE. BESANCON'S ADVENTURE IN THE SWAMPS. The prairie traveller never sleeps after daybreak. He is usually astir before that time. He has many "_chores_" to perform, unknown to the ordinary traveller who rests in the roadside inn. He has to pack up his tent and bed, cook his own breakfast, and saddle his horse. All this requires time, therefore an early start is necessary. We were on our feet before the sun had shown his disc above the black-jacks. Lanty had the start of us, and had freshened up his fire. Already the coffee-kettle was bubbling audibly, and the great frying-pan perfumed the camp with an incense more agreeable than the odours of Araby. The raw air of the morning had brought everybody around the fire. Thompson was pruning and cleansing his nails; the Kentuckian was cutting a fresh "chunk" from his plug of "James's River;" the doctor had just returned from the stream, where he had refreshed himself by a "nip" from his pewter flask; Besancon was packing up his portfolios; the zoologist was lighting his long pipe, and the "Captain" was looking to his favourite horse, while inhaling the fragrance of an "Havannah." The guides stood with their blankets hanging from their shoulders silent and thoughtful. In half an hour breakfast was over, the tents and utensils were restored to the waggon, the horses were brought in and saddled, the mules "hitched up," and the expedition once more on its way. This day we made not quite so good a journey. The roads were heavier, the country more thickly timbered, and the ground more hilly. We had several small streams to ford, and this retarded our progress. Twenty miles was the extent of our journey. We encamped again without any of us having killed or seen game. Although we had beaten the bushes on both sides of our course, nothing bigger than the red-bird (scarlet tanager, _Pyranga rubra_), a screaming jay, or an occasional flight of finches, gratified our sight. We reached our camp somewhat disappointed. Even old Ike and Redwood came into camp without game, alleging also that they had not met with the sign of a living quadruped. Our second camp was also on the bank of a small stream. Shortly after our arrival on the ground, Thompson started out afoot, taking with him his gun. He had noticed a tract of marsh at no great distance off. He thought it promised well for snipe. He had not been long gone, when two reports echoed back, and then shortly after another and another. He had found something to empty his gun at. Presently we saw him returning with a brace and a half of birds that looked very much like large snipe. So he thought them, but that question was set at rest by the zoologist, who pronounced them at once to be the American "Curlew" of Wilson (_Numenius longirostris_). Curlew or snipe, they were soon divested of the feathery coat, and placed in Lanty's frying-pan. Excellent eating they proved, having only the fault that there was not enough of them. These birds formed the topic of our after-supper conversation, and then it generalised to the different species of wading birds of America, and at length that singular creature, the "ibis," became the theme. This came round by Besancon remarking that a species of ibis was brought by the Indians to the markets of New Orleans, and sold there under the name of "Spanish Curlew." This was the white ibis (_Tantalus albas_), which the zoologist stated was found in plenty along the whole southern coast of the United States. There were two other species, he said, natives of the warm parts of North America, the "wood-ibis" (_Tantalus loculator_), which more nearly resembles the sacred ibis of Egypt, and the beautiful "sacred ibis" (_Tantalus ruber_), which last is rarer than the others. Our venerable companion, who had the ornithology of America, if I may use the expression, at his fingers' ends, imparted many curious details of the habits of these rare birds. All listened with interest to his statements--even the hunter-guides, for with all their apparent rudeness of demeanour, there was a dash of the naturalist in these fellows. When the zoologist became silent, the young Creole took up the conversation. Talking of the ibis, he said, reminded him of an adventure he had met with while in pursuit of these birds among the swamps of his native state. He would relate it to us. Of course we were rejoiced at the proposal. We were just the audience for an "adventure," and after rolling a fresh cigarette, the botanist began his narration. "During one of my college vacations I made a botanical excursion to the south-western part of Louisiana. Before leaving home I had promised a dear friend to bring him the skins of such rare birds as were known to frequent the swampy region I was about to traverse, but he was especially desirous I should obtain for him some specimens of the red ibis, which he intended to have `mounted.' I gave my word that no opportunity should be lost of obtaining these birds, and I was very anxious to make good my promise. "The southern part of the State of Louisiana is one vast labyrinth of swamps, bayous, and lagoons. The bayous are sluggish streams that glide sleepily along, sometimes running one way, and sometimes the very opposite, according to the season of the year. Many of them are outlets of the Mississippi, which begins to shed off its waters more than 300 miles from its mouth. These bayous are deep, sometimes narrow, sometimes wide, with islets in their midst. They and their contiguous swamps are the great habitat of the alligator and the fresh-water shark--the gar. Numerous species of water and wading fowl fly over them, and plunge through their dark tide. Here you may see the red flamingo, the egret, the trumpeter-swan, the blue heron, the wild goose, the crane, the snake-bird, the pelican, and the ibis; you may likewise see the osprey, and the white-headed eagle robbing him of his prey. Both swamps and bayous produce abundantly fish, reptile, and insect, and are, consequently, the favourite resort of hundreds of birds which prey upon these creatures. In some places, their waters form a complete net-work over the country, which you may traverse with a small boat in almost any direction; indeed, this is the means by which many settlements communicate with each other. As you approach southward towards the Gulf, you get clear of the timber; and within some fifty miles of the sea, there is not a tree to be seen. "In the first day or two that I was out, I had succeeded in getting all the specimens I wanted, with the exception of the ibis. This shy creature avoided me; in fact I had only seen one or two in my excursions, and these at a great distance. I still, however, had hopes of finding them before my return to my friend. "About the third or fourth day I set out from a small settlement on the edge of one of the larger bayous. I had no other company than my gun. I was even unattended by a dog, as my favourite spaniel had the day before been bitten by an alligator while swimming across the bayou, and I was compelled to leave him at the settlement. Of course the object of my excursion was a search after new flora, but I had become by this time very desirous of getting the rare ibis, and I was determined half to neglect my botanising for that purpose. I went of course in a boat, a light skiff, such as is commonly used by the inhabitants of these parts. "Occasionally using the paddles, I allowed myself to float some four or live miles down the main bayou; but as the birds I was in search of did not appear, I struck into a `branch,' and sculled myself up-stream. This carried me through a solitary region, with marshes stretching as far as the eye could see, covered with tall reeds. There was no habitation, nor aught that betokened the presence of man. It was just possible that I was the first human being who had ever found a motive for propelling a boat through the dark waters of this solitary stream. "As I advanced, I fell in with game; and I succeeded in bagging several, both of the great wood-ibis and the white species. I also shot a fine white-headed eagle (_Falco leucocephalus_), which came soaring over my boat, unconscious of danger. But the bird which I most wanted seemed that which could not be obtained. I wanted the scarlet ibis. "I think I had rowed some three miles up-stream, and was about to take in my oars and leave my boat to float back again, when I perceived that, a little farther up, the bayou widened. Curiosity prompted me to continue; and after pulling a few hundred strokes, I found myself at the end of an oblong lake, a mile or so in length. It was deep, dark, marshy around the shores, and full of alligators. I saw their ugly forms and long serrated backs, as they floated about in all parts of it, hungrily hunting for fish and eating one another; but all this was nothing new, for I had witnessed similar scenes during the whole of my excursion. What drew my attention most, was a small islet near the middle of the lake, upon one end of which stood a row of upright forms of a bright scarlet colour. These red creatures were the very objects I was in search of. They might be flamingoes: I could not tell at that distance. So much the better, if I could only succeed in getting a shot at them; but these creatures are even more wary than the ibis; and as the islet was low, and altogether without cover, it was not likely they would allow me to come within range: nevertheless, I was determined to make the attempt. I rowed up the lake, occasionally turning my head to see if the game had taken the alarm. The sun was hot and dazzling; and as the bright scarlet was magnified by refraction, I fancied for a long time they were flamingoes. This fancy was dissipated as I drew near. The outlines of the bills, like the blade of a sabre, convinced me they were the ibis; besides, I now saw that they were less than three feet in height, while the flamingoes stand five. There were a dozen of them in all. These were balancing themselves, as is their usual habit, on one leg, apparently asleep, or _buried in deep thought_. They were on the upper extremity of the islet, while I was approaching it from below. It was not above sixty yards across; and could I only reach the point nearest me, I knew my gun would throw shot to kill at that distance. I feared the stroke of the sculls would start them, and I pulled slowly and cautiously. Perhaps the great heat--for it was as hot a day as I can remember--had rendered them torpid or lazy. Whether or not, they sat still until the cut-water of my skiff touched the bank of the islet. I drew my gun up cautiously, took aim, and fired both barrels almost simultaneously. When the smoke cleared out of my eyes, I saw that all the birds had flown off except one, that lay stretched out by the edge of the water. "Gun in hand, I leaped out of the boat, and ran across the islet to bag my game. This occupied but a few minutes; and I was turning to go back to the skiff, when, to my consternation, I saw it out upon the lake, and rapidly floating downward! "In my haste I had left it unfastened, and the bayou current had carried it off. It was still but a hundred yards distant, but it might as well have been a hundred miles, for at that time I could not swim a stroke. "My first impulse was to rush down to the lake, and after the boat. This impulse was checked on arriving at the water's edge, which I saw at a glance was fathoms in depth. Quick reflection told me that the boat was gone--irrecoverably gone! "I did not at first comprehend the full peril of my situation; nor will you, gentlemen. I was on an islet, in a lake, only half a mile from its shores--alone, it is true, and without a boat; but what of that? Many a man had been so before, with not an idea of danger. "These were first thoughts, natural enough; but they rapidly gave place to others of a far different character. When I gazed after my boat, now beyond recovery--when I looked around, and saw that the lake lay in the middle of an interminable swamp, the shores of which, even could I have reached them, did not seem to promise me footing--when I reflected that, being unable to swim, I could _not_ reach them--that upon the islet there was neither tree, nor log, nor bush; not a stick out of which I might make a raft--I say, when I reflected upon all these things, there arose in my mind a feeling of well-defined and absolute horror. "It is true I was only in a lake, a mile or so in width; but so far as the peril and helplessness of my situation were concerned, I might as well have been upon a rock in the middle of the Atlantic. I knew that there was no settlement within miles--miles of pathless swamp. I knew that no one could either see or hear me--no one was at all likely to come near the lake; indeed, I felt satisfied that my faithless boat was the first keel that had ever cut its waters. The very tameness of the birds wheeling round my head was evidence of this. I felt satisfied, too, that without some one to help me, I should never go out from that lake: I must die on the islet, or drown in attempting to leave it! "These reflections rolled rapidly over my startled soul. The facts were clear, the hypothesis definite, the sequence certain; there was no ambiguity, no supposititious hinge upon which I could hang a hope; no, not one. I could not even expect that I should be missed and sought for; there was no one to search for me. The simple _habitans_ of the village I had left knew me not--I was a stranger among them: they only knew me as a stranger, and fancied me a strange individual; one who made lonely excursions, and brought home hunches of weeds, with birds, insects, and reptiles, which they had never before seen, although gathered at their own doors. My absence, besides, would be nothing new to them, even though it lasted for days: I had often been absent before, a week at a time. There was no hope of my being missed. "I have said that these reflections came and passed quickly. In less than a minute, my affrighted soul was in full possession of them, and almost yielded itself to despair. I shouted, but rather involuntarily than with any hope that I should be heard; I shouted loudly and fiercely: my answer--the echoes of my own voice, the shriek of the osprey, and the maniac laugh of the white-headed eagle. "I ceased to shout, threw my gun to the earth, and tottered down beside it. I can imagine the feelings of a man shut up in a gloomy prison-- they are not pleasant. I have been lost upon the wild prairie--the land sea--without bush, break, or star to guide me--that was worse. There you look around; you see nothing; you hear nothing: you are alone with God, and you tremble in his presence; your senses swim; your brain reels; you are afraid of yourself; you are afraid of your own mind. Deserted by everything else, you dread lest it, too, may forsake you. There is horror in this--it is very horrible--it is hard to bear; but I have borne it all, and would bear it again twenty times over rather than endure once more the first hour I spent on that lonely islet in that lonely lake. Your prison may be dark and silent, but you feel that you are not utterly alone; beings like yourself are near, though they be your jailers. Lost on the prairie, you are alone; but you are free. In the islet, I felt that I was alone; that I was not free: in the islet I experienced the feelings of the prairie and the prison combined. "I lay in a state of stupor--almost unconscious; how long I know not, but many hours I am certain; I knew this by the sun--it was going down when I awoke, if I may so term the recovery of my stricken senses. I was aroused by a strange circumstance: I was surrounded by dark objects of hideous shape and hue--reptiles they were. They had been before my eyes for some time, but I had not seen them. I had only a sort of dreamy consciousness of their presence; but I heard them at length: my ear was in better tune, and the strange noises they uttered reached my intellect. It sounded like the blowing of great bellows, with now and then a note harsher and louder, like the roaring of a bull. This startled me, and I looked up and bent my eyes upon the objects: they were forms of the _crocodilidae_, the giant lizards--they were alligators. "Huge ones they were, many of them; and many were they in number--a hundred at least were crawling over the islet, before, behind, and on all sides around me. Their long gaunt jaws and channelled snouts projected forward so as almost to touch my body; and their eyes, usually leaden, seemed now to glare. "Impelled by this new danger, I sprang to my feet, when, recognising the upright form of man, the reptiles scuttled off, and plunging hurriedly into the lake; hid their hideous bodies under the water. "The incident in some measure revived me. I saw that I was not alone; there was company even in the crocodiles. I gradually became more myself; and began to reflect with some degree of coolness on the circumstances that surrounded me. My eyes wandered over the islet; every inch of it came under my glance; every object upon it was scrutinised--the moulted feathers of wildfowl, the pieces of mud, the fresh-water mussels (_unios_) strewed upon its beach--all were examined. Still the barren answer--no means of escape. "The islet was but the head of a sand-bar, formed by the eddy, perhaps gathered together within the year. It was bare of herbage, with the exception of a few tufts of grass. There was neither tree nor bush upon it: not a stick. A raft indeed! There was not wood enough to make a raft that would have floated a frog. The idea of a raft was but briefly entertained; such a thought had certainly crossed my mind, but a single glance round the islet dispelled it before it had taken shape. "I paced my prison from end to end; from side to side I walked it over. I tried the water's depth; on all sides I sounded it, wading recklessly in; everywhere it deepened rapidly as I advanced. Three lengths of myself from the islet's edge, and I was up to the neck. The huge reptiles swam around, snorting and blowing; they were bolder in this element. I could not have waded safely ashore, even had the water been shallow. To swim it--no--even though I swam like a duck, they would have closed upon and quartered me before I could have made a dozen strokes. Horrified by their demonstrations, I hurried back upon dry ground, and paced the islet with dripping garments. "I continued walking until night, which gathered around me dark and dismal. With night came new voices--the hideous voices of the nocturnal swamp; the qua-qua of the night-heron, the screech of the swamp-owl, the cry of the bittern, the cl-l-uk of the great water-toad, the tinkling of the bell-frog, and the chirp of the savanna-cricket--all fell upon my ear. Sounds still harsher and more, hideous were heard around me--the plashing of the alligator, and the roaring of his voice; these reminded me that I must not go to sleep. To sleep! I durst not have slept for a single instant. Even when I lay for a few minutes motionless, the dark reptiles came crawling round me--so close that I could have put forth my hand and touched them. "At intervals, I sprang to my feet, shouted, swept my gun around, and chased them back to the water, into which they betook themselves with a sullen plunge, but with little semblance of fear. At each fresh demonstration on my part they showed less alarm, until I could no longer drive them either with shouts or threatening gestures. They only retreated a few feet, forming an irregular circle round me. "Thus hemmed in, I became frightened in turn. I loaded my gun and fired; I killed none. They are impervious to a bullet, except in the eye, or under the forearm. It was too dark to aim at these parts; and my shots glanced harmlessly from the pyramidal scales of their bodies. The loud report, however, and the blaze frightened them, and they fled, to return again after a long interval. I was asleep when they returned; I had gone to sleep in spite of my efforts to keep awake. I was startled by the touch of something cold; and half-stilled by the strong musky odour that filled the air. I threw out my arms; my fingers rested upon an object slippery and clammy: it was one of these monsters--one of gigantic size. He had crawled close alongside me, and was preparing to make his attack; as I saw that he was bent in the form of a bow, and I knew that these creatures assume that attitude when about to strike their victim. I was just in time to spring aside, and avoid the stroke of his powerful tail, that the next moment swept the ground where I had lain. Again I fired, and he with the rest once more retreated to the lake. "All thoughts of going to sleep were at an end. Not that I felt wakeful; on the contrary, wearied with my day's exertion--for I had had a long pull under a hot tropical sun--I could have lain down upon the earth, in the mud, anywhere, and slept in an instant. Nothing but the dread certainty of my peril kept me awake. Once again before morning, I was compelled to battle with the hideous reptiles, and chase them away with a shot from my gun. "Morning came at length, but with it no change in my perilous position. The light only showed me my island prison, but revealed no way of escape from it. Indeed, the change could not be called for the better, for the fervid rays of an almost vertical sun poured down upon me until my skin blistered. I was already speckled by the bites of a thousand swamp-flies and mosquitoes, that all night long had preyed upon me. There was not a cloud in the heavens to shade me; and the sunbeams smote the surface of the dead bayou with a double intensity. "Towards evening, I began to hunger; no wonder at that: I had not eaten since leaving the village settlement. To assuage thirst, I drank the water of the lake, turbid and slimy as it was. I drank it in large quantities, for it was hot, and only moistened my palate without quenching the craving of my appetite. Of water there was enough; I had more to fear from want of food. "What could I eat? The ibis. But how to cook it? There was nothing wherewith to make a fire--not a stick. No matter for that. Cooking is a modern invention, a luxury for pampered palates. I divested the ibis of its brilliant plumage, and ate it raw. I spoiled my specimen, but at the time there was little thought of that: there was not much of the naturalist left in me. I anathematised the hour I had ever promised to procure the bird. I wished my friend up to his neck in a swamp. "The ibis did not weigh above three pounds, bones and all. It served me for a second meal, a breakfast; but at this _dejeuner sans fourchette_ I picked the bones. "What next? starve? No--not yet. In the battles I had had with the alligators during the second night, one of them had received a shot that proved mortal. The hideous carcass of the reptile lay dead upon the beach. I need not starve; I could eat that. Such were my reflections. I must hunger, though, before I could bring myself to touch the musky morsel. "Two more days' fasting conquered my squeamishness. I drew out my knife, cut a steak from the alligator's tail, and ate it--not the one I had first killed, but a second; the other was now putrid, rapidly decomposing under the hot sun: its odour filled the islet. "The stench had grown intolerable. There was not a breath of air stirring, otherwise I might have shunned it by keeping to windward. The whole atmosphere of the islet, as well as a large circle around it, was impregnated with the fearful effluvium. I could bear it no longer. With the aid of my gun, I pushed the half-decomposed carcass into the lake; perhaps the current might carry it away. It did: I had the gratification to see it float off. "This circumstance led me into a train of reflections. Why did the body of the alligator float? It was swollen--inflated with gases. Ha! "An idea shot suddenly through my mind--one of those brilliant ideas, the children of necessity. I thought of the floating alligator, of its intestines--what if I inflated them? Yes, yes! buoys and bladders, floats and life-preservers! that was the thought. I would open the alligators, make a buoy of their intestines, and that would bear me from the islet! "I did not lose a moment's time; I was full of energy: hope had given me new life. My gun was loaded--a huge crocodile that swam near the shore received the shot in his eye. I dragged him on the beach; with my knife I laid open his entrails. Few they were, but enough for my purpose. A plume-quill from the wing of the ibis served me for a blow-pipe. I saw the bladder-like skin expand, until I was surrounded by objects like great sausages. Those were tied together, and fastened to my body, and then, with a plunge, I entered the waters of the lake, and floated downward. I had tied on my life-preservers in such a way that I sat in the water in an upright position, holding my gun with both hands. This I intended to have, used as a club in case I should be attacked by the alligators; but I had chosen the hot hour of noon, when these creatures lie in a half-torpid state, and to my joy I was not molested. "Half an hour's drifting with the current carried me to the end of the lake, and I found myself at the _debouchure_ of the bayou. Here, to my great delight, I saw my boat in the swamp, where it had been caught and held fast by the sedge. A few minutes more, and I had swung myself over the gunwale, and was sculling with eager strokes down the smooth waters of the bayou. "Of course my adventure was ended, and I reached the settlement in safety, but without the object of my excursion. I was enabled, however, to procure it some days after, and had the gratification of being able to keep my promise to my friend." Besancon's adventure had interested all of us; the old hunter-naturalist seemed delighted with it. No doubt it revived within him the memories of many a perilous incident in his own life. It was evident that in the circle of the camp-fire there was more than one pair of lips ready to narrate some similar adventure, but the hour was late, and all agreed it would be better to go to rest. On to-morrow night, some other would take their turn; and, in fact, a regular agreement was entered into that each one of the party who had at any period of his life been the hero or participator in any hunting adventure should narrate the same for the entertainment of the others. This would bring out a regular "round of stories by the camp-fire," and would enable us to kill the many long evenings we had to pass before coming up with the buffalo. The conditions were, that the stories should exclusively relate to birds or animals--in fact, any hunted game belonging to the _fauna_ of the American Continent: furthermore, that each should contribute his _quota_ of information about whatever animal should chance to be the subject of the narration--about its habits, its geographical range; in short, its general natural history, as well as the various modes of hunting it, practised in different places by different people. This, it was alleged, would render our camp conversation instructive as well as entertaining. The idea originated with the old hunter-naturalist, who very wisely reasoned that among so many gentlemen of large hunting experience he might collect new facts for his favourite science--for to just such men, and not to the closet-dreamer, is natural history indebted for its most interesting chapters. Of course every one of us, guides and all, warmly applauded the proposal, for there was no one among us averse to receiving a little knowledge of so entertaining a character. No doubt to the naturalist himself we should be indebted for most part of it; and his mode of communicating was so pleasant, that even the rude trappers listened to him with wonder and attention. They saw that he was no "greenhorn" either in woodcraft or prairie knowledge, and that was a sufficient claim to their consideration. There is no character less esteemed by the regular "mountain-man" than a "greenhorn,"--that is, one who is new to the ways of their wilderness life. With the design of an early start, we once more crept into our several quarters, and went to sleep. CHAPTER FOUR. THE PASSENGER-PIGEONS. After an early breakfast we lit our pipes and cigars, and took to the road. The sun was very bright, and in less than two hours after starting we were sweltering under a heat almost tropical. It was one of those autumn days peculiar to America, where even a high latitude seems to be no protection against the sun, and his beams fall upon one with as much fervour as they would under the line itself. The first part of our journey was through open woods of black-jack, whose stunted forms afforded no shade, but only shut off the breeze which might otherwise have fanned us. While fording a shallow stream, the doctor's scraggy, ill-tempered horse took a fit of kicking quite frantical. For some time it seemed likely that either the doctor himself, or his saddle-bags, would be deposited in the bottom of the creek, but after a severe spell of whipping and kicking on the part of the rider, the animal moved on again. What had set it dancing? That was the question. It had the disposition to be "frisky," but usually appeared to be lacking in strength. The buzz of a horse-fly sounding in our ears explained all. It was one of those large insects--the "horse-bug,"--peculiar to the Mississippi country, and usually found near watercourses. They are more terrible to horses than a fierce dog would be. I have known horses gallop away from them as if pursued by a beast of prey. There is a belief among western people that these insects are propagated by the horses themselves; that is, that the eggs of the female are deposited upon the grass, so that the horses may swallow them; that incubation goes on within the stomach of the animal, and that the chrysalis is afterwards voided. I have met with others who believed in a still stranger theory; that the insect itself actually sought, and found, a passage into the stomach of the horse, some said by passing down his throat, others by boring a hole through his abdomen; and that in such cases the horse usually sickened, and was in danger of dying! After the doctor's mustang had returned to proper behaviour, these odd theories became the subject of discussion. The Kentuckian believed in them--the Englishman doubted them--the hunter-naturalist could not endorse them--and Besancon ignored them entirely. Shortly after the incident we entered the bottom lands of a considerable stream. These were heavily-timbered, and the shadow of the great forest trees afforded us a pleasant relief from the hot sun. Our guides told us we had several miles of such woods to pass through, and we were glad of the information. We noticed that most of the trees were beech, and their smooth straight trunks rose like columns around us. The beech (_Fagus sylvatica_) is one of the most beautiful of American forest trees. Unlike most of the others, its bark is smooth, without fissures, and often of a silvery hue. Large beech-trees standing by the path, or near a cross road, are often seen covered with names, initials, and dates. Even the Indian often takes advantage of the bark of a beech-tree to signalise his presence to his friends, or commemorate some savage exploit. Indeed, the beautiful column-like trunk seems to invite the knife, and many a souvenir is carved upon it by the loitering wayfarer. It does not, however, invite the axe of the settler. On the contrary, the beechen woods often remain untouched, while others fall around them--partly because these trees are not usually the indices of the richest soil, but more from the fact that clearing a piece of beech forest is no easy matter. The green logs do not burn so readily as those of the oak, the elm, the maple, or poplar, and hence the necessity of "rolling" them off the ground to be cleared--a serious thing where labour is scarce and dear. We were riding silently along, when all at once our ears were assailed by a strange noise. It resembled the clapping of a thousand pairs of hands, followed by a whistling sound, as if a strong wind had set suddenly in among the trees. We all knew well enough what it meant, and the simultaneous cry of "pigeons," was followed by half a dozen simultaneous cracks from the guns of the party, and several bluish birds fell to the ground. We had stumbled upon a feeding-place of the passenger-pigeon (_Columba migratoria_). Our route was immediately abandoned, and in a few minutes we were in the thick of the flock, cracking away at them both with shot-gun and rifle. It was not so easy, however, to bring them down in any considerable numbers. In following them up we soon strayed from each other, until our party was completely scattered, and nearly two hours elapsed before we got back to the road. Our game-bag, however, made a fine show, and about forty brace were deposited in the waggon. With the anticipation of roast pigeon and "pot-pie," we rode on more cheerily to our night-camp. All along the route the pigeons were seen, and occasionally large flocks whirled over our heads under the canopy of the trees. Satiated with the sport, and not caring to waste our ammunition, we did not heed them farther. In order to give Lanty due time for the duties of the _cuisine_, we halted a little earlier than usual. Our day's march had been a short one, but the excitement and sport of the pigeon-hunt repaid us for the loss of time. Our dinner-supper--for it was a combination of both--was the dish known in America as "pot-pie," in which the principal ingredients were the pigeons, some soft flour paste, with a few slices of bacon to give it a flavour. Properly speaking, the "pot-pie" is not a pie, but a stew. Ours was excellent, and as our appetites wore in a similar condition, a goodly quantity was used up in appeasing them. Of course the conversation of the evening was the "wild pigeon of America," and the following facts regarding its natural history-- although many of them are by no means new--may prove interesting to the reader, as they did to those who listened to the relation of them around our camp-fire. The "passenger" is less in size than the house pigeon. In the air it looks not unlike the kite, wanting the forked or "swallow" tail. That of the pigeon is cuneiform. Its colour is best described by calling it a nearly uniform slate. In the male the colours are deeper, and the neck-feathers present the same changeable hues of green, gold, and purple-crimson, generally observed in birds of this species. It is only in the woods, and when freshly caught or killed, that these brilliant tints can be seen to perfection. They fade in captivity, and immediately after the bird has been shot. They seem to form part of its life and liberty, and disappear when it is robbed of either. I have often thrust the wild pigeon, freshly killed, into my game-bag, glittering like an opal. I have drawn it forth a few hours after of a dull leaden hue, and altogether unlike the same bird. As with all birds of this tribe, the female is inferior to the male, both in size and plumage. The eye is less vivid. In the male it is of the most brilliant fiery orange, inclosed in a well-defined circle of red. The eye is in truth its finest feature, and never fails to strike the beholder with admiration. The most singular fact in the natural history of the "passenger," is their countless numbers. Audubon saw a flock that contained "one billion one hundred and sixteen millions of birds!" Wilson counted, or rather computed, another flock of "two thousand two hundred and thirty millions!" These numbers seem incredible. I have no doubt of their truth. I have no doubt that they are _under_ rather than _over_ the numbers actually seen by both these naturalists, for both made most liberal allowances in their calculations. Where do these immense flocks come from? The wild pigeons breed in all parts of America. Their breeding-places are found as far north as the Hudson's Bay, and they have been seen in the southern forests of Louisiana and Texas. The nests are built upon high trees, and resemble immense rookeries. In Kentucky, one of their breeding-places was forty miles in length, by several in breadth! One hundred nests will often be found upon a single tree, and in each nest there is but one "squab." The eggs are pure white, like those of the common kind, and, like them, they breed several times during the year, but principally when food is plenty. They establish themselves in great "roosts," sometimes for years together, to which each night they return from their distant excursions--hundreds of miles, perhaps; for this is but a short fly for travellers who can pass over a mile in a single minute, and some of whom have even strayed across the Atlantic to England! They, however, as I myself have observed, remain in the same woods where they have been feeding for several days together. I have also noticed that they prefer roosting in the low underwood, even when tall trees are close at hand. If near water, or hanging over a stream, the place is still more to their liking; and in the morning they may be seen alighting on the bank to drink, before taking to their daily occupation. The great "roosts" and breeding-places are favourite resorts for numerous birds of prey. The small vultures (_Cathartes aura_ and _Atratus_), or, as they are called in the west, "turkey buzzard," and "carrion crow," do not confine themselves to carrion alone. They are fond of live "squabs," which they drag out of their nests at pleasure. Numerous hawks and kites prey upon them; and even the great white-headed eagle (_Falco leucocephalus_) may be seen soaring above, and occasionally swooping down for a dainty morsel. On the ground beneath move enemies of a different kind, both biped and quadruped. Fowlers with their guns and long poles; farmers with waggons to carry off the dead birds; and even droves of hogs to devour them. Trees fall under the axe, and huge branches break down by the weight of the birds themselves, killing numbers in their descent. Torches are used--for it is usually a night scene, after the return of the birds from feeding,-- pots of burning sulphur, and other engines of destruction. A noisy scene it is. The clapping of a million pair of wings, like the roaring of thunder; the shots; the shouts; men hoarsely calling to each other; women and children screaming their delight; the barking of dogs; the neighing of horses; the "crashes" of breaking branches; and the "chuck" of the woodman's axe, all mingled together. When the men--saturated with slaughter, and white with ordure--have retired beyond the borders of the roost to rest themselves for the night, their ground is occupied by the prowling wolf and the fox; the racoon and the cougar; the lynx and the great black bear. With so many enemies, one would think that the "passengers" would soon be exterminated. Not so. They are too prolific for that. Indeed, were it not for these enemies, they themselves would perish for want of food. Fancy what it takes to feed them! The flock seen by Wilson would require eighteen million bushels of grain every day!--and it, most likely, was only one of many such that at the time were traversing the vast continent of America. Upon what do they feed? it will be asked. Upon the fruits of the great forest--upon the acorns, the nuts of the beech, upon buck-wheat, and Indian corn; upon many species of berries, such as the huckleberry (_whortleberry_), the hackberry (_Celtis crassifolia_), and the fruit of the holly. In the northern regions, where these are scarce, the berries of the juniper tree (_Juniperus communis_) form the principal food. On the other hand, among the southern plantations, they devour greedily the rice, as well as the nuts of the chestnut-tree and several species of oaks. But their staple food is the beech-nut, or "mast," as it is called. Of this the pigeons are fond, and fortunately it exists in great plenty. In the forests of Western America there are vast tracts covered almost entirely with the beech-tree. As already stated, these beechen forests of America remain almost intact, and so long as they shower down their millions of bushels of "mast," so long will the passenger-pigeons flutter in countless numbers amidst their branches. Their migration is semi-annual; but unlike most other migratory birds, it is far from being regular. Their flight is, in fact, not a periodical migration, but a sort of nomadic existence--food being the object which keeps them in motion and directs their course. The scarcity in one part determines their movement to another. When there is more than the usual fall of snow in the northern regions, vast flocks make their appearance in the middle States, as in Ohio and Kentucky. This may in some measure account for the overcrowded "roosts" which have been occasionally seen, but which are by no means common. You may live in the west for many years without witnessing a scene such as those described by Wilson and Audubon, though once or twice every year you may see pigeons enough to astonish you. It must not be imagined that the wild pigeons of America are so "tame" as they have been sometimes represented. That is their character only while young at the breeding-places, or at the great roosts when confused by crowding upon each other, and mystified by torch-light. Far different are they when wandering through the open woods in search of food. It is then both difficult to approach and hard to kill them. Odd birds you may easily reach; you may see them perched upon the branches on all sides of you, and within shot-range; but the _thick_ of the flock, somehow or other, always keeps from one to two hundred yards off. The sportsman cannot bring himself to fire at single birds. No. There is a tree near at hand literally black with pigeons. Its branches creak under the weight. What a fine havoc he will make if he can but get near enough! But that is the difficulty; there is no cover, and he must approach as he best can without it. He continues to advance; the birds sit silent, watching his movements. He treads lightly and with caution; he inwardly anathematises the dead leaves and twigs that make a loud rustling under his feet. The birds appear restless; several stretch out their necks as if to spring off. At length he deems himself fairly within range, and raises his gun to take aim; but this is a signal for the shy game, and before he can draw trigger they are off to another tree! Some stragglers still remain; and at them he levels his piece and fires. The shot is a random one; for our sportsman, having failed to "cover" the flock, has become irritated and careless, and in all such cases the pigeons fly off with the loss of a few feathers. The gun is reloaded, and our amateur hunter, seeing the thick flock upon another tree, again endeavours to approach it, but with like success. CHAPTER FIVE. HUNT WITH A HOWITZER. When the conversation about the haunts and habits of these birds began to flag, some one called for a "pigeon story." Who could tell a pigeon story? To our surprise the doctor volunteered one, and all gathered around to listen. "Yes, gentlemen," began the doctor, "I have a pigeon adventure, which occurred to me some years ago. I was then living in Cincinnati, following my respectable calling, when I had the good fortune to set a broken leg for one Colonel P--, a wealthy planter, who lived upon the bank of the river some sixty miles from the city. I made a handsome set of if, and won the colonel's friendship for ever. Shortly after, I was invited to his house, to be present at a great pigeon-hunt which was to come off in the fall. The colonel's plantation stood among beech woods, and he had therefore an annual visitation of the pigeons, and could tell almost to a day when they would appear. The hunt he had arranged for the gratification of his numerous friends. "As you all know, gentlemen, sixty miles in our western travel is a mere bagatelle; and tired of pills and prescriptions, I flung myself into a boat, and in a few hours arrived at the colonel's stately home. A word or two about this stately home and its proprietor. "Colonel P-- was a splendid specimen of the backwoods' gentleman--you will admit there _are_ gentlemen in the backwoods." (Here the doctor glanced good-humouredly, first at our English friend Thompson, and then at the Kentuckian, both of whom answered him with a laugh.) "His house was the type of a backwoods mansion; a wooden structure, both walls and roof. No matter. It has distributed as much hospitality in its time as many a marble palace; that was one of its backwoods' characteristics. It stood, and I hope still stands, upon the north bank of the Ohio--that beautiful stream--`_La belle riviere_,' as the French colonists, and before their time the Indians, used to call it. It was in the midst of the woods, though around it were a thousand acres of `clearing,' where you might distinguish fields of golden wheat, and groves of shining maize plants waving aloft their yellow-flower tassels. You might note, too, the broad green leaf of the Nicotian `weed,' or the bursting pod of the snow-white cotton. In the garden you might observe the sweet potato, the common one, the refreshing tomato, the huge water-melon, cantelopes, and musk melons, with many other delicious vegetables. You could see pods of red and green pepper growing upon trailing plants; and beside them several species of peas and beans--all valuable for the colonel's _cuisine_. There was an orchard, too, of several acres in extent. It was filled with fruit-trees, the finest peaches in the world, and the finest apples--the Newton pippins. Besides, there were luscious pears and plums, and upon the espaliers, vines bearing bushels of sweet grapes. If Colonel P-- lived in the woods, it cannot be said that he was surrounded by a desert. "There were several substantial log-houses near the main building or mansion. They were the stable--and good horses there were in that stable; the cow-house, for milk cattle; the barn, to hold the wheat and maize-corn; the smoke-house, for curing bacon; a large building for the dry tobacco; a cotton-gin, with its shed of clap-boards; bins for the husk fodder, and several smaller structures. In one corner you saw a low-walled erection that reminded you of a kennel, and the rich music that from time to time issued from its apertures would convince you that it _was_ a kennel. If you had peeped into it, you would have seen a dozen of as fine stag-hounds as ever lifted a trail. The colonel was somewhat partial to these pets, for he was a `mighty hunter.' You might see a number of young colts in an adjoining lot; a pet deer, a buffalo-calf, that had been brought from the far prairies, pea-fowl, guinea-hens, turkeys, geese, ducks, and the usual proportion of common fowls. Rail-fences zigzagged off in all directions towards the edge of the woods. Huge trees, dead and divested of their leaves, stood up in the cleared fields. Turkey buzzards and carrion, crows might be seen perched upon their grey naked limbs; upon their summit you might observe the great rough-legged falcon; and above all, cutting sharply against the blue sky, the fork-tailed kite sailing gently about." Here the doctor's auditory interrupted him with a murmur of applause. The doctor was in fine spirits, and in a poetical mood. He continued. "Such, gentlemen, was the sort of place I had come to visit; and I saw at a glance that I could spend a few days there pleasantly enough--even without the additional attractions of a pigeon-hunt. "On my arrival I found the party assembled. It consisted of a score and a half of ladies and gentlemen, nearly all young people. The pigeons had not yet made their appearance, but were looked for every hour. The woods had assumed the gorgeous tints of autumn, that loveliest of seasons in the `far west.' Already the ripe nuts and berries were scattered profusely over the earth offering their annual banquet to God's wild creatures. The `mast' of the beech-tree, of which the wild pigeon is so fond, was showering down among the dead leaves. It was the very season at which the birds were accustomed to visit the beechen woods that girdled the colonel's plantation. They would no doubt soon appear. With this expectation everything was made ready; each of the gentlemen was provided with a fowling-piece, or rifle if he preferred it; and even some of the ladies insisted upon being armed. "To render the sport more exciting, our host had established certain regulations. They were as follows:--The gentlemen were divided into two parties, of equal numbers. These were to go in opposite directions, the ladies upon the first day of the hunt accompanying whichever they chose. Upon all succeeding days, however, the case would be different. The ladies were to accompany that party which upon the day previous had bagged the greatest number of birds. The victorious gentlemen, moreover, were endowed with other privileges, which lasted throughout the evening; such as the choice of partners for the dinner-table and the dance. "I need not tell you, gentlemen, that in these conditions existed powerful motives for exertion. The colonel's guests were the _elite_ of western society. Most of the gentlemen were young men or bachelors; and among the ladies there were _belles_; three or four of them rich and beautiful. On my arrival I could perceive signs of incipient flirtations. Attachments had already arisen; and by many it would have been esteemed anything but pleasant to be separated in the manner prescribed. A strong _esprit du corps_ was thus established; and, by the time the pigeons arrived, both parties had determined to do their utmost. In fact, I have never known so strong a feeling of rivalry to exist between two parties of amateur sportsmen. "The pigeons at length arrived. It was a bright sunny morning, and yet the atmosphere was darkened, as the vast flock, a mile in breadth by several in length, passed across the canopy. The sound of their wings resembled a strong wind whistling among tree-tops, or through the rigging of a ship. We saw that they hovered over the woods, and settled among the tall beeches. "The beginning of the hunt was announced, and we set forth, each party taking the direction allotted to it. With each went a number of ladies, and even some of these were armed with light fowling-pieces, determined that the party of their choice should be the victorious one. After a short ride, we found ourselves fairly `in the woods,' and in the presence of the birds, and then the cracking commenced. "In our party we had eight guns, exclusive of the small fowling-pieces (two of those), with which a brace of our heroines were armed, and which, truth compels me to confess, were less dangerous to the pigeons than to ourselves. Some of our guns were double-barrelled shot-guns, others were rifles. You will wonder at rifles being used in such a sport, and yet it is a fact that the gentlemen who carried rifles managed to do more execution than those who were armed with the other species. This arose from the circumstance that they were contented to aim at single birds, and, being good shots, they were almost sure to bring these down. The woods were filled with straggling pigeons. Odd birds were always within rifle range; and thus, instead of wasting their time in endeavouring to approach the great flocks, our riflemen did nothing but load and fire. In this way they soon counted their game by dozens. "Early in the evening, the pigeons, having filled their crops with the mast, disappeared. They flew off to some distant `roost.' This of course concluded our sport for the day. We got together and counted our numbers. We had 640 birds. We returned home full of hope; we felt certain that we had won for that day. Our antagonists had arrived before us. They showed us 736 dead pigeons. We were beaten. "I really cannot explain the chagrin which this defeat occasioned to most of our party. They felt humiliated in the eyes of the ladies, whose company they were to lose on the morrow. To some there was extreme bitterness in the idea; for, as I have already stated, attachments had sprung up, and jealous thoughts were naturally their concomitants. It was quite tantalising, as we parted next morning, to see the galaxy of lovely women ride off with our antagonists, while we sought the woods in the opposite direction, dispirited and in silence. "We went, however, determined to do our best, and win the ladies for the morrow. A council was held, and each imparted his advice and encouragement; and then we all set to work with shot-gun and rifle. "On this day an incident occurred that aided our `count' materially. As you know, gentlemen, the wild pigeons, while feeding, sometimes cover the ground so thickly that they crowd upon each other. They all advance in the same direction, those behind continually rising up and fluttering to the front, so that the surface presents a series of undulations like sea-waves. Frequently the birds alight upon each other's backs, for want of room upon the ground, and a confused mass of winged creatures is seen rolling through the woods. At such times, if the sportsman can only `head' the flock, he is sure of a good shot. Almost every pellet tells, and dozens may be brought down at a single discharge. "In my progress through the woods, I had got separated from my companions, when I observed an immense flock approaching me after the manner described. I saw from their plumage that they were young birds, and therefore not likely to be easily alarmed. I drew my horse (I was mounted) behind a tree, and awaited their approach. This I did more from curiosity than any other motive, as, unfortunately I carried a rifle, and could only have killed one or two at the best. The crowd came `swirling' forward, and when they were within some ten or fifteen paces distant, I fired into their midst. To my surprise, the flock did not take flight, but continued to advance as before, until they were almost among the horse's feet. I could stand it no longer. I drove the spurs deeply, and galloped into their midst, striking right and left as they fluttered up round me. Of course they were soon off; but of those that had been trodden upon by my horse, and others I had knocked down, I counted no less than twenty-seven! Proud of my exploit, I gathered the birds into my bag, and rode in search of my companions. "Our party on this day numbered over 800 head killed; but, to our surprise and chagrin, our antagonists had beaten us by more than a hundred! "The gentlemen of `ours' were wretched. The belles were monopolised by our antagonists; we were scouted, and debarred every privilege. "It was not to be endured; something must be done. What was to be done? counselled we. If fair means will not answer, we must try the opposite. It was evident that our antagonists were better shots than we. "The colonel, too, was one of them, and he was sure to kill every time he pulled trigger. The odds were against us; some plan must be devised; some _ruse_ must be adopted, and the idea of one had been passing through my mind during the whole of that day. It was this:--I had noticed, what has been just remarked, that, although the pigeons will not allow the sportsman to come within range of a fowling-piece, yet at a distance of little over a hundred yards they neither fear man nor beast. At that distance they sit unconcerned, thousands of them upon a single tree. It struck me that a gun large enough to throw shot among them would be certain of killing hundreds at each discharge; but where was such a gun to be had? As I reflected thus, `mountain howitzers' came into my mind. I remembered the small mountain howitzers I had seen at Covington. One of these loaded with shot would be the very weapon. I knew there was a battery of them at the Barracks. I knew that a friend of mine commanded the battery. By steamer, should one pass, it was but a few hours to Covington. I proposed sending for a `mountain howitzer.' "I need hardly say that my proposal was hailed with a universal welcome on the part of my companions; and without dropping a hint to the other party, it was at once resolved that the design should be carried into execution. It was carried into execution. An `up-river' boat chanced to pass in the nick of time. A messenger was forthwith, despatched to Covington, and before twelve o'clock upon the following day another boat on her down trip brought the howitzer, and we had it secretly landed and conveyed to a place in the woods previously agreed upon. My friend, Captain C--, had sent a `live corporal' along with it, and we had no difficulty in its management. "As I had anticipated, it answered our purpose as though it had been made for it. Every shot brought down a shower of dead birds, and after one discharge alone the number obtained was 123! At night our `game-bag' counted over three thousand birds! We were sure of the ladies for the morrow. "Before returning home to our certain triumph, however, there were some considerations. To-morrow we should have the ladies in our company; some of the fair creatures would be as good as sure to `split' upon the howitzer. What was to be done to prevent this? "We eight had sworn to be staunch to each other. We had taken every precaution; we had only used our `great gun' when far off, so that its report might not reach the ears of our antagonists; but how about to-morrow? Could we trust our fair companions with a secret? Decidedly not. This was the unanimous conclusion. A new idea now came to our aid. We saw that we might dispense with the howitzer, and still manage to out-count our opponents. We would make a depository of birds in a safe place. There was a squatter's house near by: that would do. So we took the squatter into our council, and left some 1500 birds in his charge, the remainder being deemed sufficient for that day. From the 1500 thus left, we might each day take a few hundred to make up our game-bag just enough to out-number the other party. We did not send home the corporal and his howitzer. We might require him again; so we quartered him upon the squatter. "On returning home, we found that our opponents had also made a `big day's work of it;' but they were beaten by hundreds. The ladies were ours! "And we kept them until the end of the hunt, to the no little mortification of the gentlemen in the `minority:' to their surprise, as well; for most of them being crack-shots, and several of us not at all so, they could not comprehend why they were every day beaten so outrageously. We had hundreds to spare, and barrels of the birds were cured for winter use. "Another thing quite puzzled our opponents, as well as many good people in the neighbourhood. That was the loud reports that had been heard in the woods. Some argued they were thunder, while others declared they must have proceeded from an earthquake. This last seemed the more probable, as the events I am narrating occurred but a few years after the great earthquake in the Mississippi Valley, and people's minds were prepared for such a thing. "I need not tell you how the knowing ones enjoyed the laugh for several days, and it was not until the colonel's _reunion_ was about to break up, that our secret was let out, to the no small chagrin of our opponents, but to the infinite amusement of our host himself, who, although one of the defeated party, often narrates to his friends the story of the `Hunt with a Howitzer.'" CHAPTER SIX. KILLING A COUGAR. Although we had made a five miles' march from the place where we had halted to shoot the pigeons, our night-camp was still within the boundaries of the flock. During the night we could hear them at intervals at no great distance off. A branch occasionally cracked, and then a fluttering of wings told of thousands dislodged or frightened by its fall. Sometimes the fluttering commenced without any apparent cause. No doubt the great-horned owl (_Strix virginiana_), the wild cat (_felis rufa_), and the raccoon, were busy among them, and the silent attacks of these were causing the repeated alarms. Before going to rest, a torch-hunt was proposed by way of variety, but no material for making good torches could be found, and the idea was abandoned. Torches should be made of dry pine-knots, and carried in some shallow vessel. The common frying-pan, with a long handle, is best for the purpose. Link-torches, unless of the best pitch-pine (_Pinus resinosa_), do not burn with sufficient brightness to stultify the pigeons. They will flutter off before the hunter can get his long pole within reach, whereas with a very brilliant light, he may approach almost near enough to lay his hands upon them. As there were no pitch-pine-trees in the neighbourhood, nor any good torch-wood, we were forced to give up the idea of a night-hunt. During the night strange noises were heard by several who chanced to be awake. Some said they resembled the howling of dogs, while others compared them to the screaming of angry cats. One party said they were produced by wolves; another, that the wild cats (lynxes) made them. But there was one that differed from all the rest. It was a sort of prolonged hiss, that all except Ike believed to be the snort of the black bear, lice, however, declared that it was not the bear, but the "sniff," as he termed it, of the "painter" (cougar). This was probable enough, considering the nature of the place. The cougar is well-known to frequent the great roosts of the passenger-pigeon, and is fond of the flesh of these birds. In the morning our camp was still surrounded by the pigeons, sweeping about among the tree-trunks, and gathering the mast as they went. A few shots were fired, not from any inclination to continue the sport of killing them, but to lay in a fresh stock for the day's dinner. The surplus from yesterday's feast was thrown away, and left by the deserted camp--a banquet for the preying creatures that would soon visit the spot. We moved on, still surrounded by masses upon the wing. A singular incident occurred as we were passing through a sort of avenue in the forest. It was a narrow aisle, on both sides walled in by the thick foliage of the beeches. We were fairly within this hall-like passage, when it suddenly darkened at the opposite end. We saw that a cloud of pigeons had entered it, flying towards us. They were around our heads before they had noticed us. Seeing our party, they suddenly attempted to diverge from their course, but there was no other open to them, except to rise upward in a vertical direction. This they did on the instant--the clatter of their wings producing a noise like the continued roar of thunder. Some had approached so near, that the men on horseback, striking with their guns, knocked several to the ground; and the Kentuckian, stretching upward his long arm, actually caught one of them on the wing. In an instant they were out of sight; but at that instant two great birds appeared before us at the opening of the forest, which were at once recognised as a brace of white-headed eagles (_Falco leucocephalus_). This accounted for the rash flight of the pigeons; for the eagles had evidently been in pursuit of them, and had driven them to seek shelter under the trees. We were desirous of emptying our guns at the great birds of prey, and there was a simultaneous spurring of horses and cocking of guns: to no purpose, however. The eagles were on the alert. They had already espied us; and, uttering their maniac screams, they wheeled suddenly, and disappeared over the tree-tops. We had hardly recovered from this pleasant little bit of excitement, when the guide Ike, who rode in the advance, was seen suddenly to jerk up, exclaiming-- "Painter, by God! I know'd I heard a painter." "Where? where?" was hurriedly uttered by several voices, while all pressed forward to the guide. "Yander!" replied Ike, pointing to a thicket of young beeches. "He's tuk to the brush: ride round, fellers. Mark, boy, round! quick, damn you!" There was a scramble of horsemen, with excited, anxious looks and gestures. Every one had his gun cocked and ready, and in a few seconds the small copse of beeches, with their golden-yellow leaves, was inclosed by a ring of hunters. Had the cougar got away, or was he still within the thicket? Several large trees grew out of its midst. Had he taken to one? The eyes of the party were turned upwards. The fierce creature was nowhere visible. It was impossible to see into every part of the jungle from the outside, as we sat in our saddles. The game might be crouching among the grass and brambles. What was to be done? We had no dogs. How was the cougar to be started? It would be no small peril to penetrate the thicket afoot. Who was to do it? The question was answered by Redwood, who was now seen dismounting from his horse. "Keep your eyes about you," cried he. "I'll make the varmint show if he's thur. Look sharp, then!" We saw Redwood enter fearlessly, leaving his horse hitched over a branch. We heard him no longer, as he proceeded with that stealthy silence known only to the Indian fighter. We listened, and waited in profound suspense. Not even the crackling of a branch broke the stillness. Full five minutes we waited, and then the sharp crack of a rifle near the centre of the copsewood relieved, us. The next moment was heard Redwood's voice crying aloud-- "Look out thur? By God! I've missed him." Before we had time to change our attitudes another rifle cracked, and another voice was heard, crying in answer to Redwood-- "But, by God! I hain't." "He's hyur," continued the voice; "dead as mutton. Come this a way, an' yu'll see the beauty." Ike's voice was recognised, and we all galloped to the spot where it proceeded from. At his feet lay the body of the panther quite dead. There was a red spot running blood between the ribs, where Ike's bullet had penetrated. In trying to escape from the thicket, the cougar had halted a moment, in a crouching attitude, directly before Ike's face, and that moment was enough to give the trapper time to glance through his sights, and send the fatal bullet. Of course the guide received the congratulations of all, and though he pretended not to regard the thing in the light of a feat, he knew well that killing a "painter" was no everyday adventure. The skin of the animal was stripped off in a trice, and carried to the waggon. Such a trophy is rarely left in the woods. The hunter-naturalist performed some farther operations upon the body for the purpose of examining the contents of the stomach. These consisted entirely of the half-digested remains of passenger-pigeons, an enormous quantity of which the beast had devoured during the previous night--having captured them no doubt upon the trees. This adventure formed a pleasant theme for conversation during the rest of our journey, and of course the cougar was the subject. His habits and history were fully discussed, and the information elicited is given below. CHAPTER SEVEN. THE COUGAR. The cougar (_Felis concolor_) is the only indigenous long-tailed cat in America north of the parallel of 30 degrees. The "wild cats" so called, are lynxes with short tails; and of these there are three distinct species. But there is only one true representative of the genus Felis, and that is the animal in question. This has received many trivial appellations. Among Anglo-American hunters, it is called the panther--in their _patois_, "painter." In most parts of South America, as well as in Mexico, it receives the grandiloquent title of "lion" (_leon_), and in the Peruvian countries is called the "puma," or "poma." The absence of stripes, such as those of the tiger--or spots, as upon the leopard--or rosettes, as upon the jaguar, have suggested the name of the naturalists, _concolor_. _Discolor_ was formerly in use; but the other has been generally adopted. There are few wild animals so regular in their colour as the cougar: very little variety has been observed among different specimens. Some naturalists speak of spotted cougars--that is, having spots that may be seen in a certain light. Upon young cubs, such markings do appear; but they are no longer visible on the full-grown animal. The cougar of mature age is of a tawny red colour, almost uniform over the whole body, though somewhat paler about the face and the parts underneath. This colour is not exactly the tawny of the lion; it is more of a reddish hue--nearer to what is termed calf-colour. The cougar is far from being a well-shaped creature: it appears disproportioned. Its back is long and hollow; and its tail does not taper so gracefully as in some other animals of the cat kind. Its legs are short and stout; and although far from clumsy in appearance, it does not possess the graceful _tournure_ of body so characteristic of some of its congeners. Though considered the representative of the lion in the New World, its resemblance to the royal beast is but slight; its colour seems to be the only title it has to such an honour. For the rest, it is much more akin to the tigers, jaguars, and true panthers. Cougars are rarely more than six feet in length, including the tail, which is usually about a third of that measurement. The range of the animal is very extensive. It is known from Paraguay to the Great Lakes of North America. In no part of either continent is it to be seen every day, because it is for the most part not only nocturnal in its activity, but one of those fierce creatures that, fortunately, do not exist in large numbers. Like others of the genus, it is solitary in its habits, and at the approach of civilisation betakes itself to the remoter parts of the forest. Hence the cougar, although found in all of the United States, is a rare animal everywhere, and seen only at long intervals in the mountain-valleys, or in other difficult places of the forest. The appearance of a cougar is sufficient to throw any neighbourhood into an excitement similar to that which would be produced by the chase of a mad dog. It is a splendid tree-climber. It can mount a tree with the agility of a cat; and although so large an animal, it climbs by means of its claws--not by hugging, after the manner of the bears and opossums. While climbing a tree, its claws can be heard crackling along the bark as it mounts upward. It sometimes lies "squatted" along a horizontal branch, a lower one, for the purpose of springing upon deer, or such other animals as it wishes to prey upon. The ledge of a cliff is also a favourite haunt, and such are known among the hunters as "panther-ledges." It selects such a position in the neighbourhood of some watering-place, or, if possible, one of the salt or soda springs (licks) so numerous in America. Here it is more certain that its vigil will not be a protracted one. Its prey--elk, deer, antelope, or buffalo--soon appears beneath, unconscious of the dangerous enemy that cowers over them. When fairly within reach, the cougar springs, and pouncing down upon the shoulders of the victim, buries its claws in the flesh. The terrified animal starts forward, leaps from side to side, dashes into the papaw thickets, or breasts the dense cane-brake, in hopes of brushing off its relentless rider. All in vain! Closely clasping its neck, the cougar clings on, tearing its victim in the throat, and drinking its blood throughout the wild gallop. Faint and feeble, the ruminant at length totters and falls, and the fierce destroyer squats itself along the body, and finishes its red repast. If the cougar can overcome several animals at a time, it will kill them all, although but the twentieth part may be required to satiate its hunger. Unlike the lion in this, even in repletion it will kill. With it, destruction of life seems to be an instinct. There is a very small animal, and apparently a very helpless one, with which the cougar occasionally quarrels, but often with ill success--this is the Canada porcupine. Whether the cougar ever succeeds in killing one of these creatures is not known, but that it attacks them is beyond question, and its own death is often the result. The quills of the Canada porcupine are slightly barbed at their extremities; and when stuck into the flesh of a living animal, this arrangement causes them to penetrate mechanically deeper and deeper as the animal moves. That the porcupine can itself discharge them to some distance, is not true, but it is true that it can cause them to be easily _detached_; and this it does when rashly seized by any of the predatory animals. The result is, that these remarkable spines become fast in the tongue, jaws, and lips of the cougar, or any other creature which may make an attack on that seemingly unprotected little animal. The fisher (_Mustela Canadensis_) is said to be the only animal that can kill the porcupine with impunity. It fights the latter by first throwing it upon its back, and then springing upon its upturned belly, where the spines are almost entirely wanting. The cougar is called a cowardly animal: some naturalists even assert that it will not venture to attack man. This is, to say the least, a singular declaration, after the numerous well-attested instances in which men have been attacked, and even killed by cougars. There are many such in the history of early settlement in America. To say that cougars are cowardly now when found in the United States--to say they are shy of man, and will not attack him, may be true enough. Strange, if the experience of 200 years' hunting, and by such hunters too, did not bring them to that. We may safely believe, that if the lions of Africa were placed in the same circumstances, a very similar shyness and dread of the upright biped would soon exhibit itself. What all these creatures--bears, cougars, lynxes, wolves, and even alligators--are now, is no criterion of their past. Authentic history proves that their courage, at least so far as regards man, has changed altogether since they first heard the sharp detonation of the deadly rifle. Even contemporaneous history demonstrates this. In many parts of South America, both jaguar and cougar attack man, and numerous are the deadly encounters there. In Peru, on the eastern declivity of the Andes, large settlements and even villages have been abandoned solely on account of the perilous proximity of those fierce animals. In the United States, the cougar is hunted by dog and gun. He will run from the hounds, because he knows they are backed by the unerring rifle of the hunter; but should one of the yelping pack approach too near, a single blow of the cougar's paw is sufficient to stretch him out. When closely pushed, the cougar takes to a tree, and, halting in one of its forks, humps his back, bristles his hair, looks downward with gleaming eyes, and utters a sound somewhat like the purring of a cat, though far louder. The crack of the hunter's rifle usually puts an end to these demonstrations, and the cougar drops to the ground either dead or wounded. If only the latter, a desperate fight ensues between him and the dogs, with several of whom he usually leaves a mark that distinguishes them for the rest of their lives. The scream of the cougar is a common phrase. It is not very certain that the creature is addicted to the habit of screaming, although noises of this kind heard in the nocturnal forest have been attributed to him. Hunters, however, have certainly never heard him, and they believe that the scream talked about proceeds from one of the numerous species of owls that inhabit the deep forests of America. At short intervals, the cougar does make himself heard in a note which somewhat resembles a deep-drawn sigh, or as if one were to utter with an extremely guttural expression the syllables "Co-oa," or "Cougar." Is it from this that he derives his trivial name? CHAPTER EIGHT. OLD IKE'S ADVENTURE. Now a panther story was the natural winding-up of this day, and it had been already hinted that old Ike had "rubbed out" several of these creatures in his time, and no doubt could tell more than one "painter" story. "Wal, strengers," began he, "it's true thet this hyur ain't the fust painter I've comed acrosst. About fifteen yeern ago I moved to Loozyanny, an' thur I met a painter, an' a queer story it are." "Let us have it by all means," said several of the party, drawing closer up and seating themselves to listen attentively. We all knew that a story from Ike could not be otherwise than "queer," and our curiosity was on the _qui vive_. "Wal then," continued he, "they have floods dowd thur in Loozyanny, sich as, I guess, you've never seen the like o' in England." Here Ike addressed himself specially to our English comrade. "England ain't big enough to hev sich floods. One o' 'm ud kiver yur hul country, I hev heern said. I won't say that ar's true, as I ain't acquainted with yur jography. I know, howsomdever, they're mighty big freshets thur, as I hev sailed a skift more 'n a hundred mile acrosst one o' 'm, whur thur wan't nothin' to be seen but cypress tops peep in out o' the water. The floods, as ye know, come every year, but them ar big ones only oncest in a while. "Wal, as I've said about fifeteen yeern ago, I located in the Red River bottom, about fifty mile or tharabout below Nacketosh, whur I built me a shanty. I hed left my wife an' two young critters in Massissippi state, intendin' to go back for 'em in the spring; so, ye see, I wur all alone by meself, exceptin' my ole mar, a Collins's axe, an' of coorse my rifle. "I hed finished the shanty all but the chinkin' an' the buildin' o' a chimbly, when what shed come on but one o' 'm tarnation floods. It wur at night when it begun to make its appearance. I wur asleep on the floor o' the shanty, an' the first warnin' I hed o' it wur the feel o' the water soakin' through my ole blanket. I hed been a-dreamin', an' thort it wur rainin', an' then agin I thort that I wur bein' drownded in the Massissippi; but I wan't many seconds awake, till I guessed what it wur in raality; so I jumped to my feet like a started buck, an' groped my way to the door. "A sight that wur when I got thur. I hed chirred a piece o' ground around the shanty--a kupple o' acres or better--I hed left the stumps a good three feet high: thur wan't a stump to be seen. My clearin', stumps an' all, wur under water; an' I could see it shinin' among the trees all round the shanty. "Of coorse, my fust thoughts wur about my rifle; an I turned back into the shanty, an' laid my claws upon that quick enough. "I next went in search o' my ole mar. She wan't hard to find; for if ever a critter made a noise, she did. She wur tied to a tree close by the shanty, an' the way she wur a-squealin' wur a caution to cats. I found her up to the belly in water, pitchin' an' flounderin' all round the tree. She hed nothin' on but the rope that she wur hitched by. Both saddle an' bridle hed been washed away: so I made the rope into a sort o' halter, an' mounted her bare-backed. "Jest then I begun to think whur I wur agoin'. The hul country appeared to be under water: an' the nearest neighbour I hed lived acrosst the parairy ten miles off. I knew that his shanty sot on high ground, but how wur I to get thur? It wur night; I mout lose my way, an' ride chuck into the river. "When I thort o' ibis, I concluded it mout be better to stay by my own shanty till mornin'. I could hitch the mar inside to keep her from bein' floated away; an' for meself, I could climb on the roof. "While I wur thinkin' on this, I noticed that the water wur a-deepenin', an' it jest kim into my head, that it ud soon be deep enough to drownd my ole mar. For meself I wan't frightened. I mout a clomb a tree, an' stayed thur till the flood fell; but I shed a lost the mar, an' that critter wur too valleyble to think o' such a sacryfize; so I made up my mind to chance crossin' the parairy. Thur wan't no time to be wasted-- ne'er a minnit; so I gin the mar a kick or two in the ribs an' started. "I found the path out to the edge of the parairy easy enough. I hed blazed it when I fust come to the place; an', as the night wur not a very dark one, I could see the blazes as I passed atween the trees. My mar knew the track as well as meself, an' swaltered through at a sharp rate, for she knew too thur wan't no time to be wasted. In five minnites we kim out on the edge o' the pairairy, an' jest as I expected, the hul thing wur kivered with water, an' lookin' like a big pond, I could see it shinin' clur acrosst to the other side o' the openin'. "As luck ud hev it, I could jest git a glimp o' the trees on the fur side o' the parairy. Thur wur a big clump o' cypress, that I could see plain enough; I knew this wur clost to my neighbour's shanty; so I gin my critter the switch, an' struck right for it. "As I left the timmer, the mar wur up to her hips. Of coorse, I expected a good grist o' heavy wadin'; but I hed no idee that the water wur a-gwine to git much higher; thur's whur I made my mistake. "I hedn't got more'n a kupple o' miles out when I diskivered that the thing wur a-risin' rapidly, for I seed the mar wur a-gettin' deeper an' deeper. "'Twan't no use turnin' back now. I ud lose the mar to a dead sartinty, if I didn't make the high ground; so I spoke to the critter to do her best, an' kep on. The poor beast didn't need any whippin'--she knew as well's I did meself thur wur danger, an' she wur a-doin' her darndest, an' no mistake. Still the water riz, an' kep a-risin', until it come clur up to her shoulder. "I begun to git skeart in airnest. We wan't more 'n half acrosst, an' I seed if it riz much more we ud hav to swim for it. I wan't far astray about that. The minnit arter it seemed to deepen suddintly, as if thur wur a hollow in the parairy: I heerd the mar give a loud gouf, an' then go down, till I wur up to the waist. She riz agin the next minnit, but I could tell from the smooth ridin' that she wur off o' the bottom. She wur swimmin', an' no mistake. "At fust I thort o' headin' her back to the shanty; an' I drew her round with that intent; but turn her which way I would, I found she could no longer touch bottom. "I guess, strengers, I wur in a quandairy about then. I 'gun to think that both my own an' my mar's time wur come in airnest, for I hed no idee that the critter could iver swim to the other side, 'specially with me on her back, an' purticklarly as at that time these hyur ribs had a sight more griskin upon 'em than they hev now. "Wal, I wur about reckinin' up. I hed got to thinkin' o' Mary an' the childer, and the old shanty in the Mississippi, an' a heap o' things that I hed left unsettled, an' that now come into my mind to trouble me. The mar wur still plungin' ahead; but I seed she wur sinkin' deeper an' deeper an' fast loosin' her strength, an' I knew she couldn't hold out much longer. "I thort at this time that if I got off o' her back, an' tuk hold o' the tail, she mout manage a leetle hotter. So I slipped backwards over her hips, an' grupped the long hair. It did do some good, for she swum higher; but we got mighty slow through the water, an' I hed but leetle behopes we should reach land. "I wur towed in this way about a quarter o' a mile, when I spied somethin' floatin' on the water a leetle ahead. It hed growed considerably darker; but thur wur still light enough to show me that the thing wur a log. "An idee now entered my brain-pan, that I mout save meself by takin' to the log. The mar ud then have a better chance for herself; an' maybe, when eased o' draggin' my carcass, that wur a-keepin' her back, she mout make footin' somewhur. So I waited till she got a leetle closter; an' then, lettin' go o' her tail, I clasped the log, an' crawled on to it. "The mar swum on, appeerintly 'ithout missin' me. I seed her disappear through the darkness; but I didn't as much as say good-bye to her, for I wur afeard that my voice mout bring her back agin', an' she mout strike the log with her hoofs, an' whammel it about. So I lay quiet, an' let her hev her own way. "I wan't long on the log till I seed it wur a-driftin', for thur wur a current in the water that set tol'uble sharp acrosst the parairy. I hed crawled up at one eend, an' got stride-legs; but as the log dipped considerable, I wur still over the hams in the water. "I thort I mout be more comfortable towards the middle, an' wur about to pull the thing more under me, when all at once I seed thur wur somethin' clumped up on t'other eend o' the log. "'Twan't very clur at the time, for it had been a-growin' cloudier ever since I left the shanty, but 'twur clur enough to show me that the thing wur a varmint: what sort, I couldn't tell. It mout be a bar, an' it mout not; but I had my suspects it wur eyther a bar or a painter. "I wan't left long in doubt about the thing's gender. The log kep makin' circles as it drifted, an' when the varmint kim round into a different light, I caught a glimp o' its eyes. I knew them eyes to be no bar's eyes: they wur painter's eyes, an' no mistake. "I reckin, strengers, I felt very queery jest about then. I didn't try to go any nearer the middle o' the log; but instead of that, I wriggled back until I wur right plum on the eend of it, an' could git no further. "Thur I sot for a good long spell 'ithout movin' hand or foot. I dasen't make a motion, as I wur afeard it mout tempt the varmint to attackt me. "I hed no weepun but my knife; I hed let go o' my rifle when I slid from the mar's back, an' it hed gone to the bottom long since. I wan't in any condition to stand a tussle with the painter nohow; so I 'wur determined to let him alone as long's he ud me. "Wal, we drifted on for a good hour, I guess, 'ithout eyther o' us stirrin'. We sot face to face; an' now an' then the current ud set the log in a sort o' up-an'-down motion, an' then the painter an' I kep bowin' to each other like a pair o' bob-sawyers. I could see all the while that the varmint's eyes wur fixed upon mine, an' I never tuk mine from hisn; I know'd 'twur the only way to keep him still. "I wur jest prospectin' what ud be the eendin' o' the business, when I seed we wur a-gettin' closter to the timmer: 'twan't more 'n two miles off, but 'twur all under water 'ceptin' the tops o' the trees. I wur thinkin' that when the log shed float in among the branches, I mout slip off, an' git my claws upon a tree, 'ithout sayin anythin' to my travellin' companion. "Jest at that minnit somethin' appeared dead ahead o' the log. It wur like a island; but what could hev brought a island thur? Then I recollects that I hed seed a piece o' high ground about that part o' the parairy--a sort o' mound that hed been made by Injuns, I s'pose. This, then, that looked like a island, wur the top o' that mound, sure enough. "The log wur a-driftin' in sich a way that I seed it must pass within twenty yards o' the mound. I detarmined then, as soon as we shed git alongside, to put out for it, an' leave the painter to continue his voyage 'ithout me. "When I fust sighted the island I seed somethin' that; hed tuk for bushes. But thur wan't no bushes on the mound--that I knowd. "Howsomdever, when we got a leetle closter, I diskivered that the bushes wur beests. They wur deer; for I spied a pair o' buck's horns atween me an' the sky. But thur wur a somethin' still bigger than a deer. It mout be a hoss, or it mout be an Opelousa ox, but I thort it wur a hoss. "I wur right about that, for a horse it wur, sure enough, or rayther I shed say, a _mar_, an' that mar no other than my ole crittur! "Arter partin' company, she hed turned with the current; an', as good luck ud hev it, hed swum in a beeline for the island, an' thur she stood lookin' as slick as if she hed been greased. "The log hed by this got nigh enough, as I kalklated; an', with as little rumpus as possible, I slipped over the eend an' lot go my hold o' it. I wan't right spread in the water, afore I heerd a plump, an' lookin' round a bit, I seed the painter hed left the log too, an' tuk to the water. "At fust, I thort he wur arter me; an' I drawed my knife with one hand, while I swum with the other. But the painter didn't mean fight that time. He made but poor swimmin' himself, an' appeared glad enough to get upon dry groun' 'ithout molestin' me; so we swum on side by side, an' not a word passed atween us. "I didn't want to make a race o' it; so I let him pass me, rayther than that he should fall behind, an' get among my legs. "Of coorse, he landed fust; an' I could hear by the stompin' o' hoofs, that his suddint appearance hed kicked up a jolly stampede among the critters upon the island. I could see both deer and mar dancing all over the groun', as if Old Nick himself hed got among 'em. "None o' 'em, howsomdever, thort o' takin' to the water. They hed all hed enough o' that, I guess. "I kep a leetle round, so as not to land near the painter; an' then, touchin' bottom, I climbed quietly up on the mound. I hed hardly drawed my drippin' carcass out o' the water, when I heerd a loud squeal, which I knew to be the whigher o' my ole mar; an' jest at that minnit the critter kim runnin' up, an' rubbed her nose agin my shoulder. I tuk the halter in my hand, an' sidling round a leetle, I jumped upon her back, for I still wur in fear o' the painter; an' the mar's back appeared to me the safest place about, an' that wan't very safe, eyther. "I now looked all round to see what new company I hed got into. The day wur jest breakin', an' I could distinguish a leetle better every minnit. The top o' the mound which, wur above water wan't over half an acre in size, an' it wur as clur o' timmer as any other part o' the parairy, so that I could see every inch o' it, an' everythin' on it as big as a tumble-bug. "I reckin, strengers, that you'll hardly believe me when I tell you the concatenation o' varmints that wur then an' thur caucused together. I could hardly believe my own eyes when I seed sich a gatherin', an' I thort I hed got aboard o' Noah's Ark. Thur wur--listen, strengers--fust my ole mar an' meself, an' I wished both o' us anywhur else, I reckin-- then thur wur the painter, yur old acquaintance--then thur wur four deer, a buck an' three does. Then kim a catamount; an' arter him a black bar, a'most as big as a buffalo. Then thur wur a 'coon an' a 'possum, an' a kupple o' grey wolves, an' a swamp rabbit, an', darn the thing! a stinkin' skunk. Perhaps the last wan't the most dangerous varmint on the groun', but it sartintly wur the most disagreeableest o' the hul lot, for it smelt only as a cussed polecat kin smell. "I've said, strengers, that I wur mightily tuk by surprise when I fust seed this curious clanjamfrey o' critters; but I kin tell you I wur still more dumbfounded when I seed thur behaveyur to one another, knowin' thur different naturs as I did. Thur wur the painter lyin' clost up to the deer--its nat'ral prey; an' thur wur the wolves too; an' thur wur the catamount standin' within three feet o' the 'possum an' the swamp rabbit; an' thur wur the bar an' the cunnin' old 'coon; an' thur they all wur, no more mindin' one another than if they hed spent all thur days together in the same penn. "'Twur the oddest sight I ever seed, an' it remembered me o' bit o' Scripter my ole mother hed often read from a book called the Bible, or some sich name--about a lion that wur so tame he used to squat down beside a lamb, 'ithout layin' a claw upon the innocent critter. "Wal, stranger, as I'm sayin', the hul party behaved in this very way. They all appeared down in the mouth, an' badly skeart about the water; but for all that, I hed my fears that the painter or the bar--I wan't afeard o' any o' the others--mout git over thur fright afore the flood fell; an' thurfore I kept as quiet as any one o' them during the hul time I wur in thur company, an' stayin' all the time clost by the mar. But neyther bar nor painter showed any savage sign the hul o' the next day, nor the night that follered it. "Strengers, it ud tire you wur I to tell you all the movements that tuk place among these critters durin' that long day an' night. Ne'er a one o' 'em laid tooth or claw on the other. I wur hungry enough meself, and ud a liked to hev taken a steak from the buttocks o' one o' the deer, but I dasen't do it. I wur afeard to break the peace, which mout a led to a general shindy. "When day broke, next mornin' arter, I seed that the flood wur afallin'; and as soon as it wur shallow enough, I led my mar quietly into the water, an' climbin' upon her back, tuk a silent leave o' my companions. The water still tuk my mar up to the flanks, so that I knew none o' the varmint could follow 'ithout swimmin', an' ne'er a one seemed inclined to try a swim. "I struck direct for my neighbour's shanty, which I could see about three mile off, an', in a hour or so, I wur at his door. Thur I didn't stay long, but borrowin' an extra gun which he happened to hev, an' takin' him along with his own rifle, I waded my mar back to the island. We found the game not exactly as I hed left it. The fall o' the flood hed given the painter, the cat, an' the wolves courage. The swamp rabbit an' the 'possum wur clean gone--all but bits o' thur wool--an' one o' the does wur better 'n half devoured. "My neighbour tuk one side, an' I the other, an' ridin' clost up, we surrounded the island. "I plugged the painter at the fust shot, an' he did the same for the bar. We next layed out the wolves, an' arter that cooney, an' then we tuk our time about the deer--these last and the bar bein' the only valley'ble things on the island. The skunk we kilt last, as we didn't want the thing to stink us off the place while we wur a-skinnin' the deer. "Arter killin' the skunk, we mounted an' left, of coorse loaded with our bar-meat an' venison. "I got my rifle arter all. When the flood went down, I found it near the middle of the parairy, half buried in the sludge. "I saw I hed built my shanty in the wrong place; but I soon looked out a better location, an' put up another. I hed all ready in the spring, when I went back to Massissippi, an' brought out Mary and the two young uns." The singular adventure of old Ike illustrates a point in natural history that, as soon as the trapper had ended, became the subject of conversation. It was that singular trait in the character of predatory animals, as the cougar, when under circumstances of danger. On such occasions fear seems to influence them so much as to completely subdue their ferocity, and they will not molest other animals sharing the common danger, even when the latter are their natural and habitual prey. Nearly every one of us had observed this at some time or other; and the old naturalist, as well as the hunter-guides, related many incidents confirming the strange fact. Humboldt speaks of an instance observed by him on the Orinoco, where the fierce jaguar and some other creatures were seen quietly and peacefully floating together on the same log--all more or less frightened at their situation! Ike's story had very much interested the doctor, who rewarded him with a "nip" from the pewter flask; and, indeed, on this occasion the flask was passed round, as the day had been one of unusual interest. The killing of a cougar is a rare adventure, even in the wildest haunts of the backwoods' country. CHAPTER NINE. THE MUSQUASH. Our next day's march was unenlivened by any particular incident. We had left behind us the heavy timber, and again travelled through the "oak openings." Not an animal was started during the whole day, and the only one seen was a muskrat that took to the water of a small creek and escaped. This occurred at the spot where we had halted for our night-camp, and after the tents were pitched, several of the party went "rat-hunting." The burrow of a family of these curious little animals was discovered in the bank, and an attempt was made to dig them out, but without success. The family proved to be "not at home." The incident, however, brought the muskrat on the _tapis_. The "muskrat" of the States is the musquash of the fur-traders (_Fiber sibethicus_). He is called muskrat, from his resemblance to the common rat, combined with the musky odour which he emits from glands situated near the anus. Musquash is said to be an Indian appellative--a strange coincidence, as the word, "musk" is of Arabic origin, and "musquash" would seem a compound of the French _musque_, as the early Canadian fur-traders were French, or of French descent, and fixed the nomenclature of most of the fur-bearing animals of that region. Naturalists have used the name of "Musk Beaver" on account of the many points of resemblance which this animal bears to the true beaver (_Castor fiber_). Indeed, they seem to be of the same genus, and so Linnaeus classed them; but later systematists have separated them, for the purpose, I should fancy, not of simplifying science, but of creating the impression that they themselves were very profound observers. The teeth--those great friends of the closet naturalist, which help him to whole pages of speculation--have enabled him to separate the beaver from the musquash, although the whole history and habits of these creatures prove them to be congeners, as much as a mastiff is the congener of a greyhound--indeed, far more. So like are they in a general sense, that the Indians call them "cousins." In form the muskrat differs but little from the beaver. It is a thick, rounded, and flat-looking animal, with blunt nose, short ears almost buried in the fur, stiff whiskers like a cat, short legs and neck, small dark eyes, and sharply-clawed feet. The hinder ones are longest, and are half-webbed. Those of the beaver are full-webbed. There is a curious fact in connection with the tails of these two animals. Both are almost naked of hair, and covered with "scales," and both are flat. The tail of the beaver, and the uses it makes of this appendage, are things known to every one. Every one has read of its trowel-shape and use, its great breadth, thickness, and weight, and its resemblance to a cricket-bat. The tail of the muskrat is also naked, covered with scales, and compressed or flattened; but instead of being horizontally so, as with the beaver, it is the reverse; and the thin edges are in a vertical plane. The tail of the former, moreover, is not of the trowel-shape, but tapers like that of the common rat. Indeed, its resemblance to the house-rat is so great as to render it a somewhat disagreeable object to look upon. Tail and all, the muskrat is about twenty inches in length; and its body is about half as big as that of a beaver. It possesses a strange power of contracting its body, so as to make it appear about half its natural size, and to enable it to pass through a chink that animals of much smaller dimensions could not enter. Its colour is reddish-brown above, and light-ash underneath. There are eccentricities, however, in this respect. Specimens have been found quite black, as also mixed and pure white. The fur is a soft, thick down, resembling that of the beaver, but not quite so fine. There are long rigid hairs, red-coloured, that overtop the fur; and these are also sparely scattered over the tail. The habits of the muskrat are singular--perhaps not less so than those of his "cousin" the beaver, when you strip the history of the latter of its many exaggerations. Indeed the former animal, in the domesticated state, exhibits much greater intelligence than the latter. Like the beaver, it is a water animal, and is only found where water exists; never among the dry hills. Its "range" extends over the whole continent of North America, wherever "grass grows and water runs." It is most probable it is an inhabitant of the Southern Continent, but the natural history of that country is still but half told. Unlike the beaver, the race of the muskrat is not likely soon to become extinct. The beaver is now found in America, only in the remotest parts of the uninhabited wilderness. Although formerly an inhabitant of the Atlantic States, his presence there is now unknown; or, if occasionally met with, it is no longer in the beaver dam, with its cluster of social domes, but only as a solitary creature, a "terrier beaver," ill-featured, shaggy in coat, and stunted in growth. The muskrat, on the contrary, still frequents the settlements. There is hardly a creek, pond, or watercourse, without one or more families having an abode upon its banks. Part of the year the muskrat is a social animal; at other seasons it is solitary. The male differs but little from the female, though he is somewhat larger, and better furred. In early spring commences the season of his loves. His musky odour is then strongest, and quite perceptible in the neighbourhood of his haunt. He takes a wife, to whom he is for ever after faithful; and it is believed the connection continues to exist during life. After the "honeymoon" a burrow is made in the bank of a stream or pond; usually in some solitary and secure spot by the roots of a tree, and always in such a situation that the rising of the water cannot reach the nest which is constructed within. The entrance to this burrow is frequently under water, so that it is difficult to discover it. The nest within is a bed of moss or soft grasses. In this the female brings forth five or six "cubs," which she nourishes with great care, training them to her own habits. The male takes no part in their education; but during this period absents himself, and wanders about alone. In autumn the cubs are nearly full-grown, and able to "take care of themselves." The "old father" now joins the family party, and all together proceed to the erection of winter quarters. They forsake the "home of their nativity," and build a very different sort of a habitation. The favourite site for their new house, is a swamp not likely to freeze to the bottom, and if with a stream running through it, all the better. By the side of this stream, or often on a little islet in the midst, they construct a dome-shaped pile, hollow within, and very much like the house of the beaver. The materials used are grass and mud, the latter being obtained at the bottom of the swamp or stream. The entrance to this house is subterranean, and consists of one or more galleries debouching under the water. In situations where there is danger of inundation, the floor of the interior is raised higher, and frequently terraces are made to admit of a dry seat, in case the ground-floor should get flooded. Of course there is free egress and ingress at all times, to permit the animal to go after its food, which consists of plants that grow in the water close at hand. The house being completed, and the cold weather having set in, the whole family, parents and all, enter it, and remain there during the winter, going out only at intervals for necessary purposes. In spring they desert this habitation and never return to it. Of course they are warm enough during winter while thus housed, even in the very coldest weather. The heat of their own bodies would make them so, lying as they do, huddled together, and sometimes on top of one another, but the mud walls of their habitations are a foot or more in thickness, and neither frost nor rain can penetrate within. Now, a curious fact has been observed in connection with the houses of these creatures. It shows how nature has adapted them to the circumstances in which they may be placed. By philosophers it is termed "instinct"; but in our opinion it is the same sort of instinct which enables Mr Hobbs to pick a "Chubb" lock. It is this:-- In southern climates--in Louisiana, for instance--the swamps and rivers do not freeze over in winter. There the muskrat does not construct such houses as that described, but is contented all the year with his burrow in the banks. He can go forth freely and seek his food at all seasons. In the north it is different. There for months the rivers are frozen over with thick ice. The muskrat could only come out under the ice, or above it. If the latter, the entrance of his burrow would betray him, and men with their traps, and dogs, or other enemies, would easily get at him. Even if he had also a water entrance, by which he might escape upon the invasion of his burrow, he would drown for want of air. Although an amphibious animal, like the beaver and otter, he cannot live altogether under water, and must rise at intervals to take breath. The running stream in winter does not perhaps furnish him with his favourite food--the roots and stems of water-plants. These the swamp affords to his satisfaction; besides, it gives him security from the attacks of men and preying animals, as the wolverine and fisher. Moreover, his house in the swamp cannot be easily approached by the hunter--man--except when the ice becomes very thick and strong. Then, indeed, is the season of peril for the muskrat, but even then he has loopholes of escape. How cunningly this creature adapts itself to its geographical situation! In the extreme north--in the hyperborean regions of the Hudson's Bay Company--lakes, rivers, and even springs freeze up in winter. The shallow marshes become solid ice, congealed to their very bottoms. How is the muskrat to get under water there? Thus, then, he manages the matter:-- Upon deep lakes, as soon as the ice becomes strong enough to bear his weight, he makes a hole in it, and over this he constructs his dome-shaped habitation, bringing the materials up through the hole, from the bottom of the lake. The house thus formed sits prominently upon the ice. Its entrance is in the floor--the hole which has already been made--and thus is kept open during the whole season of frost, by the care and watchfulness of the inmates, and by their passing constantly out and in to seek their food--the water-plants of the lake. This peculiar construction of the muskrat's dwelling, with its water-passage, would afford all the means of escape from its ordinary enemies--the beasts of prey--and, perhaps, against these alone nature has instructed it to provide. But with all its cunning it is, of course, outwitted by the superior ingenuity of its enemy--man. The food of the muskrat is varied. It loves the roots of several species of _nymphae_, but its favourite is _calamus_ root (_calamus_ or _acorus aromaticus_). It is known to eat shell-fish, and heaps of the shells of fresh-water muscles (_unios_) are often found near its retreat. Some assert that it eats fish, but the same assertion is made with regard to the beaver. This point is by no means clearly made out; and the closet naturalists deny it, founding their opposing theory, as usual, upon the teeth. For my part, I have but little faith in the "teeth," since I have known horses, hogs, and cattle greedily devour both fish, flesh, and fowl. The muskrat is easily tamed, and becomes familiar and docile. It is very intelligent, and will fondly caress the hand of its master. Indians and Canadian settlers often have them in their houses as pets; but there is so much of the rat in their appearance, and they emit such a disagreeable odour in the spring, as to prevent them from becoming general favourites. They are difficult to cage up, and will eat their way out of a deal box in a single night. Their flesh, although somewhat musky, is eaten by the Indians and white hunters, but these gentry eat almost everything that "lives, breathes, and moves." Many Canadians, however, are fond of the flesh. It is not for its flesh that the muskrat is so eagerly hunted. Its fur is the important consideration. This is almost equal to the fur of the beaver in the manufacture of hats, and sells for a price that pays the Indians and white trappers for the hardships they undergo in obtaining it. It is, moreover, used in the making of boas and muffs, as it somewhat resembles the fur of the pine marten or American sable (_Mustela martes_), and on account of its cheapness is sometimes passed off for the latter. It is one of the regular articles of the Hudson's Bay Company's commerce, and thousands of muskrat skins are annually obtained. Indeed, were it not that the animal is prolific and difficult to capture, its species would soon suffer extermination. The mode of taking it differs from that practised in trapping the beaver. It is often caught in traps set for the latter, but such a "catch" is regarded in the light of a misfortune, as until it is taken out the trap is rendered useless for its real object. As an amusement it is sometimes hunted by dogs, as the otter is, and dug out of its burrow; but the labour of laying open its deep cave is ill repaid by the sport. The amateur sportsman frequently gets a shot at the muskrat while passing along the bank near its haunts, and almost as frequently misses his aim. The creature is too quick for him, and dives almost without making a bubble. Of course once in the pool it is seen no more. Many tribes of Indians hunt the muskrat both for its flesh and skin. They have peculiar modes of capturing it, of one of which the hunter-naturalist gave an account. A winter which he had spent at a fort in the neighbourhood of a settlement of Ojibways gave him an opportunity of witnessing this sport in perfection. CHAPTER TEN. A RAT-HUNT. "Chingawa," began he, "a Chippeway or Ojibway Indian, better-known at the fort as `Old Foxey,' was a noted hunter of his tribe. I had grown to be a favourite with him. My well-known passion for the chase was a sort of masonic link between us; and our friendship was farther augmented by the present of an old knife for which I had no farther use. The knife was not worth twopence of sterling money, but it made `Old Foxey' my best friend; and all his `hunter-craft'--the gatherings of about sixty winters--became mine. "I had not yet been inducted into the mystery of `rat-catching,' but the season for that `noble' sport at length arrived, and the Indian hunter invited me to join him in a muskrat hunt. "Taking our `traps' on our shoulders, we set out for the place where the game was to be found. This was a chain of small lakes or ponds that ran through a marshy valley, some ten or twelve miles distant from the fort. "The traps, or implements, consisted of an ice-chisel with a handle some five feet in length, a small pickaxe, an iron-pointed spear barbed only on one side, with a long straight shaft, and a light pole about a dozen feet in length, quite straight and supple. "We had provided ourselves with a small stock of eatables as well as materials for kindling a fire--but no Indian is ever without these. We had also carried our blankets along with us, as we designed to make a night of it by the lakes. "After trudging for several hours through the silent winter forests, and crossing both lakes and rivers upon the ice, we reached the great marsh. Of course, this, as well as the lakes, was frozen over with thick ice; we could have traversed it with a loaded waggon and horses without danger of breaking through. "We soon came to some dome-shaped heaps rising above the level of the ice. They were of mud, bound together with grass and flags, and were hardened by the frost. Within each of these rounded heaps, Old Foxey knew there was at least half a dozen muskrats--perhaps three times that number--lying snug and warm and huddled together. "Since there appeared no hole or entrance, the question was how to get at the animals inside. Simply by digging until the inside should be laid open, thought I. This of itself would be no slight labour. The roof and sides, as my companion informed me, were three feet in thickness; and the tough mud was frozen to the hardness and consistency of a fire-brick. But after getting through this shell, where should we find the inmates? Why, most likely, we should not find them at all after all this labour. So said my companion, telling me at the same time that there were subterranean, or rather subaqueous, passages, by which the muskrats would be certain to make off under the ice long before he had penetrated near them. "I was quite puzzled to know how we should proceed. Not so Old Foxey. He well knew what he was about, and pitching his traps down by one of the `houses,' commenced operations. "The one he had selected stood out in the lake, some distance from its edge. It was built entirely upon the ice; and, as the hunter well knew, there was a hole in its floor by which the animals could get into the water at will. How then was he to prevent them from escaping by the hole, while we removed the covering or roof? This was what puzzled me, and I watched his movements with interest. "Instead of digging into the house, he commenced cutting a hole in the ice with his ice-chisel about two feet from the edge of the mud. That being accomplished, he cut another, and another, until four holes were pierced forming the corners of a square, and embracing the house of the muskrat within. "Leaving this house, he then proceeded to pierce a similar set of holes around another that also stood out on the open lake. After that he went to a third one, and this and then a fourth were prepared in a similar manner. "He now returned to the first, this time taking care to tread lightly upon the ice and make as little stir as possible. Having arrived there, he took out from his bag a square net made of twisted deer-thongs, and not much, bigger than a blanket. This in a most ingenious manner he passed under the ice, until its four corners appeared opposite the four holes; where, drawing them through, he made all last and `taut' by a line stretching from one corner to the other. "His manner of passing the net under the ice I have pronounced ingenious. It was accomplished by reeving a line from hole to hole by means of the long slender pole already mentioned. The pole, inserted through one of the holes, conducted the line, and was itself conducted by means of two forked sticks that guided it, and pushed it along to the other holes. The line being attached to the comers of the net made it an easy matter to draw the latter into its position. "All the details of this curious operation were performed with a noiseless adroitness which showed `Old Foxey' was no novice at `rat-catching.' "The net being now quite taut along the lower surface of the ice, must of course completely cover the hole in the `floor.' It followed, therefore, that if the muskrats were `at home,' they were now `in the trap.' "My companion assured me that they would be found inside. The reason why he had not used the net on first cutting the holes, was to give any member of the family that had been frightened out, a chance of returning; and this he knew they would certainly do, as these creatures cannot remain very long under the water. "He soon satisfied me of the truth of his statement. In a few minutes, by means of the ice-chisel and pickaxe, we had pierced the crust of the dome; and there, apparently half asleep,--because dazzled and blinded by the sudden influx of light--were no less than eight full-grown musquashes! "Almost before I could count them, Old Foxey had transfixed the whole party, one after the other, with his long spear. "We now proceeded to another of the houses, at which the holes had been cut. There my companion went through a similar series of operations; and was rewarded by a capture of six more `rats.' "In the third of the houses only three were found. "On opening a fourth, a singular scene met our eyes. There was but, one muskrat alive, and that one seemed to be nearly famished to death. Its body was wasted to mere `skin and bone;' and the animal had evidently been a long time without food. Beside it lay the naked skeletons of several small animals that I at once saw were those of the muskrat. A glance at the bottom of the nest explained all. The hole, which in the other houses had passed through the ice, and which we found quite open, in this one was frozen up. The animals had neglected keeping it open, until the ice had got too thick for them to break through; and then, impelled by the cravings of hunger, they had preyed upon each other, until only one, the strongest, survived! "I found upon counting the skeletons that no less than eleven had tenanted this ice-bound prison. "The Indian assured me that in seasons of very severe frost such an occurrence is not rare. At such times the ice forms so rapidly, that the animals--perhaps not having occasion to go out for some hours--find themselves frozen in; and are compelled to perish of hunger, or devour one another! "It was now near night--for we had not reached the lake until late in the day--and my companion proposed that we should leave farther operations until the following morning. Of course I assented to the proposal, and we betook ourselves to some pine-trees that grew on a high bank near the shore, where we had determined to pass the night. "There we kindled a roaring fire of pine-knots; but we had grown very hungry, and I soon found that of the provisions I had brought, and upon which I had already dined, there remained but a scanty fragment for supper. This did not trouble my companion, who skinned several of the `rats,' gave them a slight warming over the fire, and then ate them up with as much _gout_ as if they had been partridges. I was hungry, but not hungry enough for that; so I sat watching him with some astonishment, and not without a slight feeling of disgust. "It was a beautiful moonlight night, one of the clearest I ever remember. There was a little snow upon the ground, just enough to cover it; and up against the white sides of the hills could be traced the pyramidal outlines of the pines, with their regular gradations of dark needle-clothed branches. They rose on all sides around the lake, looking like ships with furled sails and yards square-set. "I was in a reverie of admiration, when I was suddenly aroused by a confused noise, that resembled the howling and baying of hounds. I turned an inquiring look upon my companion. "`Wolves!' he replied, unconcernedly, chawing away at his `roast rat.' "The howling sounded nearer and nearer; and then there was a rattling among dead trees, and the quickly-repeated `crunch, crunch,' as of the hoofs of some animal breaking through frozen snow. The next moment a deer dashed past in full run, and took to the ice. It was a large buck, of the `Caribou' or reindeer species (_Cervus tarandus_), and I could see that he was smoking with heat, and almost run down. "He had hardly passed the spot when the howl again broke out in a continued strain, and a string of forms appeared from out the bushes. They were about a dozen in all; and they were going at full speed like a pack of hounds on the view. Their long muzzles, erect ears, and huge gaunt bodies, were outlined plainly against the snowy ground. I saw that they were wolves. They were white wolves, and of the largest species. "I had suddenly sprung to my feet, not with the intention of saving the deer, but of assisting in its capture; and for this purpose I seized the spear, and ran out. I heard my companion, as I thought, shouting some caution after me; but I was too intent upon the chase to pay any attention to what he said. I had at the moment a distinct perception of hunger, and an indistinct idea of roast venison for supper. "As I got down to the shore, I saw that the wolves had overtaken the deer, and dragged it down upon the ice. The poor creature made but poor running on the slippery track, sprawling at every bound; while the sharp claws of its pursuers enabled them to gallop over the ice like cats. The deer had, no doubt, mistaken the ice for water, which these creatures very often do, and thus become an easy prey to wolves, dogs, and hunters. "I ran on, thinking that I would soon scatter the wolves, and rob them of their prey. In a few moments I was in their midst, brandishing my spear; but to my surprise, as well as terror, I saw that, instead of relinquishing the deer, several of them still held on it, while the rest surrounded me with open jaws, and eyes glancing like coals of fire. "I shouted and fought desperately, thrusting the spear first at one and then at another; but the wolves only became more bold and fierce, incensed by the wounds I was inflicting. "For several minutes I continued this unexpected conflict. I was growing quite exhausted; and a sense of terrible dread coming over me, had almost paralysed me, when the tall, dark form of the Indian, hurrying over the ice, gave me new courage; and I plied the spear with all my remaining strength, until several of my assailants lay pierced upon the ice. The others, now seeing the proximity of my companion with his huge ice-chisel, and frighted, moreover, by his wild Indian yells, turned tail and scampered off. "Three of them, however, had uttered their last howl, and the deer was found close by--already half devoured! "There was enough left, however, to make a good supper for both myself and my companion; who, although, he had already picked the bones of three muskrats, made a fresh attack upon the venison, eating of it as though he had not tasted food for a fortnight." CHAPTER ELEVEN. MUSQUITOES AND THEIR ANTIDOTE. Our next day's journey brought us again into heavy timber--another creek bottom. The soil was rich and loamy, and the road we travelled was moist, and in some places very heavy for our waggon. Several times the latter got stalled in the mud, and then the whole party were obliged to dismount, and put their shoulders to the wheel. Our progress was marked by some noise and confusion, and the constant din made by Jake talking to his team, his loud sonorous "woha!" as they were obliged to halt, and the lively "gee-up--gee-up" as they moved on again--frighted any game long before we could come up with it. Of course we were compelled to keep by the waggon until we had made the passage of the miry flat. We were dreadfully annoyed by the mosquitoes, particularly the doctor, of whose blood they seemed to be especially fond! This is a curious fact in relation to the mosquitoes--of two persons sleeping in the same apartment, one will sometimes be bitten or rather punctured, and half bled to death, while the other remains untouched! Is it the quality of the blood or the thickness of the skin that guides to this preference? This point was discussed amongst us--the doctor taking the view that it was always a sign of good blood when one was more than usually subject to the attack of mosquitoes. He was himself an apt illustration of the fact. This statement of course produced a general laugh, and some remarks at the doctor's expense, on the part of the opponents of his theory. Strange to say, old Ike was fiercely assailed by the little blood-suckers. This seemed to be an argument against the doctor's theory, for in the tough skinny carcass of the old trapper, the blood could neither have been very plenteous nor delicate. Most of us smoked as we rode along, hoping by that means to drive off the ferocious swarm, but although tobacco smoke is disagreeable to the mosquitoes, they cannot be wholly got rid of by a pipe or cigar. Could one keep a constant _nimbus_ of the smoke around his face it might be effective, but not otherwise. A sufficient quantity of tobacco smoke will kill mosquitoes outright, as I have more than once proved by a thorough fumigation of my sleeping apartment. These insects are not peculiar, as sometimes supposed, to the inter-tropical regions of America. They are found in great numbers even to the shores of the Arctic Sea, and as fierce and bloodthirsty as anywhere else--of course only in the summer season, when, as before remarked, the thermometer in these Northern latitudes mounts to a high figure. Their haunts are the banks of rivers, and particularly those of a stagnant and muddy character. There is another singular fact in regard to them. Upon the banks of some of the South-American rivers, life is almost unendurable on account of this pest--the "_plaga de mosquitos_," as the Spaniards term it-- while upon other streams in the very same latitude musquitoes are unknown. These streams are what are termed "_rios negros_," or black-water rivers--a peculiar class of rivers, to which many tributaries of the Amazon and Orinoco belong. Our English comrade, who had travelled all over South America, gave us this information as we rode along. He stated, that he had often considered it a great relief, a sort of escape from purgatory, while on his travels he parted from one of the yellow or white water streams, to enter one of the "_rios negros_." Many Indian tribes settled upon the banks of the latter solely to get clear of the "_plaga de mosquitos_." The Indians who reside in the mosquito districts habitually paint their bodies, and smear themselves with oil, as a protection against their bites; and it is a common thing among the natives, when speaking of any place, to inquire into the "character" of its mosquitoes! On some tributaries of the Amazon the mosquitoes are really a life torment, and the wretched creatures who inhabit such places frequently bury their bodies in the sand in order to get sleep! Even the pigments with which they anoint themselves are pierced by the poisoned bills of their tormentors. Besancon and the Kentuckian both denied that any species of ointment would serve as a protection against mosquitoes. The doctor joined them in their denial. They asserted that they had tried everything that could be thought of--camphor, ether, hartshorn, spirits of turpentine, etcetera. Some of us were of a different opinion, and Ike settled the point soon after in favour of the dissentients by a practical illustration. The old trapper, as before stated, was a victim to the fiercest attacks, as was manifested by the slapping which he repeatedly administered to his cheeks, and an almost constant muttering of bitter imprecations. He knew a remedy he said in a "sartint weed," if he could only "lay his claws upon it." We noticed that from time to time as he rode along his eyes swept the ground in every direction. At length a joyous exclamation told that he had discovered the "weed." "Thur's the darned thing at last," muttered he, as he flung himself to the ground, and commenced gathering the stalks of a small herb that grew plentifully about. It was an annual, with leaves very much of the size and shape of young garden box-wood, but of a much brighter green. Of course we all knew well enough what it was, for there is not a village "common" in the Western United States that is not covered with it. It was the well-known "penny-royal" (_Hedcoma pulegioides_), not the English herb of that name, which is a species of _mentha_. Redwood also leaped from his horse, and set to plucking the "weed." He too, from experience, knew its virtues. We all drew bridle, watching the guides. Both operated in a similar manner. Having collected a handful of the tenderest tops, they rubbed them violently between their palms--rough and good for such service--and then passed the latter over the exposed skin of their necks and laces. Ike took two small bunches of the stalks, crushed them under his heel, and then stuck them beneath his cap, so that the ends hung down over his cheeks. This being done, he and his comrade mounted their horses and rode on. Some of us--the hunter-naturalist, the Englishman, and myself-- dismounted and imitated Ike--of course under a volley of laughter and "pooh-poohs" from Besancon, the Kentuckian, and the doctor; but we had not ridden two hundred paces until the joke changed sides. From that moment not a mosquito approached us, while our three friends were bitten as badly as ever. In the end they were convinced, and the torment of the mosquitoes proving stronger than the fear of our ridicule, all three sprang out of their saddles, and made a rush at the next bed of penny-royal that came in sight. Whether it is the highly aromatic odour of the penny-royal that keeps off these insects, or whether the juice when touched by them burns the delicate nerves of their feet I am unable to say. Certain it is they will not alight upon the skin which has been plentifully anointed with it. I have tried the same experiment often since that time with a similar result, and in fact have never since travelled through a mosquito country without a provision of the "essence of penny-royal." This is better than the herb itself, and can be obtained from any apothecary. A single drop or two spilled in the palm of the hand is sufficient to rub over all the parts exposed, and will often ensure sleep, where otherwise such a thing would be impossible. I have often lain with my face so smeared, and listened to the sharp hum of the mosquito as it approached, fancying that the next moment I should feel its tiny touch, as it settled down upon my cheek, or brow. As soon, however, as it came within the influence of the penny-royal I could hear it suddenly tack round and wing its way off again, until its disagreeable "music" was no longer heard. The only drawback in the use of the penny-royal lies in the burning sensation which the fluid produces upon the skin; and this in a climate where the thermometer is pointing to 90 degrees is no slight disqualification of the remedy. The use of it is sometimes little better than "Hobbson's choice." The application of it on the occasion mentioned restored the spirits of our party, which had been somewhat kept under by the continuous attacks of the mosquitoes, and a lively little incident that occurred soon after, viz. the hunt and capture of a raccoon, made us all quite merry. Cooney, though a night prowler, is sometimes abroad during the day, but especially in situations where the timber is high, and the woods dark and gloomy. On the march we had come so suddenly upon this one, that he had not time to strike out for his own tree, where he would soon have hidden from us in its deep cavity. He had been too busy with his own affairs--the nest of a wild turkey upon the ground, under some brush and leaves, the broken eggs in which told of the delicious meal he had made. Taken by surprise--for the guides had ridden nearly on top of him--he galloped up the nearest tree, which fortunately contained neither fork nor cavity in which he could shelter himself; and a well-directed shot from Redwood's rifle brought him with a heavy "thump" back to the ground again. We were all stirred up a little by this incident; in fact, the unusual absence of game rendered ever so trifling an occurrence an "event" with us. No one, however, was so pleased as the black waggoner Jake, whose eyes fairly danced in his head at the sight of a "coon." The "coon" to Jake was well-known game--natural and legitimate--and Jake preferred "roast coon" to fried bacon at any time. Jake knew that none of us would care to eat of his coonship. He was therefore sure of his supper; and the "varmint" was carefully deposited in the corner of the waggon. Jake did not have it all to himself. The trappers liked fresh meat too, even "coon-meat;" and of course claimed their share. None of the rest of the party had any relish for such a fox-like carcass. After supper, cooney was honoured with a description, and for many of the facts of his history we are indebted to Jake himself. CHAPTER TWELVE. THE 'COON, AND HIS HABITS. Foremost of all the wild creatures of America in point of being generally known is the raccoon (_Procyon lotor_). None has a wider geographical distribution, as its "range" embraces the entire Continent, from the Polar Sea to Terra del Fuego. Some naturalists have denied that it is found in South America. This denial is founded on the fact, that neither Ulloa nor Molina have spoken of it. But how many other animals have these crude naturalists omitted to describe? We may safely assert that the raccoon exists in South America, as well in the tropical forests of Guyana as in the colder regions of the Table Land--everywhere that there exists tree-timber. In most parts where the Spanish language is spoken, it is known as the "_zorro negro_," or black fox. Indeed, there are two species in South America, the common one (_Procyon lotor_), and the crab-eater (_Procyon cancrivorus_). In North America it is one of the most common of wild animals. In all parts you may meet with it. In the hot lowlands of Louisiana--in the tropical "chapparals" of Mexico--in the snowy regions of Canada--and in the vernal valleys of California. Unlike the deer, the wild cat, and the wolverine, it is never mistaken for any other animal, nor is any animal taken for it. It is as well-known in America as the red fox is in England, and with a somewhat similar reputation. Although there is a variety in colour and size, there is no ambiguity about species or genus. Wherever the English language is spoken, it has but one name, the "raccoon." In America, every man, woman and child knows the "sly ole 'coon." This animal has been placed by naturalists in the family _Ursidae_, genus _Procyon_. Linnaeus made it a _bear_, and classed it with _Ursus_. It has, in our opinion, but little in common with the bear, and far more resembles the fox. Hence the Spanish name of "_zorro negro_" (black fox). A writer quaintly describes it thus:--"The limbs of a bear, the body of a badger, the head of a fox, the nose of a dog, the tail of a cat, and sharp claws, by which it climbs trees like a monkey." We cannot admit the similarity of its tail to that of a cat. The tail of the raccoon is full and bushy, which is not true of the cat's tail. There is only a similarity in the annulated or banded appearance noticed in the tails of some cats, which in that of the raccoon is a marked characteristic. The raccoon, to speak in round terms, is about the size of an English fox, but somewhat thicker and "bunchier" in the body. Its legs are short in proportion, and as it is _plantigrade_ in the hind-feet, it stands and runs low, and cat-like. The muzzle is extremely pointed and slender, adapted to its habit of prying into every chink and corner, in search of spiders, beetles, and other creatures. The general colour of the raccoon is dark brown (nearly black) on the upper part of the body, mixed with iron-grey. Underneath it is of a lighter hue. There is, here and there, a little fawn colour intermixed. A broad black band runs across the eyes and unites under the throat. This band is surrounded and sharply defined with a margin of greyish-white, which gives a unique expression to the "countenance" of the "'coon." One of the chief beauties of this animal is its tail, which is characteristic in its markings. It exhibits twelve annulations or ring-bands, six black and six greyish-white, in regular alternation. The tip is black, and the tail itself is very full or "bushy." When the 'coon-skin is made into a cap--which it often is among hunters and frontiers-men--the tail is left to hang as a drooping plume; and such a head-dress is far from ungraceful. In some "settlements" the 'coon-skin cap is quite the fashion among the young "backwoodsmen." The raccoon is an animal of an extremely amorous disposition; but there is a fact connected with the sex of this creature which is curious: the female is larger than the male. Not only larger, but in every respect a finer-looking animal. The hair, long on both, is more full and glossy upon the female, its tints deeper and more beautiful. This is contrary to the general order of nature. By those unacquainted with this fact, the female is mistaken for the male, and _vice versa_, as in the case of hawks and eagles. The fur of the raccoon has long been an article of commerce, as it is used in making beaver hats; but as these have given place in most countries to the silk article, the 'coon-skin now commands but a small price. The raccoon is a tree-climber of the first quality. It climbs with its sharp-curved claws, not by hugging, as is the case with the bear tribe. Its lair, or place of retreat, is in a tree--some hollow, with its entrance high up. Such trees are common in the great primeval forests of America. In this tree-cave it has its nest, where the female brings forth three, four, five, or six "cubs" at a birth. This takes place in early spring--usually the first week in April. The raccoon is a creature of the woods. On the prairies and in treeless regions it is not known. It prefers heavy "timber," where there are huge logs and hollow trees in plenty. It requires the neighbourhood of water, and in connection with this may be mentioned a curious habit it has, that of plunging all its food into the water before devouring it. It will be remembered that the otter has a similar habit. It is from this peculiarity that the raccoon derives its specific name of _Lotor_ (washer). It does not always moisten its morsel thus, but pretty generally. It is fond, moreover, of frequent ablutions, and no animal is more clean and tidy in its habits. The raccoon is almost omnivorous. It eats poultry or wild fowls. It devours frogs, lizards, lame, and insects without distinction. It is fond of sweets, and is very destructive to the sugar-cane and Indian corn of the planter. When the ear of the maize is young, or, as it is termed, "in the milk," it is very sweet. Then the raccoon loves to prey upon it. Whole troops at night visit the corn-fields and commit extensive havoc. These mischievous habits make the creature many enemies, and in fact it has but few friends. It kills hares, rabbits, and squirrels when it can catch them, and will rob a bird's nest in the most ruthless manner. It is particularly fond of shell-fish; and the _unios_, with which many of the fresh-water lakes and rivers of America abound, form part of its food. These it opens as adroitly with its claws as an oyster-man could with his knife. It is partial to the "soft-shell" crabs and small tortoises common in the American waters. Jake told us of a trick which the 'coon puts in practice for catching the small turtles of the creek. We were not inclined to give credence to the story, but Jake almost swore to it. It is certainly curious if true, but it smacks very much of Buffon. It may be remarked, however, that the knowledge which the plantation negroes have of the habits of the raccoon surpasses that of any mere naturalist. Jake boldly declares that the 'coon fishes for turtles! that it squats upon the bank of the stream, allowing its bushy tail to hang over into the water; that the turtles swimming about in search of food or amusement, spies the hairy appendage and lays hold of it; and that the 'coon, feeling the nibble, suddenly draws the testaceous swimmer upon dry land, and then "cleans out de shell" at his leisure! The 'coon is often domesticated in America. It is harmless as a dog or cat except when crossed by children, when it will snarl, snap, and bite like the most crabbed cur. It is troublesome, however, where poultry is kept, and this prevents its being much of a favourite. Indeed, it is not one, for it is hunted everywhere, and killed--wherever this can be done--on sight. There is a curious connection between the negro and the raccoon. It is not a tie of sympathy, but a kind of antagonism. The 'coon, as already observed, is the negro's legitimate game. 'Coon-hunting is peculiarly a negro sport. The negro is the 'coon's mortal enemy. He kills the 'coon when and wherever he can, and cats it too. He loves its "meat," which is pork-tasted, and in young 'coons palatable enough, but in old ones rather rank. This, however, our "darkie" friend does not much mind, particularly if his master be a "stingy old boss," and keeps him on rice instead of meat rations. The negro, moreover, makes an odd "bit" (twelve and a half cents) by the skin, which he disposes of to the neighbouring "storekeeper." The 'coon-hunt is a "nocturnal" sport, and therefore does not interfere with the negro's regular labour. By right the night belongs to him, and he may then dispose of his time as he pleases, which he often does in this very way. The negro is not, allowed to carry fire-arms, and for this reason the squirrel may perch upon a high limb, jerk its tail about and defy him; the hare may run swiftly away, and the wild turkey may tantalise him with its incessant "gobbling." But the 'coon can be killed without fire-arms. The 'coon can be overtaken and "treed." The negro is not denied the use of an axe, and no man knows better how to handle it than he. The 'coon, therefore, is his natural game, and much sport does he have in its pursuit. Nearly the same may be said of the opossum (_Didelphis Virginiana_); but the "'possum" is more rare, and it is not our intention now to describe that very curious creature. From both 'coon and 'possum does the poor negro derive infinite sport--many a sweet excitement that cheers his long winter nights, and chequers with brighter spots the dull and darksome monotony of his slave-life. I have often thought what a pity it would be if the 'coon and the opossum should be extirpated before slavery itself became extinct. I had often shared in this peculiar sport of the negro, and joined in a real 'coon-chase, but the most exciting of all was the first in which I had been engaged, and I proffered my comrades an account of it. CHAPTER THIRTEEN. A 'COON-CHASE. "My 'coon-chase took place in Tennessee, where I was sojourning for some time upon a plantation. It was the first affair of the kind I had been present at, and I was somewhat curious as to the mode of carrying it on. My companion and inductor was a certain `Uncle Abe,' a gentleman very much after the style and complexion of our own Jake here. "I need not tell you, gentlemen, that throughout the Western States every neighbourhood has its noted 'coon-hunter. He is usually a wary old `nigger,' who knows all the tricks and dodges of the 'coon. He either owns a dog himself, or has trained one of his master's, in that peculiar line. It is of little importance what breed the dog may be. I have known curs that were excellent `'coon-dogs.' All that is wanted is, that he have a good nose, and that he be a good runner, and of sufficient bulk to be able to bully a 'coon when taken. This a very small dog cannot do, as the 'coon frequently makes a desperate fight before yielding. Mastiffs, terriers, and half-bred pointers make the best `'coon-dogs.' "Uncle Abe was the mighty hunter, the Nimrod of the neighbourhood in which I happened to be; and Uncle Abe's dog--a stout terrier--was esteemed the `smartest 'coon-dog' in a circle of twenty miles. In going out with Uncle Abe, therefore, I had full confidence that I should see sport. "On one side of the plantation was a heavily-timbered `bottom', through which meandered a small stream, called, of course, a `creek.' This bottom was a favourite _habitat_ of the 'coons, as there were large trees growing near the water, many of which were hollow either in their trunks or some of their huge limbs. Moreover, there were vast trellises of vines extending from tree to tree; some of them, as the fox and muscadine (_Vitis Labrusca_), yielding sweet grapes, of which the raccoons are very fond. "To this bottom, then, we directed our course, Abe acting as guide, and holding his dog, Pompo, in the leash Abe carried no other weapon than an axe, while I had armed myself with a double-barrel. Pompo knew as well as either of us the errand on which we were bent, as appeared from his flashing eyes and the impatient leaps which he now and then made to get free. "We had to cross a large corn-field, a full half-mile in breadth, before we reached the woods. Between this and the timber was a zigzag fence-- the common `rail' fence of the American farmer. For some distance beyond the fence the timber was small, but farther on was the creek `bottom,' where the 'coons were more likely to make their dwelling-place. "We did not, however, proceed direct to the bottom. Abe knew better than that. The young corn was just then `in the milk,' and the 'coon-hunter expected to find his game nearer the field. It was settled, therefore, that we should follow the line of the fence, in hopes that the dog would strike a fresh trail, leading either to or from the corn-field. "It was now night--two hours after sundown. The 'coon-chase, I have already said, is a nocturnal sport. The raccoon does range by day, but rarely, and only in dark and solitary woods. He often basks by day upon high limbs, or the broken tops, of trees. I have shot several of his tribe while asleep, or sunning themselves in such situations. Perhaps before they knew their great enemy man, they were less nocturnal in their activity. We had a fine moonlight; but so far as a view of the chase was concerned, that would benefit us but little. During the hunt there is not much to be seen of either dog or 'coon, as it is always a scramble through trees and underwood. The dog trusts altogether to his nose, and the hunter to his ears; for the latter has no other guide save the yelp or bark of his canine assistant. Nevertheless, moonlight, or a clear night, is indispensable; without one or the other, it would be impossible to follow through the woods. A view of a 'coon-chase is a luxury enjoyed only by the hats and owls. "Pompo was now let loose in the corn; while Abe and I walked quietly along the fence, keeping on different sides. Abe remained in the field for the purpose of handing over the dog, as the fence was high--a regular `ten rail, with stalks and riders.' A 'coon could easily cross it, but not a dog, without help. "We had not gone more than a hundred yards, when a quick sharp yelp from Pompo announced that he had come suddenly upon something in the corn-field. "`A varmint!' cried Abe; and the next moment appeared the dog, running up full tilt among the maize plants and up to the fence. I could see some dark object before him, that passed over the rails with a sudden spring, and bounded into the timbers. "`A varmint, massa!' repeated Abe, as he lifted the dog over, and followed himself. "I knew that in Abe's vocabulary--for that night at least--a `varmint' meant a 'coon; and as we dashed through the brushwood, following the dog, I felt all the excitement of a 'coon-chase. "It was not a long one--I should think of about five minutes' duration; at the end of which time the yelp of the dog which had hitherto guided us, changed into a regular and continuous harking. On hearing this, Abe quietly announced-- "`The varmint am treed.' "Our only thought now was to get to the tree as speedily as possible, but another thought entered our minds as we advanced; that was, what sort of a tree had the 'coon taken shelter in? "This was an important question, and its answer involved the success or failure of our hunt. If a very large tree, we might whistle for the 'coon. Abe knew this well, and as we passed on, expressed his doubts about the result. "The bark of Pompo sounded some hundred yards off, in the very heaviest of the bottom timber. It was not likely, therefore, that the 'coon had taken to a small tree, while there were large ones near at hand. Our only hope was that he had climbed one that was not `hollow.' In that case we might still have a chance with the double-barrel and buck-shot. Abe had but little hope. "`He hab reach him own tree, massa; an' that am sartin to be a big un wi' a hole near um top. Wagh! 'twar dat ar fence. But for de dratted fence ole Pomp nebber let um reach um own tree. Wagh!' "From this I learned that one point in the character of a good 'coon-dog was speed. The 'coon runs well for a few hundred yards. He rarely strays farther from his lair. If he can beat his pursuer for this distance he is safe, as his retreat is always in a hollow tree of great size. There is no way of getting at him there, except by felling the tree, and this the most zealous 'coon-hunter would not think of attempting. The labour of cutting down such a tree would be worth a dozen 'coons. A swift dog, therefore, will overtake the raccoon, and force him to the nearest tree--often a small one, where he is either shaken off or the tree cut down. Sometimes the hunter climbs after and forces him to leap out, so as to fall into the very jaws of the watchful dog below. "In Abe's opinion Pompo would have `treed' his 'coon before reaching, the bottom, had not the fence interfered, but now-- "`Told ye so, massa!' muttered he, interrupting my thoughts. `Look dar! dar's de tree--trunk thick as a haystack. Wagh!' "I looked in the direction indicated by my companion. I saw Pompo standing by the root of a very large tree, looking upward, shaking his tail, and barking at intervals. Before I had time to make any farther observations Abe's voice again sounded in my ears. "`Gollies! it am a buttonwood! Why, Pomp, ole fellur, you hab made a mistake--de varmint ain't dar, 'Cooney nebber trees upon buttonwood-- nebber--you oughter know better'n dat, ole fool!' "Abe's speech drew my attention to the tree. I saw that it was the American sycamore (_Platanus Occidentalis_), familiarly known by the trivial name, `buttonwood,' from the use to which its wood is sometimes put. But why should the 'coon not `tree' upon it, as well as any other? I put the question to my companion. "`'Cause, massa, its bark am slickery. De varmint nebber takes to 'im. He likes de oak, an' de poplum, an' de scaly-bark. Gosh! but he am dar!' continued Abe, raising his voice, and looking outward--`Look yonder, massa! He had climb by de great vine. Dat's right, Pomp! you am right after all, and dis nigga's a fool. Hee--up, ole dog! hee--up!' "Following the direction in which Abe pointed, my eyes rested on a huge parasite of the lliana kind, that, rising out of the ground at some distance, slanted upward and joined the sycamore near its top. This had no doubt been the ladder by which the 'coon had climbed. "This discovery, however, did not mend the matter as far as we were concerned. The 'coon had got into the buttonwood, fifty feet from the ground, where the tree had been broken off by the lightning or the wind, and where the mouth of a large cavity was distinctly visible by the light of the moon. The trunk was one of the largest, and it would have been sheer folly (so we concluded) to have attempted felling it. "We left the spot without farther ado, and took our way back to the corn-field. "The dog had now been silent for some time, and we were in hopes that another `varmint' might have stolen into the corn. "Our hopes were not doomed to disappointment. Pompo had scarcely entered the field when a second 'coon was sprung, which, like the other, ran directly for the fence and the woods. "Pomp followed as fast as he could be flung over; and this 'coon was also `treed' in a few minutes. "From the direction of the barking, we calculated that it must be near where the other had escaped us; but our astonishment equalled our chagrin, when upon arriving at the spot, we found that both the `varmints' had taken to the same tree! "With some rather emphatic ejaculations we returned to the corn-field, and after a short while a third 'coon was raised, which, like the others, made of course for the timber. "Pomp ran upon his trail with an angry yelping, that soon changed into the well-known signal that he had treed the game. "We ran after through brush and brake, and soon came up with the dog. If our astonishment was great before, it was now beyond bounds. The identical buttonwood with its great parasite was before us, the dog barking at its foot! The third 'coon had taken shelter in its capacious cavity. "`Wagh! massa!' ejaculated Abe, in a voice of terror, `its de same varmint. It ain't no 'coon, it's de debil! For de lub o' God, massa, let's get away from here!' "Of course I followed his advice, as to get at the 'coons was out of the question. "We returned once more to the corn-field, but we found that we had at last cleared it of 'coons. It was still early, however, and I was determined not to give up the hunt until I had assisted in killing a 'coon. By Abe's advice, therefore, we struck into the woods with the intention of making a circuit where the trees were small. Some 'coon might be prowling there in search of birds' nests. So thought Abe. "He was right in his conjecture. A fourth was started, and off went Pompo after him. In a few minutes the quick constant bark echoed back. This time we were sure, from the direction, in a new tree. "It proved to be so, and such a small one that, on coming up, we saw the animal squatted upon the branches, not twenty feet from the ground. "We were now sure of him, as we thought; and I had raised my gun to fire; when all at once, as if guessing my intent, the 'coon sprang into another tree, and then ran down to the ground and off again, with Pompo veiling in his track. "Of course we expected that the dog would speedily tree him again, which after a few minutes he did, but this time in the heavy timber. "We hastened forward, guided by the barking. To the extreme of my astonishment, and I fancy to the very extreme of Abe's terror, we again found ourselves at the foot of the buttonwood. "Abe's wool stood on end. Superstition was the butt-end of his religion; and he not only protested, but I am satisfied that he believed, that all the four 'coons were one and the same individual, and that individual `de debil.' "Great 'coon-hunter as he was, he would now have gone home, if I had let him. But I had no thoughts of giving up the matter in that easy way. I was roused by the repeated disappointment. A new resolve had entered my mind. I was determined to get the 'coons out of the buttonwood, cost what it might. The tree must come down, if it should take us till morning to fell it. "With this determination I caught hold of Abe's axe, and struck the first blow. To my surprise and delight the tree sounded hollow. I repeated the stroke. The sharp axe went crashing inwards. The tree was hollow to the ground; on the side where I had commenced chopping, it was but a shell. "A few more blows, and I had made a hole large enough to put a head through. Felling such a tree would be no great job after all, and I saw that it would hardly occupy an hour. The tree must come down. "Abe seeing me so resolute, had somewhat recovered his courage and his senses, and now laid hold of the axe. Abe was a `first hand' at `chopping,' and the hole soon gaped wider. "`If de hole run clar up, massa,' said he, resting for a moment, `we can smoke out de varmint--wid de punk and de grass here we can smoke out de debil himself. S'pose we try 'im, massa?' "`Good!' cried I, catching at Abe's suggestion; and in a few minutes we had made a fire in the hole, and covered it with leaves, grass, and weeds. "The smoke soon did its work. We saw it ooze out above at the entrance of the 'coon hole--at first in a slight filmy stream, and then in thick volumes. We heard a scraping and rattling within the hollow trunk, and a moment after a dark object sprang out upon the lliana, and ran a short way downward. Another followed, and another, and another, until a string of no less than six raccoons squatted along the parasite threatening to run downward! "The scene that followed was indescribable. I had seized my gun, and both barrels were emptied in a `squirrel's jump.' Two of the 'coons came to the ground, badly wounded. Pompo tackled another, that had run down the lliana, and was attempting to get off; while Abe with his axe clove the skull of a fourth, that had tried to escape in a similar manner. "The other two ran back into the `funnel,' but only to come out again just in time to receive a shot each from the reloaded gun, which brought both of them tumbling from the tree. We succeeded in bagging the whole family; and thus finished what Abe declared to be the greatest `'coon-chase on de record.' "As it was by this time far in the night, we gathered up our game, and took the `back track to hum.'" CHAPTER FOURTEEN. WILD HOGS OF THE WOODS. Next day while threading our way through a patch of oak forest--the ground covered thickly with fallen leaves--we were startled by a peculiar noise in front of us. It was a kind of bellows-like snort, exactly like that made by the domestic swine when suddenly affrighted. Some of the party cried out "bear," and of course this announcement threw us all into a high state of excitement. Even the buffalo itself would be but secondary game, when a bear was upon the ground. The "snuff" of the bear has a very considerable resemblance to that of terrified hogs, and even our guides were deceived. They thought it might be "bar" we had heard. It proved we were all wrong. No wonder we fancied the noise resembled that made by hogs. The animal that uttered it was nothing else than a wild boar. "What!" you will exclaim, "a wild boar in the forests of Missouri? Oh! a peccary I suppose." No, not a peccary; for these creatures do not range so far north as the latitude of Missouri--not a wild boar, neither, if you restrict the meaning of the phrase to the true indigenous animal of that kind. For all that, it was a wild boar, or rather a boar _ran wild_. Wild enough and savage too it appeared, although we had only a glimpse of its shaggy form as it dashed into the thicket with a loud grunt. Half a dozen shots followed it. No doubt it was tickled with some of the "leaden hail" from the double-barrelled guns, but it contrived to escape, leaving us only the incident as a subject for conversation. Throughout the backwoods there are large numbers of half-wild hogs, but they are usually the denizens of woods that are inclosed by a rail-fence, and therefore private property. One part of the year they are tamer, when a scarcity of food renders it necessary for them to approach the owner's house, and eat the corn placed for them in a well-known spot. At this season they answer to a call somewhat similar to the "milk oh!" of the London dairyman, but loud enough to be heard a mile or more through the woods. A traveller passing through the backwoods' settlements will often hear this singular call sounding afar off in the stillness of the evening. These hogs pick up most of their subsistence in the forest. The "mast" of the beech-tree, the nut of the hickory, the fruit of the Chinquapin oak, the acorn, and many other seeds and berries, furnish them with food. Many roots besides, and grasses, contribute to sustain them, and they make an occasional meal off a snake whenever they can get hold of one. Indeed it may be safely asserted, that no other cause has contributed so much to the destruction of these reptiles, as the introduction of the domestic hog into the forests of America. Wherever a tract of woods has been used as the "run" of a drove of hogs, serpents of every kind become exceedingly scarce, and you may hunt through such a tract for weeks without seeing one. The hog seems to have the strongest antipathy to the snake tribe; without the least fear of them. When one of the latter is discovered by a hog, and no crevice in the rocks, or hollow log, offers it a shelter, its destruction is inevitable. The hog rushes to the spot, and, bounding forward, crushes the reptile under his hoof's. Should the first attempt not succeed, and the serpent glide away, the hog nimbly follows, and repeats his efforts until the victim lies helpless. The victor then goes to work with his powerful jaws, and quietly devours the prey. The fondness of the hog for this species of food proves that in a state of nature it is partially a carnivorous animal. The peccary, which is the true representative of the wild hog in America--has the very same habit, and is well-known to be one of the most fatal enemies of the serpent tribe to be found among American animals. The hog shows no fear of the snake. His thick hide seems to protect him. The "skin" of the rattle-snake or the "hiss" of the deadly "moccasin," are alike unheeded by him. He kills them as easily as he does the innocent "chicken snake" or the black constrictor. The latter often escapes from its dreaded enemy by taking to a bush or tree; but the rattle-snake and the moccasin are not tree-climbers, and either hide themselves in the herbage and dead leaves, or retreat to their holes. It is not true that the hog cats the body of the snake he has killed, leaving the head untouched, and thus avoiding the poisoned fangs. He devours the whole of the creature, head and all. The venom of the snake, like the "curari" poison of the South-American Indians, is only effective when coming in contact with the blood. Taken internally its effects are innoxious--indeed there are those who believe it to be beneficial, and the curari is often swallowed as a medicine. Most of this information about the half-wild hogs of the backwoods was given by our Kentucky comrade, who himself was the proprietor of many hundreds of them. An annual hog-hunt was part of the routine of his life. It was undertaken not merely for the sport of the thing--though that was by no means to be despised--and the season of the hog-hunting is looked forward to with pleasant anticipation by the domestics of the plantation, as well as a few select friends or neighbours who are invited to participate in it. When the time arrives, the proprietor, with his pack of hounds, and accompanied by a party mounted and armed with rifles, enters the large tract of woodland--perhaps miles in extent, and in many places covered with cane-brakes, and almost impenetrable thickets of undergrowth. To such places the hogs fly for shelter, but the dogs can penetrate wherever hogs can go; and of course the latter are soon driven out, and forced into the more open ground, where the mounted men are waiting to receive them with a volley of bullets. Sometimes a keen pursuit follows, and the dogs in full cry are carried across the country, over huge logs, and through thickets and ravines, followed by the horsemen-- just as if an old fox was the game pursued. A large waggon with drivers and attendants follows the chase, and in this the killed are deposited, to be "hauled" home when the hunt is over. This, however, often continues for several days, until all, or at least all the larger hogs, are collected and brought home, and then the sport terminates. The produce of the hunt sometimes amounts to hundreds-- according to the wealth of the proprietor. Of course a scene of slaughtering and bacon-curing follows. A part of the bacon furnishes the "smoke-house" for home consumption during the winter; while the larger part finds its way to the great pork-market of Cincinnati. The Kentuckian related to us a curious incident illustrating the instinct of the swinish quadruped; but which to his mind, as well as to ours, seemed more like a proof of a rational principle possessed by the animal. The incident he had himself been witness to, and in his own woodlands. He related it thus:-- "I had strayed into the woods in search of a wild turkey with nothing but my shot-gun, and having tramped about a good bit, I sat down upon a log to rest myself. I had not been seated live minutes when I heard a rustling among the dead leaves in front of me. I thought it might be deer, and raised my gun; but I was greatly disappointed on seeing some half dozen of my own hogs make their appearance, rooting as they went along. "I paid no more heed to them at the time; but a few minutes after, my attention was again drawn to them, by seeing them make a sudden rush across a piece of open ground, as if they were in pursuit of something. "Sure enough they were. Just before their snouts, I espied the long shining body of a black snake doing its best to get out of their way. In this it succeeded, for the next moment I saw it twisting itself up a pawpaw sapling, until it had reached the top branches, where it remained looking down at its pursuers. "The snake may have fancied itself secure at the moment, and so thought I, at least so far as the hogs were concerned. I had made up my mind to be its destroyer myself, and was just about to sprinkle it with shot, when a movement on the part of one of the hogs caused me to hold back and remain quiet. I need not tell you I was considerably astonished to see the foremost of these animals seize the sapling in its jaws and jerk it about in a determined manner, as if with the intention of shaking off the snake! Of course it did not succeed in this, for the latter was wound around the branches, and it would have been as easy to have shaken off the bark. "As you all know, gentlemen, the pawpaw--not the pawpaw (_Carica papaya_), but a small tree of the _anonas_ or custard apple tribe, common in the woods of western America--is one of the softest and most brittle of our trees, and the hog seemed to have discovered this, for he suddenly changed his tactics, and instead of shaking at the sapling, commenced grinding it between his powerful jaws. The others assisted him, and the tree fell in a few seconds. As soon as the top branches touched the ground, the whole drove dashed forward at the snake; and in less than the time I take in telling it, the creature was crushed and devoured." After hearing the singular tale, our conversation now returned to the hog we had just "jumped." All agreed that it must be some stray from the plantations that had wandered thus far from the haunts of men, for there was no settlement within twenty miles of where we then were. Our trapper guides stated that wild hogs are frequently found in remote parts, and that many of them are not "strays," but have been "littered" and brought up in the forest. These are as shy and difficult to approach as deer, or any other hunted animals. They are generally of a small breed, and it is supposed that they are identical with the species found throughout Mexico, and introduced by the Spaniards. CHAPTER FIFTEEN. TREED BY PECCARIES. Talking of these Spanish hogs naturally led us to the subject of the peccary--for this creature is an inhabitant only of those parts of North America which have been hitherto in possession of the Spanish race. Of the peccary (_dicotyles_), there are two distinct species known--the "collared," and the "white-lipped." In form and habits they are very similar to each other. In size and colour they differ. The "white-lipped" is the larger. Its colour is dark brown, nearly black, while that of the collared peccary is a uniform iron-grey, with the exception of the band or collar upon its shoulders. The distinctive markings are, on the former species a greyish-white patch along the jaws, and on the other a yellowish-white belt, embracing the neck and shoulders, as a collar does a horse. These markings have given to each its specific name. They are farther distinguished, by the forehead of the white-lipped peccary being more hollowed or concave than that of its congener. In most other respects these creatures are alike. Both feed upon roots, fruits, frogs, toads, lizards, and snakes. Both make their lair in hollow logs, or in caves among the rocks, and both are gregarious in their habits. In this last habit, however, they exhibit some difference. The white-lipped species associate in troops to the number of hundreds, and even as many as a thousand have been seen together; whereas the others do not live in such large droves, but are oftener met with in pairs. Yet this difference of habit may arise from the fact that in the places where both have been observed, the latter have not been so plentiful as the white-lipped species. As many as a hundred of the collared peccary have been observed in one "gang," and no doubt had there been more of them in the neighbourhood, the flock would have been still larger. The white-lipped species does not extend to the northern half of the American Continent. Its _habitat_ is in the great tropical forests of Guyana and Brazil, and it is found much farther south, being common in Paraguay. It is there known as the "vaquira," whence our word "peccary." The other species is also found in South America, and is distinguished as the "vaquira de collar" (collared peccary). Of course, they both have trivial Indian names, differing in different parts of the country. The former is called in Paraguay "Tagnicati," while the latter is the "Taytetou." Neither species is so numerous as they were informer times. They have been thinned off by hunting--not for the value either of their flesh or their skins, not for the mere sport either, but on account of their destructive habits. In the neighbourhood of settlements they make frequent forays into the maize and mandioc fields, and they will lay waste a plantation of sugar-cane in a single night. For this reason it is that a war of extermination has long been waged against them by the planters and their dependents. As already stated, it is believed that the white-lipped species is not found in North America. Probably it does exist in the forests of Southern Mexico. The natural history of these countries is yet to be thoroughly investigated. The Mexicans have unfortunately employed all their time in making revolutions. But a new period has arrived. The Panama railroad, the Nicaragua canal, and the route of Tehuantepec, will soon be open, when among the foremost who traverse these hitherto unfrequented regions, will be found troops of naturalists, of the Audubon school, who will explore every nook and corner of Central America. Indeed, already some progress has been made in this respect. The two species of peccaries, although so much alike never associate together, and do not seem to have any knowledge of a relationship existing between them. Indeed, what is very singular, they are never found in the same tract of woods. A district frequented by the one is always without the other. The Collared Peccary is the species found in North America; and of it we more particularly speak. It is met with when you approach the more southern latitudes westward of the Mississippi River. In that great wing of the continent, to the eastward of this river, and now occupied by the United States, no such animal exists, nor is there any proof that it was ever known to exist there in its wild state. In the territory of Texas, it is a common animal, and its range extends westward to the Pacific, and south throughout the remainder of the Continent. As you proceed westwards, the line of its range rises considerably; and in New Mexico it is met with as high as the 38rd parallel. This is just following the isothermal line, and proves that the peccary cannot endure the rigours of a severe winter climate. It is a production of the tropics and the countries adjacent. Some naturalists assert that it is a forest-dwelling animal, and is never seen in open countries. Others, as Buffon, state that it makes its _habitat_ in the mountains, never the low countries and plains; while still others have declared that it is never found in the mountains! None of these "theories" appears to be the correct one. It is well-known to frequent the forest-covered plains of Texas, and Emory (one of the most talented of modern observers) reports having met with a large drove of peccaries in the almost treeless mountains of New Mexico. The fact is, the peccary is a wide "ranger," and frequents either plains or mountains wherever he can find the roots or fruits which constitute his natural food. The haunts he likes best appear to be the dry hilly woods, where he finds several species of nuts to his taste-- such as the chinquapin (_Castanea pumila_), the pecan (_Juglans olivaformis_), and the acorns of several species of oak, with which the half-prairie country of western Texas abounds. Farther than to eat their fruit, the forest trees are of no use to the peccary. He is not a climber, as he is a hoofed animal. But in the absence of rocks, or crevices in the cliffs, he makes his lair in the bottoms of hollow trees, or in the great cavities so common in half-decayed logs. He prefers, however, a habitation among rocks, as experience has no doubt taught him that it is a safer retreat both from hunters and fire. The peccary is easily distinguished from the other forest animals by his rounded, hog-like form, and long, sharp snout. Although pig-shaped, he is extremely active and light in his movements. The absence of a tail-- for that member is represented only by a very small protuberance or "knob"--imparts a character of lightness to his body. His jaws are those of the hog, and a single pair of tusks, protruding near the angles of the mouth, gives him a fierce and dangerous aspect. These tusks are seen in the old males or "boars." The ears are short, and almost buried in the long harsh hairs or bristles that cover the whole body, but which are much longer on the back. These, when erected or thrown forward--as is the case when the peccary is incensed--have the appearance of a stiff mane rising all along the neck, shoulders, and spine. At such times, indeed, the rigid, bristling coat over the whole body gives somewhat of a porcupine appearance to the animal. The peccary, as already stated, is gregarious. They wander in droves of twenty, or sometimes more. This, however, is only in the winter. In the season of love, and during the period of gestation, they are met with only in pairs--a male and female. They are very true to each other, and keep close together. The female produces two young at a litter. These are of a reddish-brown colour, and at first not larger than young puppies; but they are soon able to follow the mother through the woods; and then the "family party" usually consists of four. Later in the season, several of these families unite, and remain together, partly perhaps from having met by accident, and partly for mutual protection; for whenever one of their number is attacked, all the drove takes part against the assailant, whether he be hunter, cougar, or lynx. As they use both their teeth, tusks, and sharp fore-hoofs with rapidity and effect, they become a formidable and dangerous enemy. The cougar is often killed and torn to pieces by a drove of peccaries, that he has been imprudent enough to attack. Indeed, this fierce creature will not often meddle with the peccaries when he sees them in large numbers. He attacks only single ones; but their "grunting," which can be heard to the distance of nearly a mile, summons the rest, and he is surrounded before he is aware of it, and seized by as many as can get around him. The Texan hunter, if afoot, will not dare to disturb a drove of peccaries. Even when mounted, unless the woods be open, he will pass them by without rousing their resentment. But, for all this, the animal is hunted by the settlers, and hundreds are killed annually. Their ravages committed upon the corn-fields make them many enemies, who go after them with a desire for wholesale slaughter. Hounds are employed to track the peccary and bring it to bay, when the hunters ride up and finish the chase by their unerring rifles. A flock of peccaries, when pursued, will sometimes take shelter in a cave or cleft of the rocks, one of their number standing ready at the mouth. When this one is shot by the hunter, another will immediately rush out and take its place. This too being destroyed, will be replaced by a third, and so on until the whole drove has fallen. Should the hounds attack the peccary while by themselves, and without the aid and encouragement of the hunter, they are sure to be "routed," and some of their number destroyed. Indeed, this little creature, of not more than two feet in length, is a match for the stoutest bull-dog! I have myself seen a peccary (a caged one, too)--that had killed no less than six dogs of bull and mastiff breed--all of them considered fighting dogs of first-rate reputation. The Kentuckian had a peccary adventure which had occurred to him while on an excursion to the new settlements of Texas. "It was my first introduction to these animals," began he, "and I am not likely soon to forget it. It gave me, among the frontier settlers of Texas, the reputation of a `mighty hunter,' though how far I deserved that name you may judge for yourselves. "I was for some weeks the guest of a farmer or `planter,' who lived upon the Trinity Bottom. We had been out in the `timber' several times, and had filled both bear, deer, and turkeys, but had not yet had the luck to fall in with the peccary, although we never went abroad without seeing their tracks, or some other indications of what my friend termed `peccary sign.' The truth is, that these animals possess the sense of smell in the keenest degree; and they are usually hidden long before the hunter can see them or come near them. As we had gone without dogs, of course we were not likely to discover which of the nine hundred and ninety-nine hollow logs passed in a day, was the precise one in which the peccaries had taken shelter. "I had grown very curious about these creatures. Bear I had often hunted--deer I had driven; and turkeys I had both trapped and shot. But I had never yet killed a peccary; in fact, had never seen one. I was therefore very desirous of adding the tusk of one of these wild boars to my trophies of the chase. "My desire was gratified sooner than I expected, and to an extent I had never dreamt of; for in one morning--before tasting my breakfast--I caused no less than nineteen of these animals to utter their last squeak! But I shall give the details of this `feat' as they happened. "It was in the autumn season--the most beautiful season of the forest-- when the frondage obtains its tints of gold, orange, and purple. I was abed in the house of my friend, but was awakened out of my sleep by the `gobbling' of wild turkeys that sounded close to the place. "Although there was not a window in my room, the yellow beams streaming in through the chinks of the log wall told me that it was after `sun-up.' "I arose, drew on my garments and hunting-habiliments, took my rifle, and stole out. I said nothing to any one, as there was no one--neither `nigger' nor white man--to be seen stirring about the place. I wanted to steal a march upon my friend, and show him how smart I was by bagging a fat young `gobbler' for breakfast. "As soon as I had got round the house, I saw the turkeys--a large `gang' of them. They were out in an old corn-field, feeding upon such of the seeds as had been dropped in the corn-gathering. They were too far off for my gun to reach them, and I entered among the corn-stalks to get near them. "I soon perceived that they were feeding towards the woods, and that they were likely to enter them at a certain point. Could I only reach that point before them, reflected I, I should be sure of a fair shot. I had only to go back to the house and keep around the edge of the field, where there happened to be some `cover.' In this way I should be sure to `head' them--that is, could I but reach the woods in time. "I lost not a moment in setting out; and, running most of the way, I reached the desired point. "I was now about a mile from my friend's house--for the corn-field was a very large one--such as you may only see in the great plantations of the far western world. I saw that I had `headed' the turkeys, with some time to spare; and choosing a convenient log, I sat down to await their coming. I placed myself in such a situation that I was completely hidden by the broad green leaves of some bushy trees that grew over the log. "I had not been in that position over a minute I should think, when a slight rustling among the leaves attracted my attention. I looked, and saw issuing from under the rubbish the long body of a snake. As yet, I could not see its tail, which was hidden by the grass; but the form of the head and the peculiar chevron-like markings of the body, convinced me it was the `Banded Rattle-snake.' It was slowly gliding out into some open ground, with the intention of crossing to a thicket upon the other side. I had disturbed it from the log, where it had no doubt been sunning itself; and it was now making away from me. "My first thought was to follow the hideous reptile, and kill it; but reflecting that if I did so I should expose myself to the view of the turkeys, I concluded to remain where I was, and let it escape. "I watched it slowly drawing itself along--for this species makes but slow progress--until it was near the middle of the glade, when I again turned my attention to the birds that had now advanced almost within range of my gun. "I was just getting ready to fire, when a strange noise, like the grunt of a small pig, sounded in my ears from the glade, and again caused me to look in that direction. As I did so, my eyes fell upon a curious little animal just emerging from the bushes. Its long, sharp snout--its pig-like form--the absence of a tail--the high rump, and whitish band along the shoulders, were all marks of description which I remembered. The animal could be no other than a peccary. "As I gazed upon it with curious eyes, another emerged from the bushes, and then another, and another, until a good-sized drove of them were in sight. "The rattle-snake, on seeing the first one, had laid his head flat upon the ground; and evidently terrified, was endeavouring to conceal himself in the grass. But it was a smooth piece of turf, and he did not succeed. The peccary had already espied him; and upon the instant his hinder parts were raised to their full height, his mane became rigid, and the hair over his whole body stood erect, radiating on all sides outwards. The appearance of the creature was changed in an instant, and I could perceive that the air was becoming impregnated with a disagreeable odour, which the incensed animal emitted from its dorsal gland. Without stopping longer than a moment, he rushed forward, until he stood within three feet of the body of the snake. "The latter, seeing he could no longer conceal himself, threw himself into a coil, and stood upon his defence. His eyes glared with a fiery lustre: the skir-r-r of his rattles could be heard almost incessantly; while with his upraised head he struck repeatedly in the direction of his enemy. "These demonstrations brought the whole drove of peccaries to the spot, and in a moment a circle of them had formed around the reptile, that did not know which to strike at, but kept launching out its head recklessly in all directions. The peccaries stood with their backs highly arched and their feet drawn up together, like so many angry cats, threatening and uttering shrill grunts. Then one of them, I think the first that had appeared, rose suddenly into the air, and with his four hoofs held close together, came pounce down upon the coiled body of the snake. Another followed in a similar manner, and another, and another, until I could see the long carcase of the reptile unfolded, and writhing over the ground. "After a short while it lay still, crushed beneath their feet. The whole squad then seized it in their teeth, and tearing it to pieces, devoured it almost instantaneously. "From the moment the peccaries had appeared in sight, I had given up all thoughts about the turkeys. I had resolved to send my leaden messenger in quite a different direction. Turkeys I could have at almost any time; but it was not every day that peccaries appeared. So I `slewed' myself round upon the log, raised my rifle cautiously, `marked' the biggest `boar' I could see in the drove, and fired. "I heard the boar squeak (so did all of them), and saw him fall over, either killed or badly wounded. But I had little time to tell which, for the smoke had hardly cleared out of my eyes, when I perceived the whole gang of peccaries, instead of running away, as I had expected, coming full tilt towards me. "In a moment I was surrounded by a dark mass of angry creatures, leaping wildly at my legs, uttering shrill grunts, and making their teeth crack like castanets. "I ran for the highest part of the log, but this proved no security. The peccaries leaped upon it, and followed. I struck with the butt of my clubbed gun, and knocked them off; but again they surrounded me, leaping upward and snapping at my legs, until hardly a shred remained of my trousers. "I saw that I was in extreme peril, and put forth all my energies. I swept my gun wildly around me; but where one of the fierce brutes was knocked over, another leaped into his place, as determined as he. Still I had no help for it, and I shouted at the top of my voice, all the while battling with desperation. "I still kept upon the highest point of the log, as there they could not all come around me at once; and I saw that I could thus better defend myself. But even with this advantage, the assaults of the animals were so incessant, and my exertions in keeping them off so continuous, that I was in danger of falling into their jaws from very exhaustion. "I was growing weak and wearied--I was beginning to despair for my life--when on winding my gun over my head in order to give force to my blows, I felt it strike against something behind me. It was the branch of a tree, that stretched over the spot where I was standing. "A new thought came suddenly into my mind. Could I climb the tree? I knew that they could not, and in the tree I should be safe. "I looked upward; the branch was within reach. I seized upon it and brought it nearer. I drew a long breath, and with all the strength that remained in my body sprang upward. "I succeeded in getting upon the limb, and the next moment I had crawled along it, and sat close in by the trunk. I breathed freely--I was safe. "It was some time before I thought of anything else than resting myself. I remained a full half-hour before I moved in my perch. Occasionally I looked down at my late tormentors. I saw that instead of going off, they were still there. They ran around the root of the tree, leaping up against its trunk, and tearing the bark with their teeth. They kept constantly uttering their shrill, disagreeable grunts; and the odour, resembling the smell of musk and garlic, which they emitted from their dorsal glands, almost stifled me. I saw that they showed no disposition to retire, but, on the contrary, were determined to make me stand siege. "Now and then they passed out to where their dead comrade lay upon the grass, but this seemed only to bind their resolution the faster, for they always returned again, grunting as fiercely as ever. "I had hopes that my friend would be up by this time, and would come to my rescue; but it was not likely neither, as he would not `miss' me until I had remained long enough to make my absence seem strange. As it was, that would not be until after night, or perhaps far in the next day. It was no unusual thing for me to wander off with my gun, and be gone for a period of at least twenty hours. "I sat for hours on my painful perch--now looking down at the spiteful creatures beneath--now bending my eyes across the great corn-field, in hopes of seeing some one. At times the idea crossed my mind, that even upon the morrow I might not be missed! "I might perish with hunger, with thirst--I was suffering from both at the moment--or even if I kept alive, I might become so weak as not to be able to hold on to the tree. My seat was far from being an easy one. The tree was small--the branch was slender. It was already cutting into my thighs. I might, in my feebleness, be compelled to let it go, and then--. "These reflections were terrible; and as they came across my mind, I shouted to the highest pitch of my voice, hoping I should be heard. "Up to this time I had not thought of using my gun, although clinging to it instinctively. I had brought it with me into the tree. It now occurred to me to fire it, in hopes that my friend or some one might hear the report. "I balanced myself on the branch as well as I could, and loaded it with powder. I was about to fire it off in the air, when it appeared to me that I might just as well reduce the number of my enemies. I therefore rammed down a ball, took aim at the forehead of one, and knocked him over. "Another idea now arose in my mind, and that was, that I might serve the whole gang as I had done this one. His fall had not frightened them in the least; they only came nearer, throwing up their snouts and uttering their shrill notes--thus giving me a better chance of hitting them. "I repeated the loading and firing. Another enemy the less. "Hope began to return. I counted my bullets, and held my horn up to the sun. There were over twenty bullets, and powder sufficient. I counted the peccaries. Sixteen still lived, with three that I had done for. "I again loaded and fired--loaded and fired--loaded and fired. I aimed so carefully each time, that out of all I missed only one shot. "When the firing ceased, I dropped down from my perch in the midst of a scene that resembled a great slaughter-yard. Nineteen of the creatures lay dead around the tree, and the ground was saturated with their blood! "The voice of my friend at this moment sounded in my ears, and turning, I beheld him standing, with hands uplifted and eyes as large as saucers. "The `feat' was soon reported through the settlement, and I was looked upon for the time as the greatest hunter in the `Trinity Bottom.'" CHAPTER SIXTEEN. A DUCK-SHOOTING ADVENTURE. During our next day's journey we again fell in with flocks of the wild pigeon, and our stock was renewed. We were very glad of this, as we were getting tired of the dry salt bacon, and another "pot-pie" from Lanty's _cuisine_ was quite welcome. The subject of the pigeons was exhausted, and we talked no more about them. Ducks were upon the table in a double sense, for during the march we had fallen in with a brood of the beautiful little summer ducks (_Anas sponsa_), and had succeeded in shooting several of them. These little creatures, however, did not occupy our attention, but the far more celebrated species known as the "canvas-back" (_Anas vallisneria_). Of the two dozen species of American wild-ducks, none has a wider celebrity than that known as the canvas-back; even the eider-duck is less thought of, as the Americans care little for beds of down. But the juicy, fine-flavoured flesh of the canvas-back is esteemed by all classes of people; and epicures prize it above that of all other winged creatures, with the exception, perhaps, of the reed-bird or rice-hunting, and the prairie-hen. These last enjoy a celebrity almost if not altogether equal. The prairie-hen, however, is the _bon morceau_ of western epicures; while the canvas-back is only to be found in the great cities of the Atlantic. The reed-bird--in the West Indies called "ortolan"--is also found in the same markets with the canvas-back. The flesh of all three of these birds--although the birds themselves are of widely-different families--is really of the most delicious kind; it would be hard to say which of them is the greatest favourite. The canvas-back is not a large duck, rarely exceeding three pounds in weight. Its colour is very similar to the pochard of Europe: its head is a uniform deep chestnut, its breast black; while the back and upper parts of the wings present a surface of bluish-grey, so lined and mottled as to resemble--though very slightly--the texture of canvas: hence the trivial name of the bird. Like most of the water-birds of America, the canvas-back is migratory. It proceeds in spring to the cold countries of the Hudson's Bay territory, and returns southward in October, appearing in immense flocks along the Atlantic shores. It does not spread over the fresh-water lakes of the United States, but confines itself to three or four well-known haunts, the principal of which is the great Chesapeake Bay. This preference for the Chesapeake Bay is easily accounted for, as here its favourite food is found in the greatest abundance. Hound the mouths of the rivers that run into this bay, there are extensive shoals of brackish water; these favour the growth of a certain plant of the genus _vallisneria_--a grass-like plant, standing several feet out of the water, with deep green leaves, and stems, and having a white and tender root. On this root, which is of such a character as to have given the plant, the trivial name of "wild celery," the canvas-back feeds exclusively; for wherever it is not to be found, neither does the bird make its appearance. Diving for it, and bringing it up in its bill, the canvas-back readily breaks off the long lanceolate leaves, which float off, either to be eaten by another species--the pochard--or to form immense banks of wrack, that are thrown up against the adjacent shores. It is to the roots of the wild celery that the flesh of the canvas-back owes its esteemed flavour, causing it to be in such demand that very often a pair of these ducks will bring three dollars in the markets of New York and Philadelphia. When the finest turkey can be had for less than a third of that sum, some idea may be formed of the superior estimation in which the web-footed favourites are held. Of course, shooting the canvas-back duck is extensively practised, not only as an amusement, but as a professional occupation. Various means are employed to slaughter these birds: decoys by means of dogs, duck boats armed with guns that resemble infernal-machines, and disguises of every possible kind. The birds themselves are extremely shy; and a shot at them is only obtained by great ingenuity, and after considerable dodging. They are excellent divers; and when only wounded, almost always make good their escape. Their shyness is overcome by their curiosity. A dog placed upon the shore, near where they happen to be, and trained to run backwards and forwards, will almost always seduce them within shot. Should the dog himself not succeed, a red rag wrapped around his body, or tied to his tail, will generally bring about the desired result. There are times, however, when the ducks have been much shot at, that even this decoy fails of success. On account of the high price the canvas-backs bring in the market, they are pursued by the hunters with great assiduity, and are looked upon as a source of much profit. So important has this been considered, that in the international treaties between the States bordering upon the Chesapeake, there are several clauses or articles relating to them that limit the right of shooting to certain parties. An infringement of this right, some three or four years ago, led to serious collisions between the gunners of Philadelphia and Baltimore. So far was the dispute carried, that schooners armed, and filled with armed men, cruised for some time on the waters of the Chesapeake, and all the initiatory steps of a little war were taken by both parties. The interference of the general government prevented what would have proved, had it been left to itself, a very sanguinary affair. It so chanced that I had met with a rather singular adventure while duck-shooting on the Chesapeake Bay, and the story was related thus: "I was staying for some days at the house of a friend--a planter--who lived near the mouth of a small river that runs into the Chesapeake. I felt inclined to have a shot at the far-famed canvas-backs. I had often eaten of these birds, but had novel shot one, or even seen them in their natural _habitat_. I was, therefore, anxious to try my hand upon them, and I accordingly set out one morning for that purpose. "My friend lived upon the bank of the river, some distance above tide-water. As the wild celery grows only in brackish water--that is, neither in the salt sea itself nor yet in the fresh-water rivers--I had to pass down the little stream a mile or more before I came to the proper place for finding the ducks. I went in a small skiff, with no other companion than an ill-favoured cur-dog, with which I had been furnished, and which was represented to me as one of the best `duck-dogs' in the country. "My friend having business elsewhere, unfortunately could not upon that day give me his company; but I knew something of the place, and being _au fait_ in most of the dodges of duck-hunting, I fancied I was quite able to take care of myself. "Floating and rowing by turns, I soon came in sight of the bay and the wild celery fields, and also of flocks of water-fowl of different species, among which I could recognise the pochards, the canvas-backs, and the common American widgeon. "Seeking a convenient place near the mouth of the stream, I landed; and, tying the skiff to some weeds, proceeded in search of a cover. This was soon found--some bushes favoured me; and having taken my position, I set the dog to his work. The brute, however, took but little notice of my words and gestures of encouragement, I fancied that he had a wild and frightened look, but I attributed this to my being partially a stranger to him; and was in hopes that, as soon as we became better acquainted, he would work in a different manner. "I was disappointed, however, as, do what I might, he would not go near the water, nor would he perform the trick of running to and fro which I had been assured by my friend he would be certain to do. On the contrary, he cowered among the bushes, near where I had stationed myself, and seemed unwilling to move out of them. Two or three times, when I dragged him forward, and motioned him toward the water, he rushed back again, and ran under the brushwood. "I was exceedingly provoked with this conduct of the dog, the more so that a flock of canvas-backs, consisting of several thousands, was seated upon the water not more than half a mile from the shore. Had my dog done his duty, I have no doubt they might have been brought within range; and, calculating upon this, I had made sure of a noble shot. My expectations, however, were defeated by the waywardness of the dog, and I saw there was no hope of doing anything with him. "Having arrived at this conclusion, after some hours spent to no purpose, I rose from my cover, and marched back to the skiff. I did not even motion the wretched cur to follow me; and I should have rowed off without him, risking the chances of my friend's displeasure, but it pleased the animal himself to trot after me without invitation, and, on arriving at the boat, to leap voluntarily into it. "I was really so provoked with the brute, that I felt much inclined to pitch him out, again. My vexation, however, gradually left me; and I stood up in the skiff, turning over in my mind what course I should pursue next. "I looked toward the flock of canvas-backs. It, was a tantalising sight. They sat upon the water as light as corks, and as close together as sportsman could desire for a shot. A well-aimed discharge could not have failed to kill a score of them at least. "Was there no way of approaching them? This question I had put to myself for the twentieth time without being able to answer it to my satisfaction. "An idea at length flitted across my brain. I had often approached common mallards by concealing my boat under branches or furze, and then floating down upon them, impelled either by the wind or the current of a stream. Might not this also succeed with the canvas-backs? "I resolved upon making the experiment. The flock was in a position to enable me to do so. They were to the leeward of a sedge of the _vallisneria_. The wind would carry my skiff through this; and the green bushes with which I intended to disguise it would not be distinguished from the sedge, which was also green. "The thing was feasible. I deemed it so. I set about cutting some leafy branches that grew near, and trying them along the gunwales of my little craft. In less than half an hour, I pushed her from the shore; and no one at a distance would have taken her for aught else than a floating raft of brushwood. "I now pulled quietly out until I had got exactly to windward of the ducks, at about half a mile's distance from the edge of the flock. I then took in the paddles, and permitted the skiff to glide before the wind. I took the precaution to place myself in such a manner that I was completely hidden, while through the branches I commanded a view of the surface on any side I might wish to look. "The bushes acted as a sail, and I was soon drifted down among the plants of the wild celery. I feared that this might stay my progress, as the breeze was light, and might not carry me through. But the sward, contrary to what is usual, was thin at the place where the skiff had entered, and I felt, to my satisfaction, that I was moving, though slowly, in the right direction. "I remember that the heat annoyed me at the time. It was the month of November; but it was that peculiar season known as `Indian summer', and the heat was excessive--not under 90 degrees, I am certain. The shrubbery that encircled me prevented a breath of air from reaching my body; and the rays of the noonday sun fell almost vertically in that southern latitude, scorching me as I lay along the bottom of the boat. Under other circumstances, I should not have liked to undergo such a roasting; but with the prospect of a splendid shot before me, I endured it as best I could. "The skiff was nearly an hour in pushing its way through the field of _vallisneria_, and once or twice it remained for a considerable time motionless. A stronger breeze, however, would spring up, and then the sound of the reeds rubbing the sides of the boat would gratefully admonish me that I was moving ahead. "I saw, at length, to my great gratification, that I was approaching the selvage of the sedge, and, moreover, that the flock itself was moving, as it were, to meet me! Many of the birds were diving and feeding in the direction of the skiff. "I lay watching them with interest. I saw that the canvas-backs were accompanied by another species of a very different colour from themselves: this was the American widgeon. It was a curious sight to witness the constant warfare that was carried on between these two species of birds. The widgeon is but a poor diver, while the canvas-back is one of the very best. The widgeon, however, is equally fond of the roots of the wild celery with his congener; but he has no means of obtaining them except by robbing the latter. Being a smaller and less powerful bird, he is not able to do this openly; and it was curious to observe the means by which he effected his purpose. It was as follows: When the canvas-back descends, he must perforce remain some moments under water. It requires time to seize hold of the plant, and pluck it up by the roots. In consequence of this, he usually reaches the surface in a state of half-blindness, holding the luscious morsel in his bill. The widgeon has observed him going down; and, calculating to a nicety the spot where he will reappear, seats himself in readiness. The moment the other emerges, and before he can fully recover his sight or his senses, the active spoliator makes a dash, seizes the celery in his horny mandibles, and makes off with it as fast as his webbed feet can propel him. The canvas-back, although chagrined at being plundered in this impudent manner, knows that pursuit would be idle, and, setting the root down as lost, draws a fresh breath, and dives for another. I noticed in the flock a continual recurrence of such scenes. "A third species of birds drew my attention. These were the pochards, or, as they are termed by the gunners of the Chesapeake, `red-heads.' These creatures bear a very great resemblance to the canvas-backs, and can hardly be distinguished except by their bills: those of the former being concave along the upper surface, while the bills of the canvas-backs exhibit a nearly straight line. "I saw that the pochards did not interfere with either of the other species, contenting themselves with feeding upon what neither of the others cared for--the green leaves of the _vallisneria_, which, after being stripped of their roots, were floating in quantities on the surface of the water. Yet these pochards are almost as much prized for the table as their cousins the canvas-backs; and, indeed, I have since learnt that they are often put off for the latter by the poulterers of New York and Philadelphia. Those who would buy a real canvas-back should know something of natural history. The form and colour of the bill would serve as a criterion to prevent their being deceived. In the pochard, the bill is of a bluish colour; that of the canvas-back is dark green; moreover, the eye of the pochard is yellow, while that of its congener is fiery red. "I was gratified in perceiving that I had at last drifted within range of a thick clump of the ducks. Nothing now remained but to poke my gun noiselessly through the bushes, set the cocks of both barrels, take aim, and fire. "It was my intention to follow the usual plan--that is, fire one barrel at the birds while sitting, and give them the second as they rose upon the wing. This intention was carried out the moment after; and I had the gratification of seeing some fifteen or twenty ducks strewed over the water, at my service. The rest of the flock rose into the heavens, and the clapping of their wings filled the air with a noise that resembled thunder. "I say that there appeared to have been fifteen or twenty killed; how many I never knew: I never laid my hands upon a single bird of them. I became differently occupied, and with a matter that soon drove canvas-backs, and widgeons, and pochards as clean out of my head as if no such creatures had ever existed. "While drifting through the sedge, my attention had several times been attracted by what appeared to be strange conduct on the part of my canine companion. He lay cowering in the bottom of the boat near the bow, and half covered by the bushes; but every now and then he would start to his feet, look wildly around, utter a strange whimpering, and then resume his crouching attitude. I noticed, moreover, that at intervals he trembled as if he was about to shake out his teeth. All this had caused me wonder--nothing more. I was too much occupied in watching the game, to speculate upon causes; I believed, if I formed any belief on the subject, that these manoeuvres were caused by fear; that the cur had never been to sea, and that he was now either sea-sick or sea-scared. "This explanation had hitherto satisfied me, and I had thought no more upon the matter. I had scarcely delivered my second barrel, however, when my attention was anew attracted to the dog; and this time was so arrested, that in one half-second I thought of nothing else. The animal had arisen, and stood within three feet of me, whining hideously. His eyes glared upon me with a wild and unnatural expression, his tongue lolled out, and saliva fell copiously from his lips. _The dog was mad_! "I saw that the dog was mad, as certainly as I saw the dog. I had seen mad dogs before, and knew the symptoms well. It was hydrophobia of the most dangerous character. "Fear, quick and sudden, came over me. Fear is a tame word; horror I should call it; and the phrase would not be too strong to express my sensations at that moment. I knew myself to be in a situation of extreme peril, and I saw not the way out of it. Death--death painful and horrid--appeared to be nigh, appeared to confront me, glaring from out the eyes of the hideous brute. "Instinct had caused me to put myself in an attitude of defence. My first instinct was a false one. I raised my gun, at the same moment manipulating the lock, with the design of cocking her. In the confusion of terror, I had even forgotten that both barrels were empty, that I had just scattered their contents in the sea. "I thought of re-loading; but a movement of the dog towards me showed that that would be a dangerous experiment; and a third thought or instinct directed me to turn the piece in my hand, and defend myself, if necessary, with the butt. This instinct was instantly obeyed, and in a second's time I held the piece clubbed and ready to strike. "I had retreated backward until I stood in the stern of the skiff. The dog had hitherto lain close up to the bow, but after the shots, he had sprung up and taken a position nearer the centre of the boat. In fact, he had been within biting distance of me before I had noticed his madness. The position into which I had thus half involuntarily thrown myself, offered me but a trifling security. "Any one who has ever rowed an American skiff will remember that these little vessels are `crank' to an extreme degree. Although boat-shaped above, they are without keels, and a rude step will turn them bottom upward in an instant. Even to stand upright in them, requires careful balancing; but to fight a mad dog in one without being bitten, would require the skill and adroitness of an acrobat. With all my caution, as I half stood, half crouched in the stern, the skiff rocked from side to side, and I was in danger of being pitched out. Should the dog spring at me, I knew that any violent exertion to fend him off would either cause me to be precipitated into the water, or would upset the boat--a still more dreadful alternative. "These thoughts did not occupy half the time I have taken to describe them. Short, however, as that time was in actual duration, to me it seemed long enough, for the dog still held a threatening attitude, his forepaws resting upon one of the seats, while his eyes continued to glare upon me with a wild and uncertain expression. "I remained for some moments in fearful suspense. I was half paralysed with terror, and uncertain what action it would be best to take. I feared that any movement would attract the fierce animal, and be the signal for him to spring upon me. I thought of jumping out of the skiff into the water. I could not wade in it. It was shallow enough--not over five feet in depth, but the bottom appeared to be of soft mud. I might sink another foot in the mud. No; I could not have waded. The idea was dismissed. "To swim to the shore? I glanced sideways in that direction: it was nearly half a mile distant. I could never reach it, cumbered with my clothes. To have stripped these off, would have tempted the attack. Even could I have done so, might not the dog follow and seize me in the water? A horrible thought! "I abandoned all hope of escape, at least that might arise from any active measures on my part. I could do nothing to save myself; my only hope lay in passively awaiting the result. "Impressed with this idea, I remained motionless as a statue; I moved neither hand nor foot from the attitude I had first assumed; I scarcely permitted myself to breathe, so much did I dread attracting the farther attention of my terrible companion, and interrupting the neutrality that existed. "For some minutes--they seemed hours--this state of affairs continued. The dog still stood up, with his forepaws raised upon the bench; the oars were among his feet. In this position he remained, gazing wildly, though it did not appear to me steadily, in my face. Several times I thought he was about to spring on me; and, although I carefully avoided making any movement, I instinctively grasped my gun with a firmer hold. To add to my embarrassment, I saw that I was fast drifting seaward! The wind was from the shore; it was impelling the boat with considerable velocity, in consequence of the mass of bushes acting as sails. Already it had cleared the sedge, and was floating out in open water. To my dismay, at less than a mile's distance, I descried a line of breakers! "A side-glance was sufficient to convince me, that unless the skiff was checked, she would drift upon these in the space of ten minutes. "A fearful alternative now presented itself: I must either drive the dog from the oars, or allow the skiff to be swamped among the breakers. The latter would be certain death, the former offered a chance for life; and, nerving myself with the palpable necessity for action, I instantly resolved to make the attack. "Whether the dog had read my intention in my eyes; or observed my fingers taking a firmer clutch of my gun, I know not, but at this moment he seemed to evince sudden fear, and, dropping down from the seat, he ran backward to the bow, and cowered there as before. "My first impulse was to get hold of the oars, for the roar of the breakers already filled my ears. A better idea suggested itself immediately after, and that was to load my gun. This was a delicate business, but I set about it with all the caution I could command. "I kept my eyes fixed upon the animal, and _felt_ the powder, the wadding, and the shot, into the muzzle. I succeeded in loading one barrel, and fixing the cap. "As I had now something upon which I could rely, I proceeded with more confidence, and loaded the second barrel with greater care, the dog eyeing me all the while. Had madness not obscured his intelligence, he would no doubt have interrupted my manipulations; as it was, he remained still until both barrels were loaded, capped, and cocked. "I had no time to spare; the breakers were nigh; their hoarse `sough' warned me of their perilous proximity; a minute more, and the little skiff would be dancing among them like a shell, or sunk for ever. "Not a moment was to be lost, and yet I had to proceed with caution. I dared not raise the gun to my shoulder--I dared not glance along the barrels: the manoeuvre might rouse the dangerous brute. "I held the piece low, slanting along my thighs. I guided the barrels with my mind, and, feeling the direction to be true, I fired. "I scarcely heard the report, on account of the roaring of the sea; but I saw the dog roll over, kicking violently. I saw a livid patch over his ribs, where the shot had entered in a clump. This would no doubt have proved sufficient; but to make sure, I raised the gun to my shoulder, took aim, and sent the contents of the second barrel through the ribs of the miserable brute. His kicking ended almost instantly, and he lay dead in the bottom of the boat. "I dropped my gun and flew to the oars: it was a close `shave;' the skiff was already in white water, and dancing like a feather; but with a few strokes I succeeded in backing her out, and then heading her away from the breakers, I pulled in a direct line for the shore. "I thought not of my canvas-backs--they had floated by this time, I neither knew nor cared whither: the sharks might have them for me. My only care was to get away from the scene as quickly as possible, determined never again to go duck-shooting with a cur for my companion." CHAPTER SEVENTEEN. HUNTING THE VICUNA. During our next day's march the only incident that befel us was the breaking of our waggon-tongue, which delayed our journey. There was plenty of good hickory-wood near the place, and Jake, with a little help from Redwood and Ike and Lanty, soon spliced it again, making it stronger than ever. Of course it shortened our journey for the day, and we encamped at the end of a ten miles' march. Strange to say, on the whole ten miles we did not meet with a single animal to give us a little sport, or to form the subject of our camp talk. We were not without a subject, however, as our English friend proposed giving us an account of the mode of hunting the vicuna, and the details of a week's hunting he had enjoyed upon the high table-lands of the Peruvian Andes. He also imparted to our camp-fire circle much information about the different species of that celebrated animal the llama or "camel-sheep" of Peru, which proved extremely interesting, not only to the old hunter-naturalist, but to the "mountain-men," to whom this species of game, as well as the mode of hunting it, was something new. Thompson began his narrative as follows:--"When Pizarro and his Spaniards first climbed the Peruvian Andes, they were astonished at seeing a new and singular species of quadrupeds, the camel-sheep, so called from their resemblance to these two kinds of animals. They saw the `llama' domesticated and trained to carrying burdens, and the `alpaca,' a smaller species, reared on account of its valuable fleece. "But there were still two other species of these odd animals only observed in a wild state, and in the more desolate and uninhabited parts of the Cordilleras. These were the `guanaco' and `vicuna.' "Up to a very late period the guanaco was believed to be the llama in its wild state, and by some the llama run wild. This, however, is not the case. The four species, llama, alpaca, guanaco, and vicuna as quite distinct from each other, and although the guanaco can be tamed and taught to carry burdens, its labour is not of sufficient value to render this worth while. The alpaca is never used as a beast of burden. Its fleece is the consideration for which it is domesticated and reared, and its wool is much finer and more valuable than that of the llama. "The guanaco is, perhaps, the least prized of the four, as its fleece is of indifferent quality, and its flesh is not esteemed. The vicuna, on the contrary, yields a wool which is eagerly sought after, and which in the Andes towns will sell for at least five times its weight in alpaca wool. Ponchos woven out of it are deemed the finest made, and command the fabulous price of 20 pounds or 30 pounds sterling. A rich proprietor in the cordilleras is often seen with such a poncho, and the quality of the garment, the length of time it will turn rain, etcetera, are favourite subjects of conversation with the wearers of them. Of course everybody in those parts possesses one, as everybody in England or the United States must have a great coat; but the ponchos of the poorer classes of Peruvians--the Indian labourers, shepherds, and miners--are usually manufactured out of the coarse wool of the llama. Only the `ricos' can afford the beautiful fabric of the vicuna's fleece. "The wool of the vicuna being so much in demand, it will be easily conceived that hunting the animal is a profitable pursuit; and so it is. In many parts of the Andes there are regular vicuna hunters, while, in other places, whole tribes of Peruvian Indians spend a part of every year in the chase of this animal and the guanaco. When we go farther south, in the direction of Patagonia, we find other tribes who subsist principally upon the guanaco, the vicuna, and the rhea or South-American ostrich. "Hunting the vicuna is by no means an easy calling. The hunter must betake himself to the highest and coldest regions of the Andes--far from civilised life, and far from its comforts. He has to encamp in the open air, and sleep in a cave or a rude hut, built by his own hands. He has to endure a climate as severe as a Lapland winter, often in places where not a stick of wood can be procured, and where he is compelled to cook his meals with the dry ordure of wild cattle. "If not successful in the chase he is brought to the verge of starvation, and must have recourse to roots and berries--a few species of which, such as the tuberous root `maca,' are found growing in these elevated regions. He is exposed, moreover, to the perils of the precipice, the creaking `soga' bridge, the slippery path, and the hoarse rushing torrent--and these among the rugged Cordilleras of the Andes are no mean dangers. A life of toil, exposure, and peril is that of the vicuna hunter. "During my travels in Peru I had resolved to enjoy the sport of hunting the vicuna. For this purpose I set out from one of the towns of the Lower Sierra, and climbed up the high region known as the `Puna,' or sometimes as the `Despoblado' (the uninhabited region). "I reached at length the edge of a plain to which I had mounted by many a weary path--up many a dark ravine. I was twelve or fourteen thousand feet above sea level, and although I had just parted from the land of the palm-tree and the orange, I was now in a region cold and sterile. Mountains were before and around me--some bleak and dark, others shining under a robe of snow, and still others of that greyish hue as if snow had freshly fallen upon them, but not enough to cover their stony surface. The plain before me was several miles in circumference. It was only part of a system of similar levels separated from each other by spurs of the mountains. By crossing a ridge another comes in view, a deep cleft leads you into a third, and so on. "These table plains are too cold for the agriculturist. Only the cereal barley will grow there, and some of those hardy roots--the natives of an arctic zone. But they are covered with a sward of grass--the `ycha' grass, the favourite food of the llamas--and this renders them serviceable to man. Herds of half-wild cattle may be seen, tended by their wilder-looking shepherds. Flocks of alpacas, female llamas with their young, and long-tailed Peruvian sheep, stray over them, and to some extent relieve their cheerless aspect. The giant vulture--the condor, wheels above all, or perches on the jutting rock. Here and there, in some sheltered nook, may be seen the dark mud hut of the `vaquero' (cattle herd), or the man himself, with his troop of savage curs following at his heels, and this is all the sign of habitation or inhabitant to be met with for hundreds of miles. This bleak land, up among the mountain tops of the Andes, as I have already said, is called the `Puna.' "The Puna is the favourite haunt of the vicuna, and, of course, the home of the vicuna hunter. I had directions to find one of these hunters, and an introduction to him when found, and after spending the night at a shepherd's hut, I proceeded next morning in search of him--some ten miles farther into the mountains. "I arrived at the house, or rather hovel, at an early hour. Notwithstanding, my host had been abroad, and was just returned with full hands, having a large bundle of dead animals in each. They were chinchillas and viscachas, which he had taken out of his snares set overnight. He said that most of them had been freshly caught, as their favourite time of coming out of their dens to feed is just before daybreak. "These two kinds of animals, which in many respects resemble our rabbits, also resemble each other in habits. They make their nests in crevices of the rocks, to which they retreat, when pursued, as rabbits to their burrows. Of course, they are snared in a very similar manner-- by setting the snares upon, their tracks, and at the entrances to their holes. One difference I noted. The Peruvian hunter used snares made of twisted horse-hair, instead of the spring wire employed by our gamekeepers and poachers. The chinchilla is a much more beautiful creature than the viscacha, and is a better-known animal, its soft and beautifully-marbled fur being an article of fashionable wear in the cities of Europe. "As I approached his hut, the hunter had just arrived with the night's produce of his snares, and was hanging them up to the side of the building, skinning them one by one. Not less than half a score of small, foxy-looking dogs were around him--true native dogs of the country. "Of the disposition of these creatures I was soon made aware. No sooner had they espied me, than with angry yelps the whole pack ran forward to meet me, and came barking and grinning close around the feet of my horse. Several of them sprang upward at my legs, and would, no doubt, have bitten them, had I not suddenly raised my feet up to the withers, and for some time held them in that position. I have no hesitation in saying that had I been afoot, I should have been badly torn by the curs; nor do I hesitate to say, that of all the dogs in the known world, these Peruvian mountain dogs are the most vicious and spiteful. They will bite even the friends of their own masters, and very often their masters themselves have to use the stick to keep them in subjection. I believe the dogs found among many tribes of your North-American Indians have a very similar disposition, though by no means to compare in fierceness and savage nature with their cousins of the cold Puna. "The masters of these dogs are generally Indians, and it is a strange fact, that they are much more spiteful towards the whites than Indians. It is difficult for a white man to get on friendly terms with them. "After a good deal of kicking and cuffing, my host succeeded in making his kennel understand that I had not come there to be eaten up. I then alighted from my horse, and walked (I should say crawled) inside the hut. "This was, as I have already stated, a mere hovel. A circular wall of mud and stone, about five feet high, supported a set of poles that served as rafters. These poles were the flower stalks of the great American aloe, or maguey-plant--the only thing resembling wood that grew near. Over these was laid a thick layer of Puna grass, which was tied with strong ropes of the same material, to keep it from flying off when the wind blew violently, which it there often does. A few blocks of stone in the middle of the floor constituted the fireplace, and the smoke got out the best way it could through a hole in the roof. "The owner of this mansion was a true Indian, belonging to one of those tribes of the mountains that could not be said ever to have been conquered by the Spaniards. Living in remote districts, many of these people never submitted to the _repartimientos_, yet a sort of religious conquest was made of some of them by the missionaries, thus bringing them under the title of `Indios mansos' (tame Indians), in contradistinction to the `Indios bravos,' or savage tribes, who remain unconquered and independent to this day. "As already stated, I had come by appointment to share the day's hunt. I was invited to partake of breakfast. My host, being a bachelor, was his own cook, and some parched maize and `macas,' with a roasted chinchilla, furnished the repast. "Fortunately, I carried with me a flask of Catalan brandy; and this, with a cup of water from the icy mountain spring, rendered our meal more palatable I was not without some dry tobacco, and a husk to roll it in, so that we enjoyed our cigar; but what our hunter enjoyed still more was a `coceada,' for he was a regular chewer of `coca.' He carried his pouch of chinchilla skin filled with the dried leaves of the coca plant, and around his neck was suspended the gourd bottle, filled with burnt lime and ashes of the root of the `molle' tree. "All things arranged, we started forth. It was to be a `still' hunt, and we went afoot, leaving our horses safely tied by the hut. The Indian took with him only one of his dogs--a faithful and trusty one, on which, he could rely. "We skirted the plain, and struck into a defile in the mountains. It led upwards, among rocky boulders. A cold stream gurgled in its bottom, now and then leaping over low falls, and churned into foam. At times the path was a giddy one, leading along narrow ledges, rendered more perilous by the frozen snow, that lay to the depth of several inches. Our object was to reach the level of a plain still higher, where my companion assured me we should be likely to happen upon a herd of vicunas. "As we climbed among the rocks, my eye was attracted by a moving object, higher up. On looking more attentively, several animals were seen, of large size, and reddish-brown colour. I took them at first for deer, as I was thinking of that animal. I saw my mistake in a moment. They were not deer, but creatures quite as nimble. They were bounding from rock to rock, and running along the narrow ledges with the agility of the chamois. These must be the vicunas, thought I. "`No,' said my companion; `guanacos--nothing more.' "I was anxious to have a shot at them. "`Better leave them now,' suggested the hunter; `the report would frighten the vicunas, if they be in the plain--it is near. I know these guanacos. I know where they will retreat to--a defile close by--we can have a chance at them on our return.' "I forbore firing, though I certainly deemed the guanacos within shot, but the hunter was thinking of the more precious skin of the vicunas, and we passed on. I saw the guanacos run for a dark-looking cleft between two mountain spurs. "`We shall find them in there,' muttered my companion, `that is their haunt.' "Noble game are these guanacos--large fine animals--noble game as the red deer himself. They differ much from the vicunas. They herd only in small numbers, from six to ten or a dozen: while as many as four times this number of vicunas may be seen together. There are essential points of difference in the habits of the two species. The guanacos are dwellers among the rocks, and are most at home when bounding from cliff to cliff, and ledge to ledge. They make but a poor run upon the level grassy plain, and their singular contorted hoofs seem to be adapted for their favourite haunts. The vicunas, on the contrary, prefer the smooth turf of the table plains, over which they dart with the swiftness of the deer. Both are of the same family of quadrupeds, but with this very essential difference--the one is a dweller of the level plain, the other of the rocky declivity; and nature has adapted each to its respective _habitat_." Here the narrator was interrupted by the hunter-naturalist, who stated that he had observed this curious fact in relation to other animals of a very different genus, and belonging to the _fauna_ of North America. "The animals I speak of," said he, "are indigenous to the region of the Rocky Mountains, and well-known to our trapper friends here. They are the big horn (_Ovis montana_) and the prong-horned antelope (_A. furcifer_). The big horn is usually denominated a sheep, though it possesses far more of the characteristics of the deer and antelope families. Like the chamois, it is a dweller among the rocky cliffs and declivities, and only there does it feel at home, and in the full enjoyment of its faculties for security. Place it upon a level plain, and you deprive it of confidence, and render its capture comparatively easy. At the base of these very cliffs on which the _Ovis montana_ disports itself, roams the prong-horn, not very dissimilar either in form, colour, or habits; and yet this creature, trusting to its heels for safety, feels at home and secure only on the wide open plain where it can see the horizon around it! Such is the difference in the mode of life of two species of animals almost cogenerie, and I am not surprised to hear you state that a somewhat like difference exists between the guanaco and vicuna." The hunter-naturalist was again silent, and the narrator continued. "A few more strides up the mountain pass brought us to the edge of the plain, where we expected to see the vicunas. We were not disappointed. A herd was feeding upon it, though at a good distance off. A beautiful sight they were, quite equalling in grace and stateliness the lordly deer. In fact, they might have passed for the latter to an unpractised eye, particularly at that season when deer are `in the red.' Indeed the vicuna is more deer-like than any other animal except the antelope--much more so than its congeners the llama, alpaca, or guanaco. Its form is slender, and its gait light and agile, while the long tapering neck and head add to the resemblance. The colour, however, is peculiarly its own, and any one accustomed to seeing the vicuna can distinguish the orange-red of its silky coat at a glance, and at a great distance. So peculiar is it, that in Peru the `_Colour de vicuna_' (vicuna colour) has become a specific name. "My companion at once pronounced the animals before us a herd of vicunas. There were about twenty in all, and all except one were quietly feeding on the grassy plain. This one stood apart, his long neck raised high in air, and his head occasionally turning from side to side, as though he was keeping watch for the rest. Such was in fact the duty he was performing; he was the leader of the herd--the patriarch, husband and father of the flock. All the others were ewes or young ones. So affirmed my companion. "The vicuna is polygamous--fights for his harem with desperate fierceness, watches over its number while they feed or sleep, chooses the ground for browsing and rest--defends them against enemies--heads them in the advance, and covers their retreat with his own `person'-- such is the domestic economy of the vicuna. "`Now, senor,' said the hunter, eyeing the herd, `if I could only kill him (he pointed to the leader) I would have no trouble with the rest. I should get every one of them.' "`How?' I inquired. "`Oh!--they would!--ha! The very thing I wished for!' "`What?' "`They are heading towards yonder rocks.' He pointed to a clump of rocky boulders that lay isolated near one side of the plain--`let us get there, comrade--_vamos_!' "We stole cautiously round the edge of the mountain until the rocks lay between us and the game; and then crouched forward and took our position among them. We lay behind a jagged boulder, whose seamed outline looked as if it had been designed for loop-hole firing. It was just the cover we wanted. "We peeped cautiously through the cracks of the rock. Already the vicunas were near, almost within range of our pieces. I held in my hands a double-barrel, loaded in both barrels with large-sized buck-shot; my companion's weapon was a long Spanish rifle. "I received his instructions in a whisper. I was not to shoot until he had fired. Both were to aim at the leader. About this he was particular, and I promised obedience. "The unconscious herd drew near. The leader, with the long white silky hair hanging from his breast, was in the advance, and upon him the eyes of both of us were fixed. I could observe his glistening orbs, and his attitude of pride, as he turned at intervals to beckon his followers on. "`I hope he has got the worms,' muttered my companion; `if he has, he'll come to rub his hide upon the rocks.' "Some such intention was no doubt guiding the vicuna, for at that moment it stretched forth its neck, and trotted a few paces towards us. It suddenly halted. The wind was in our favour, else we should have been scented long ago. But we were suspected. The creature halted, threw up its head, struck the ground with its hoof, and uttered a strange cry, somewhat resembling the whistling of a deer. The echo of that cry was the ring of my companion's rifle, and I saw the vicuna leap up and fall dead upon the plain. "I expected the others to break off in flight, and was about to fire at them though they were still at long range. My companion prevented me. "`Hold!' he whispered, `you'll have a better chance--see there!--now, if you like, Senor!' "To my surprise, the herd, instead of attempting to escape, came trotting up to where the leader lay, and commenced running around at intervals, stooping over the body, and uttering plaintive cries. "It was a touching sight, but the hunter is without pity for what he deems his lawful game. In an instant I had pulled both triggers, and both barrels had sent forth their united and deadly showers. "Deadly indeed--when the smoke blew aside, nearly half of the herd were seen lying quiet or kicking on the plain. "The rest remained as before! another ring of the long rifle, and another fell--another double detonation of the heavy deer-gun, and several came to the ground; and so continued the alternate fire of bullets and shot, until the whole herd were strewn dead and dying upon the ground! "Our work was done--a great day's work for my companion, who would realise nearly a hundred dollars for the produce of his day's sport. "This, however, he assured me was a very unusual piece of good luck. Often for days and even weeks, he would range the mountains without killing a single head--either vicuna or guanaco, and only twice before had he succeeded in thus making a _battue_ of a whole herd. Once he had approached a flock of vicunas disguised in the skin of a guanaco, and killed most of them before they thought of retreating. "It was necessary for us to return to the hut for our horses in order to carry home the game, and this required several journeys to be made. To keep off the wolves and condors my companion made use of a very simple expedient, which I believe is often used in the North--among your prairie trappers here. Several bladders were taken from the vicunas and inflated. They were then tied upon poles of maguey, and set upright over the carcasses, so as to dangle and dance about in the wind. Cunning as is the Andes wolf this `scare' is sufficient to keep him off, as well as his ravenous associate, the condor. "It was quite night when we reached the Indian hut with our last load. Both of us were wearied and hungry, but a fresh vicuna cutlet, washed down by the Catalan, and followed by a cigarette, made us forget our fatigues. My host was more than satisfied with his day's work, and promised me a guanaco hunt for the morrow." CHAPTER EIGHTEEN. A CHACU OF VICUNAS. "Well, upon the morrow," continued the Englishman, "we had our guanaco hunt, and killed several of the herd we had seen on the previous day. There was nothing particular in regard to our mode of hunting--farther than to use all our cunning in getting within shot, and then letting fly at them. "It is not so easy getting near the guanaco. He is among the shyest game I have ever hunted, and his position is usually so far above that of the hunter, that he commands at all times a view of the movements of the latter. The over-hanging rocks, however, help one a little, and by diligent creeping he is sometimes approached. It requires a dead shot to bring him down, for, if only wounded, he will scale the cliffs, and make off--perhaps to die in some inaccessible haunt. "While sojourning with my hunter-friend, I heard of a singular method practised by the Indians, of capturing the vicuna in large numbers. This was called the `chacu.' "Of course I became very desirous of witnessing a `chacu,' and the hunter promised to gratify me. It was now the season of the year for such expeditions, and one was to come off in a few days. It was the annual hunt got up by the tribe to which my host belonged; and, of course, he, as a practised and professional hunter, was to bear a distinguished part in the ceremony. "The day before the expedition was to set out, we repaired to the village of the tribe--a collection of rude huts, straggling along the bottom of one of the deep clefts or valleys of the Cordilleras. This village lay several thousand feet below the level of the Puna plains, and was therefore in a much warmer climate. In fact, the sugar-cane and yucca plant (_Jatropha mainhot_) were both seen growing in the gardens of the villagers, and Indian corn flourished in the fields. "The inhabitants were `_Indios mansos_' (civilised Indians). They attended part of the year to agriculture, although the greater part of it was spent in idleness, amusements, or hunting. They had been converted--that is nominally--to Christianity; and a church with its cross was a prominent feature of the village. "The cure, or priest, was the only white man resident in the place, and he was white only by comparison. Though of pure Spanish blood, he would have passed for a `coloured old gentleman' in any part of Europe or the States. "My companion introduced me to the padre, and I was at once received upon terms of intimacy. To my surprise I learnt that he was to accompany the chacu--in fact to take a leading part in it. He seemed to be as much interested in the success of the hunt as any of them--more so, perhaps, and with good reason too. I afterwards learnt why. The produce of the annual hunt was part of the padre's income. By an established law, the skins of the vicunas were the property of the church, and these, being worth on the spot at least a dollar a-piece, formed no despicable tithe. After hearing this I was at no loss to understand the padre's enthusiasm about the chacu. All the day before he had been bustling about among his parishioners, aiding them with his counsel, and assisting them in their preparations. I shared the padre's dwelling, the best in the village; his supper too--a stewed fowl, killed for the occasion, and rendered fiery hot with `aji,' or capsicum. This was washed down with `chica,' and afterwards the padre and I indulged in a cigarette and a chat. "He was a genuine specimen of the South-American missionary priest; rather more scrupulous about getting his dues than about the moral welfare of his flock; fat, somewhat greasy, fond of a good dinner, a glass of `Yea' brandy, and a cigarette. Nevertheless, his rule was patriarchal in a high degree, and he was a favourite with the simple people among whom he dwelt. "Morning came, and the expedition set forth; not, however, until a grand mass had been celebrated in the church, and prayers offered up for the success of the hunt. The cavalcade then got under weigh, and commenced winding up the rugged path that led toward the `Altos,' or Puna heights. We travelled in a different direction from that in which my companion and I had come. "The expedition itself was a picturesque affair. There were horses, mules, and llamas, men, women, children, and dogs; in fact, almost every living thing in the village had turned out. A chacu is no common occasion--no one day affair. It was to be an affair of weeks. There were rude tents carried along; blankets and cooking utensils; and the presence of the women was as necessary as any part of the expedition. Their office would be to do the cooking, and keep the camp in order! as well as to assist in the hunt. "Strung out in admirable confusion, we climbed up the mountain--a picturesque train--the men swinging along in their coloured ponchos of llama wool, and the women dressed in bright mantas of `bayeta' (a coarse cloth, of native manufacture). I noticed several mules and llamas packed with loads of a curious character. Some carried large bundles of rags--others were loaded with coils of rope--while several were `freighted' with short poles, tied in bunches. I had observed these cargoes being prepared before leaving the village, and could not divine the use of them. That would no doubt be explained when we had reached the scene of the chacu, and I forbore to trouble my companions with any interrogatories, as I had enough to do to guide my horse along the slippery path we were travelling. "About a mile from the village there was a sudden halt. I inquired the cause. "`The _huaro_,' was the reply. "I knew the huaro to be the name of a peculiar kind of bridge, and I learnt that one was here to be crossed. I rode forward, and found myself in front of the huaro. A singular structure it was. I could scarcely believe in the practicability of our getting over it. The padre, however, assured me it was a good one, and we should all be on the other side in a couple of hours! "I at first felt inclined to treat this piece of information as a joke: but it proved that the priest was in earnest. It was full two hours before we were all crossed with our bag and baggage. "The huaro was nothing more than a thick, rope stretched across the chasm, and made fast at both ends. On this rope was a strong piece of wood, bent into the shape of the letter U, and fastened to a roller which rested upon the rope, and moved along it when pulled by a cord from either side. There were two cords, or ropes, attached to the roller, one leading to each side of the chasm, and their object was to drag the passenger across: of course, only one of us could be carried over at a time. No wonder we were so long in making the crossing, when there were over one hundred in all, with numerous articles of baggage. "I shall never forget the sensations I experienced in making the passage of the huaro. I had felt giddy enough in going over the `soga' bridges and `barbacoas' common throughout Peru, but the passage of the huaro is really a gymnastic feat of no easy accomplishment. I was first tied, back downwards, with my back resting in the concavity of the bent wood; my legs were then crossed over the main rope--the bridge itself--with nothing to hold them there farther than my own muscular exertion. With my hands I clutched the vertical side of the wooden yoke, and was told to keep my head in as upright a position as possible. Without farther ado I felt myself jerked out until I hung in empty air over a chasm that opened at least two hundred feet beneath, and through the bottom of which a white torrent was foaming over black rocks! My ankles slipped along the rope, but the sensation was so strange, that I felt several times on the point of letting them drop off. In that case my situation would have been still more painful, as I should have depended mainly on my arms for support. Indeed, I held on tightly with both hands, as I fancied that the cord with which I had been tied to the yoke would every minute give way. "After a good deal of jerking and hauling, I found myself on the opposite side, and once more on my feet! "I was almost repaid for the fright I had gone through, by seeing the great fat padre pulled over. It was certainly a ludicrous sight, and I laughed the more, as I fancied the old fellow had taken occasion to laugh at me. He took it all in good part, however, telling me that it caused him no fear, as he had long been accustomed to those kind of bridges. "This slow and laborious method of crossing streams is not uncommon in many parts of the Andes. It occurs in retired and thinly-populated districts, where there is no means for building bridges of regular construction. Of course, the traveller himself only can be got over by the huaro. His horse, mule, or llamas must swim the stream, and in many instances these are carried off by the rapid current, or dashed against the rocks, and killed. "The whole _cavallada_ of the expedition got safely over, and in a short while we were all _en route_, once more climbing up toward the `altos.' I asked my companion why we could not have got over the stream at some other point, and thus have saved the time and labour. The answer was, that it would have cost us a twenty miles' journey to have reached a point no nearer our destination than the other end of the huaro rope! No wonder such pains had been taken to ferry the party across. "We reached the heights late in the evening. The hunt would not begin until the next day. "That evening was spent in putting up tents, and getting everything in order about the camp. The tent of the padre was conspicuous--it was the largest, and I was invited to share it with him. The horses and other animals were picketted or hoppled upon the plain, which was covered with a short brown grass. "The air was chill--cold, in fact--we were nearly three miles above ocean level. The women and youths employed themselves in collecting _taquia_ to make fires. There was plenty of this, for the plain where we had halted was a pasture of large flocks of llamas and horned cattle. It was not there we expected to fall in with the vicunas. A string of `altos,' still farther on were their favourite haunts. Our first camp was sufficiently convenient to begin the hunt. It would be moved farther on when the plains in its neighbourhood had been hunted, and the game should grow scarce. "Morning arrived; but before daybreak, a large party had set off, taking with them the ropes, poles, and bundles of rags I have already noticed. The women and boys accompanied this party. Their destination was a large table plain, contiguous to that on which we had encamped. "An hour afterwards the rest of the party set forth--most of them mounted one way or other. These were the real hunters, or `drivers.' Along with them went the dogs--the whole canine population of the village. I should have preferred riding with this party, but the padre took me along with himself, promising to guide me to a spot where I should get the best view of the chacu. He and I rode forward alone. "In half an hour we reached the plain where the first party had gone. They were all at work as we came up--scattered over the plain--and I now saw the use that was to be made of the ropes and rags. With them a pound, or `corral,' was in process of construction. Part of it was already finished, and I perceived that it was to be of a circular shape. The poles, or stakes, were driven into the ground in a curving line at the distance of about a rod from each other. When thus driven, each stake stood four feet high, and from the top of one to the other, ropes were ranged and tied, thus making the inclosure complete. Along these ropes were knotted the rags and strips of cotton, so as to hang nearly to the ground, or flutter in the wind; and this slight semblance of a fence was continued over the plain in a circumference of nearly three miles in length. One side, for a distance of several hundred yards, was left unfinished, and this was the entrance to the corral. Of course, this was in the direction from which the drove was to come. "As soon as the inclosure was ready, those engaged upon it withdrew in two parties to the opposite flanks, and then deployed off in diverging lines, so as to form a sort of funnel, at least two miles in width. In this position they remained to await the result of the drive, most of them squatting down to rest themselves. "Meanwhile the drive was proceeding, although the hunters engaged in it were at a great distance--scarcely seen from our position. They, too, had gone out in two parties, taking opposite directions, and skirting the hills that surrounded the plain. Their circuit could not have been less than a dozen miles; and, as soon as fairly round, they deployed themselves into a long arc, with its concavity towards the rope corral. Then, facing inward, the forward movement commenced. Whatever animals chanced to be feeding between them and the inclosure were almost certain of being driven into it. "The padre had led me to an elevated position among the rocks. It commanded a view of the rope circle; but we were a long while waiting before the drivers came in sight. At length we descried the line of mounted men far off upon the plain, and, on closely scrutinising the ground between them and us, we could distinguish several reddish forms gliding about: these were the vicunas. There appeared to be several bands of them, as we saw some at different points. They were crossing and recrossing the line of the drive, evidently startled, and not knowing in what direction to run. Every now and then a herd, led by its old male, could be seen shooting in a straight line--then suddenly making a halt--and the next minute sweeping off in a contrary direction. Their beautiful orange-red flanks, glistening in the sun, enabled us to mark them at a great distance. "The drivers came nearer and nearer, until we could distinguish the forms of the horsemen as they rose over the swells of the plain. We could now hear their shouts--the winding of their ox-horns, and even the yelping of their dogs. But what most gratified my companion was to see that several herds of vicunas were bounding backwards and forwards in front of the advancing line. "`_Mira_!' he cried exultingly, `_mira! Senor_, one, two, three, four-- four herds, and large ones--ah! _Carrambo_! Jesus!' continued he, suddenly changing tone, `_carrambo! esos malditos guanacos_!' (those cursed guanacos). I looked as he was pointing. I noticed a small band of guanacos springing over the plain. I could easily distinguish them from the vicunas by their being larger and less graceful in their motions, but more particularly by the duller hue of brownish red. But what was there in their presence to draw down the maledictions of the padre, which he continued to lavish upon them most unsparingly? I put the question. "`Ah! Senor,' he answered with a sigh, `these guanacos will spoil all-- they will ruin the hunt. Caspita!' "`How? in what manner, mio padre?' I asked in my innocence, thinking that a fine herd of guanacos would be inclosed along with their cousins, and that `all were fish,' etcetera. "`Ah!' exclaimed the padre, `these guanacos are _hereticos_--reckless brutes, they pay no regard to the ropes--they will break through and let the others escape--_santissima virgen_! what is to be done?' "Nothing could be done except leave things to take their course, for in a few minutes the horsemen were seen advancing, until their line closed upon the funnel formed by the others. The vicunas, in several troops, now rushed wildly from side to side, turning sharply as they approached the figures of the men and women, and running in the opposite direction. There were some fifty or sixty in all, and at length they got together in a single but confused clump. The guanacos, eight or ten in number, became mixed up with them, and after several quarterings, the whole flock, led by one that thought it had discovered the way of escape, struck off into a gallop, and dashed into the inclosure. "The hunters, who were afoot with the women, now rushed to the entrance, and in a short while new stakes were driven in, ropes tied upon them, rags attached, and the circle of the chacu was complete. "The mounted hunters at the same time had galloped around the outside, and flinging themselves from their horses, took their stations, at intervals from each other. Each now prepared his `holas,' ready to advance and commence the work of death, as soon as the corral should be fairly surrounded by the women and boys who acted as assistants. "The hunters now advanced towards the centre, swinging their bolas, and shouting to one another to direct the attack. The frightened vicunas rushed from side to side, everywhere headed by an Indian. Now they broke into confused masses and ran in different directions--now they united again and swept in graceful curves over the plain. Everywhere the bolas whizzed through the air, and soon the turf was strewed with forms sprawling and kicking. A strange picture was presented. Here a hunter stood with the leaden balls whirling around his head--there another rushed forward upon a vicuna hoppled and falling--a third bent over one that was already down, anon he brandished a bleeding knife, and then, releasing the thong from the limbs of his victim, again swung his bolas in the air, and rushed forward in the chase. "An incident occurred near the beginning of the _melee_, which was very gratifying to my companion the padre, and at once restored the equanimity of his temper. The herd of guanacos succeeded in making their escape, and without compromising the success of the hunt. This, however, was brought about by a skilful manoeuvre on the part of my old friend the Puna hunter. These animals had somehow or other got separated from the vicunas, and dashed off to a distant part of the inclosure. Seeing this, the hunter sprang to his horse, and calling his pack of curs after him, leaped over the rope fence and dashed forward after the guanacos. He soon got directly in their rear, and signalling those who stood in front to separate and let the guanacos pass, he drove them out of the inclosure. They went head foremost against the ropes, breaking them free from the stakes; but the hunter, galloping up, guarded the opening until the ropes and rags were freshly adjusted. "The poor vicunas, nearly fifty in number, were all killed or captured. When pursued up to the `sham-fence' they neither attempted to rush against it or leap over, but would wheel suddenly round, and run directly in the faces of their pursuers! "The sport became even more interesting when all but a few were _hors de combat_. Then the odd ones that remained were each attacked by several hunters at once, and the rushing and doubling of the animals--the many headings and turnings--the shouts of the spectators--the whizzing of the bolas--sometimes two or three of these missiles hurled at a single victim--all combined to furnish a spectacle to me novel and exciting. "About twenty minutes after the animals had entered the rope inclosure the last of them was seen to `bite the dust,' and the chacu of that day was over. Then came the mutual congratulations of the hunters, and the joyous mingling of voices. The slain vicunas were collected in a heap-- the skins stripped off, and the flesh divided among the different families who took part in the chacu. "The skins, as we have said, fell to the share of the `church,' that is, to the church's representative--the padre, and this was certainly the lion's share of the day's product. "The ropes were now unfastened and coiled--the rags once more bundled, and the stakes pulled up and collected--all to be used on the morrow in some other part of the Puna. The meat was packed on the horses and mules, and the hunting party, in a long string, proceeded to camp. Then followed a scene of feasting and merriment--such as did not fall to the lot of these poor people every day in the year. "This chacu lasted ten days, during which time I remained in the company of my half-savage friends. The whole game killed amounted to five hundred and odd vicunas, with a score or two guanacos, several tarush, or deer of the Andes (_Cervus antisensis_) and half a dozen black bears (_Ursus ornatus_). Of course only the vicunas were taken in the chacu. The other animals were started incidentally, and killed by the hunters either with their bolas, or guns, with which a few of them were armed." The "chacu" of the Andes Indians corresponds to the "surround" of the Indian hunters on the great plains of North America. In the latter case, however, buffaloes are usually the objects of pursuit, and no fence is attempted--the hunters trusting to their horses to keep the wild oxen inclosed. The "pound" is another mode of capturing wild animals practised by several tribes of Indians in the Hudson's Bay territory. In this case the game is the caribou or reindeer, but no rope fence would serve to impound these. A good substantial inclosure of branches and trees is necessary, and the construction of a "pound" is the work of time and labour. I know of no animal except the vicuna itself, that could be captured after the manner practised in the "chacu." CHAPTER NINETEEN. SQUIRREL-SHOOTING. We were now travelling among the spurs of the "Ozark hills," and our road was a more difficult one. The ravines were deeper, and as our course obliged us to cross the direction in which most of them ran, we were constantly climbing or descending the sides of steep ridges. There was no road except a faint Indian trail, used by the Kansas in their occasional excursions to the borders of the settlements. At times we were compelled to cut away the underwood, and ply the axe lustily upon some huge trunk that had fallen across the path and obstructed the passage of our waggon. This rendered our progress but slow. During such halt most of the party strayed off into the woods in search of game. Squirrels were the only four-footed creatures found, and enough of these were shot to make a good-sized "pot-pie;" and it may be here remarked, that no sort of flesh is better for this purpose than that of the squirrel. The species found in these woods was the large "cat-squirrel" (_Sciurus cinereus_), one of the noblest of its kind. Of course at that season, amid the plenitude of seeds, nuts, and berries, they were as plump as partridges. This species is usually in good condition, and its flesh the best flavoured of all. In the markets of New York they bring three times the price of the common grey squirrel. As we rode along, the naturalist stated many facts in relation to the squirrel tribe, that were new to most of us. He said that in North America there were not less than twenty species of true squirrels, all of them dwellers in the trees, and by including the "ground" and "flying" squirrels (_tamias_ and _pteromys_), the number of species might be more than forty. Of course there are still new species yet undescribed, inhabiting the half-explored regions of the western territory. The best-known of the squirrels is the common "grey squirrel," as it is in most parts of the United States the most plentiful. Indeed it is asserted that some of the other species, as the "black squirrel" (_Sciurus niger_), disappear from districts where the grey squirrels become numerous--as the native rat gives place to the fierce "Norway." The true fox squirrel (_Sciurus vulpinus_) differs essentially from the "cat," which is also known in many States by the name of fox squirrel. The former is larger, and altogether a more active animal, dashing up to the top of a pine-tree in a single run. The cat-squirrel, on the contrary, is slow and timid among the branches, and rarely mounts above the first fork, unless when forced higher by the near approach of its enemy. It prefers concealing itself behind the trunk, dodging round the tree as the hunter advances upon it. It has one peculiarity, however, in its mode of escape that often saves it, and disappoints its pursuer. Unless very hotly pursued by a dog, or other swift enemy, it will not be treed until it has reached the tree that contains its nest, and, of course, it drops securely into its hole, bidding defiance to whatever enemy--unless, indeed, that enemy chance to be the pine-martin, which is capable of following it even to the bottom of its dark tree-cave. Now most of the other squirrels make a temporary retreat to the nearest large tree that offers. This is often without a hole where they can conceal themselves, and they are therefore exposed to the small shot or rifle-bullet from below. It does not always follow, however, that they are brought down from their perch. In very heavy bottom timber the squirrel often escapes among the high twigs, even where there are no leaves to conceal it, nor any hole in the tree. Twenty shots, and from good marksmen too, have been fired at a single squirrel in such situations, without bringing it to the ground, or seriously wounding it! A party of hunters have often retired without getting such game, and yet the squirrel has been constantly changing place, and offering itself to be sighted in new positions and attitudes! The craft of the squirrel on these occasions is remarkable. It stretches its body along the upper part of a branch, elongating it in such a manner, that the branch, not thicker than the body itself, forms almost a complete shield against the shot. The head, too, is laid close, and the tail no longer erect, but flattened along the branch, so as not to betray the whereabouts of the animal. Squirrel-shooting is by no means poor sport. It is the most common kind practised in the United States, because the squirrel is the most common game. In that country it takes the place that snipe or partridge shooting holds in England. In my opinion it is a sport superior to either of these last, and the game, when killed, is not much less in value. Good fat squirrel can be cooked in a variety of ways, and many people prefer it to feathered game of any kind. It is true the squirrel has a rat-like physiognomy, but that is only in the eyes of strangers to him. A residence in the backwoods, and a short practice in the eating of squirrel pot-pie, soon removes any impression of that kind. A hare, as brought upon the table-cloth in England, is far more likely to produce _degout_--from its very striking likeness to "puss," that is purring upon the hearth-rug. In almost all parts of the United States, a day's squirrel-shooting may be had without the necessity of making a very long journey. There are still tracts of woodland left untouched, where these animals find a home. In the Western States a squirrel-hunt may be had simply by walking a couple of hundred yards from your house, and in some places you may shoot the creatures out of the very door. To make a successful squirrel-hunt two persons at least are necessary. If only one goes out, the squirrel can avoid him simply by "dodging" round the trunk, or any large limb of the tree. When there are two, one remains stationary, while the other makes a circuit, and drives the game from the opposite side. It is still better when three or four persons make up the party, as then the squirrel is assailed on all sides, and can find no resting-place, without seeing a black tube levelled upon him, and ready to send forth its deadly missile. Some hunt the squirrel with shot-guns. These are chiefly young hands. The old hunter prefers the rifle; and in the hands of practised marksmen this is the better weapon. The rifle-bullet, be it ever so small, kills the game at once; whereas a squirrel severely peppered with shot will often escape to the tree where its hole is, and drop in, often to die of its wounds. No creature can be more tenacious of life--not even a cat. When badly wounded it will cling to the twigs to its last breath, and even after death its claws sometimes retain their hold, and its dead body hangs suspended to the branch! The height from which a squirrel will leap to the ground without sustaining injury, is one of those marvels witnessed by every squirrel-hunter. When a tree in which it has taken refuge is found not to afford sufficient shelter, and a neighbouring tree is not near enough for it to leap to, it then perceives the necessity of returning to the ground, to get to some other part of the woods. Some species, as the cat-squirrel, fearing to take the dreadful leap (often nearly a hundred feet), rush down by the trunk. Not so the more active squirrels, as the common grey kind. These run to the extremity of a branch, and spring boldly down in a diagonal direction. The hunter--if a stranger to the feat--would expect to see the creature crushed or crippled by the fall. No danger of that. Even the watchful dog that is waiting for such an event, and standing close to the spot, has not time to spring upon it, until it is off again like a flying bird, and, almost as quick as sight can follow, is seen ascending some other tree. There is an explanation required about this precipitous leap. The squirrel is endowed with the capability of spreading out its body to a great extent, and this in the downward rush it takes care to do--thus breaking its fall by the resistance of the air. This alone accounts for its not killing itself. Nearly all squirrels possess this power, but in different degrees. In the flying squirrels it is so strongly developed, as to enable them to make a flight resembling that of the birds themselves. The squirrel-hunter is often accompanied by a dog--not that the dog ever by any chance catches one of these creatures. Of him the squirrel has but little fear, well knowing that he cannot climb a tree. The office of the dog is of a different kind. It is to "tree" the squirrel, and, by remaining at the root, point out the particular tree to his master. The advantage of the dog is obvious. In fact, he is almost as necessary as the pointer to the sportsman. First, by ranging widely, he beats a greater breadth of the forest. Secondly, when a squirrel is seen by him, his swiftness enables him to hurry it up some tree _not its own_. This second advantage is of the greatest importance. When the game has time enough allowed it, it either makes to its own tree (with a hole in it of course), or selects one of the tallest near the spot. In the former case it is impossible, and in the latter difficult, to have a fair shot at it. If there be no dog, and the hunter trusts to his own eyes, he is often unable to find the exact tree which the squirrel has climbed, and of course loses it. A good squirrel-dog is a useful animal. The breed is not important. The best are usually half-bred pointers. They should have good sight as well as scent; should range widely, and run fast. When well trained they will not take after rabbits, or any other game. They will bark only when a squirrel is treed, and remain staunchly by the root of the tree. The barking is necessary, otherwise the hunter, often separated from them by the underwood, would not know when they had succeeded in "treeing." The squirrel seems to have little fear of the dog, and rarely ascends to a great height. It is often seen only a few feet above him, jerking its tail about, and apparently mocking its savage enemy below. The coming up of the hunter changes the scene. The squirrel then takes the alarm, and shooting up, conceals itself among the higher branches. Taking it all in all, we know none of the smaller class of field sports that requires greater skill, and yields more real amusement, than hunting the squirrel. Our Kentuckian comrade gave us an account of a grand squirrel-hunt got up by himself and some neighbours, which is not an uncommon sort of thing in the Western States. The hunters divided themselves into two parties of equal numbers, each taking its own direction through the woods. A large wager was laid upon the result, to be won by that party that could bring in the greatest number of squirrels. There were six guns on each side, and the numbers obtained at the end of a week--for the hunt lasted so long--were respectively 5000, and 4780! Of course the sport came off in a tract of country where squirrels were but little hunted, and were both tame and plenty. Such hunts upon a grand scale are, as already stated, not uncommon in some parts of the United States. They have another object besides the sport--that of thinning off the squirrels for the protection of the planter's corn-field. So destructive are these little animals to the corn and other grains, that in some States there has been at times a bounty granted, for killing them. In early times such a law existed in Pennsylvania, and there is a registry that in one year the sum of 8000 pounds was paid out of the treasury of this bounty-money, which at threepence a head--the premium--would make 640,000, the number of the squirrels killed in that year! The "migration of the squirrels" is still an unexplained fact. It is among the grey squirrels it takes place; hence the name given to that species, _Sciurus migratorius_. There is no regularity about these migrations, and their motive is not known. Immense bands of the squirrels are observed in a particular neighbourhood, proceeding through the woods or across tracts of open ground, all in one direction. Nothing stays their course. Narrow streams and broad rivers are crossed by them by swimming, and many are drowned in the attempt. Under ordinary circumstances, these little creatures are as much afraid of water as cats, yet when moving along their track of migration they plunge boldly into a river, without calculating whether they will ever reach the other side. When found upon the opposite bank, they are often so tired with the effort, that one may overtake them with a stick; and thousands are killed in this way when a migration has been discovered. It is stated that they roll pieces of dry wood, or bark, into the water, and, seating themselves on these, are wafted across, their tails supplying them with a sail: of course this account must be held as apocryphal. But the question is, what motive impels them to undertake these long and perilous wanderings, from which it is thought they never return to their original place of abode? It cannot be the search of food, nor the desire to change from a colder to a warmer climate. The direction of the wanderings forbids us to receive either of these as the correct reason. No light has been yet thrown upon this curious habit. It would seem as if some strange instinct propelled them, but for what purpose, and to what end, no one can tell. CHAPTER TWENTY. TREEING A BEAR. The doctor was the only one not taking part in the conversation. Even the rude guides listened. All that related to game interested them, even the scientific details given by the hunter-naturalist. The doctor had ridden on in front of us. Some one remarked that he wanted water to mix with the contents of his flask, and was therefore searching for a stream. Be this as it may, he was seen suddenly to jerk his spare horse about, and spur back to us, his countenance exhibiting symptoms of surprise and alarm. "What is it, doctor?" inquired one. "He has seen Indians," remarked another. "A bear--a bear!" cried the doctor, panting for breath; "a grizzly bear! a terrible-looking creature I assure you." "A bar! d'you say?" demanded Ike, shooting forward on his old mare. "A bar!" cried Redwood, breaking through the bushes in pursuit. "A bear!" shouted the others, all putting spurs to their horses, and galloping forward in a body. "Where, doctor? Where?" cried several. "Yonder," replied the doctor, "just by that great tree. I saw him go in there--a grizzly, I'm sure." It was this idea that had put the doctor in such affright, and caused him to ride back so suddenly. "Nonsense, doctor," said the naturalist, "we are yet far to the east of the range of the grizzly bear. It was a black bear you saw." "As I live," replied the doctor, "it was not black, anything but that. I should know the black bear. It was a light brown colour--almost yellowish." "Oh! that's no criterion. The black bear is found with many varieties of colour. I have seen them of the colour you describe. It must be one of them. The grizzly is not found so far to the eastward, although it is possible we may see them soon; but not in woods like these." There was no time for farther explanation. We had come up to the spot where the bear had been seen; and although an unpractised eye could have detected no traces of the animal's presence, old Ike, Redwood, and the hunter-naturalist could follow its trail over the bed of fallen leaves, almost as fast as they could walk. Both the guides had dismounted, and with their bodies slightly bent, and leading their horses after them, commenced tracking the bear. From Ike's manner one would have fancied that he was guided by scent rather than by sight. The trail led us from our path, and we had followed it some hundred yards into the woods. Most of us were of the opinion that the creature had never halted after seeing the doctor, but had run off to a great distance. If left to ourselves, we should have given over the chase. The trappers, however, knew what they were about. They asserted that the bear had gone away slowly--that it had made frequent halts--that they discovered "sign" to lead them to the conclusion that the animal's haunt was in the neighbourhood--that its "nest" was near. We were, therefore, encouraged to proceed. All of us rode after the trackers. Jake and Lanty had been left with the waggon, with directions to keep on their route. After a while we heard the waggon moving along directly in front of us. The road had angled as well as the bear's trail, and the two were again converging. Just at that moment a loud shouting came from the direction of the waggon. It was Lanty's voice, and Jake's too. "Och! be the Vargin mother! luck there! Awch, mother o' Moses, Jake, such a haste!" "Golly, Massa Lanty, it am a bar!" We all heard this at once. Of course we thought of the trail no longer, but made a rush in the direction of the voices, causing the branches to fly on every side. "Whar's the bar?" cried Redwood, who was first up to the waggon, "whar did ye see't?" "Yander he goes!" cried Lanty, pointing to a pile of heavy timber, beset with an undergrowth of cane, but standing almost isolated from the rest of the forest on account of the thin open woods that were around it. We were too late to catch a glimpse of him, but perhaps he would halt in the undergrowth. If so we had a chance. "Surround, boys, surround!" cried the Kentuckian, who understood bear-hunting as well as any of the party. "Quick, round and head him;" and, at the same time, the speaker urged his great horse into a gallop. Several others rode off on the opposite side, and in a few seconds we had surrounded the cane-brake. "Is he in it?" cried one. "Do you track 'im thur, Mark?" cried Ike to his comrade from the opposite side. "No," was the reply, "he hain't gone out this away." "Nor hyur," responded Ike. "Nor here," said the Kentuckian. "Nor by here," added the hunter-naturalist. "Belike, then, he's still in the timmor," said Redwood. "Now look out all of yees. Keep your eyes skinned; I'll hustle him out o' thar." "Hold on, Mark, boy," cried Ike, "hold on thur. Damn the varmint! hyur's his track, paddled like a sheep pen. Wagh, his den's hyur--let me rout 'im." "Very wal, then," replied the other, "go ahead, old fellow--I'll look to my side--thu'll no bar pass me 'ithout getting a pill in his guts. Out wi' 'im!" We all sat in our saddles silent and watchful. Ike had entered the cane, but not a rustle was heard. A snake could not have passed through it with less noise than did the old trapper. It was full ten minutes before the slightest sound warned of what he was about. Then his voice reached us. "This way, all of you! The bar's treed." The announcement filled all of us with pleasant anticipations. The sport of killing a bear is no everyday amusement, and now that the animal was "treed" we were sure of him. Some dismounted and hitched their horses to the branches; others boldly dashed into the cane, hurrying to the spot, with the hope of having first shot. Why was Ike's rifle not heard if he saw the bear treed? This puzzled some. It was explained when we got up. Ike's words were figurative. The bear had not taken shelter in a tree, but a hollow log, and, of course, Ike had not yet set eyes on him. But there was the log, a huge one, some ten or more feet in thickness, and there was the hole, with the well-beaten track leading into it. It was his den. He was there to a certainty. How to get him out? That was the next question. Several took their stations, guns in hand, commanding the entrance to the hollow. One went back upon the log, and pounded it with the butt of his gun. To no purpose. Bruin was not such a fool as to walk out and be peppered by bullets. A long pole was next thrust up the hollow. Nothing could be felt. The den was beyond reach. Smoking was next tried, but with like success. The bear gave no sign of being annoyed with it. The axes were now brought from the waggon. It would be a tough job--for the log (a sycamore) was sound enough except near the heart. There was no help for it, and Jake and Lanty went to work as if for a day's rail splitting. Redwood and the Kentuckian, both good axemen, relieved them, and a deep notch soon began to make its appearance on each side of the log. The rest of us kept watch near the entrance, hoping the sound of the axe might drive out the game. We were disappointed in that hope, and for full two hours the chopping continued, until the patience and the arms of those that plied the axe were nearly tired out. It is no trifling matter to lay open a tree ten feet in diameter. They had chosen the place for their work guided by the long pole. It could not be beyond the den, and if upon the near side, of it, the pole would then be long enough to reach the bear, and either destroy him with a knife-blade attached to it, or force him out. This was our plan, and therefore we were encouraged to proceed. At length the axes broke through the wood and the dark interior lay open. They had cut in the right place, for the den of the bear was found directly under, but no bear! Poles were inserted at both openings, but no bear could be felt either way. The hollow ran up no farther, so after all there was no bear in the log. There were some disappointed faces about--and some rather rough ejaculations were heard. I might say that Ike "cussed a few," and that would be no more than the truth. The old trapper seemed to be ashamed of being so taken in, particularly as he had somewhat exultingly announced that the "bar was treed." "He must have got off before we surrounded," said one. "Are you sure he came into the timber?" asked another--"that fool, Lanty, was so scared, he could hardly tell where the animal went." "Be me soul! gintlemen, I saw him go in wid my own eyes, Oil swear--" "Cussed queer!" spitefully remarked Redwood. "Damn the bar!" ejaculated Ike, "whur kid the varmint a gone?" Where was A--? All eyes were turned to look for the hunter-naturalist, as if he could clear up the mystery. He was nowhere to be seen. He had not been seen for some time! At that moment, the clear sharp ring of a rifle echoed in our ears. There was a moment's silence, and the next moment a loud "thump" was heard, as of a heavy body falling from a great height to the ground. The noise startled even our tired horses, and some of them broke their ties and scampered off. "This way, gentlemen!" said a quiet voice, "here's the bear!" The voice was A--'s; and we all, without thinking of the horses, hurried up to the spot. Sure enough, there lay the great brute, a red stream oozing out of a bullet-hole in his ribs. A-- pointed to a tree--a huge oak that spread out above our heads. "There he was, in yonder fork," said he. "We might have saved ourselves a good deal of trouble had we been more thoughtful. I suspected he was not in the log when the smoke failed to move him. The brute was too sagacious to hide there. It is not the first time I have known the hunter foiled by such a trick." The eyes of Redwood were turned admiringly on the speaker, and even old Ike could not help acknowledging his superior hunter-craft. "Mister," he muttered, "I guess you'd make a darned fust-rate mountain-man. He's a gone Injun when you look through sights." All of us were examining the huge carcass of the bear--one of the largest size. "Your sure it's no grizzly?" inquired the doctor. "No, doctor," replied the naturalist, "the grizzly never climbs a tree." CHAPTER TWENTY ONE. THE BLACK BEAR OF AMERICA. After some time spent in recovering the horses, we lifted the bear into Jake's waggon, and proceeded on our journey. It was near evening, however, and we soon after halted and formed camp. The bear was skinned in a trice,--Ike and Redwood performing this operation with the dexterity of a pair of butchers; of course "bear-meat" was the principal dish for supper; and although some may think this rather a savage feast, I envy those who are in the way of a bear-ham now. Of course for that evening nothing was talked of but Bruin, and a good many anecdotes were related about the beast. With the exception of the doctor, Jake and Lanty, all of us had something to say upon that subject, for all the rest had more or less practice in bear-hunting. The black or "American bear" (_Ursus Americanus_) is one of the best-known of his tribe. It is he that is oftenest seen in menageries and zoological gardens, for the reason, perhaps, that he is found in great plenty in a country of large commercial intercourse with other nations. Hence he is more frequently captured and exported to all parts. Any one at a glance may distinguish him from the "brown bear" of Europe, as well as the other bears of the Eastern continent--not so much by his colour (for he is sometimes brown too), as by his form and the regularity and smoothness of his coat. He may be as easily distinguished, too, from his congeners of North America--of which there are three--the grizzly (_Ursus ferox_), the brown (_Ursus arctus_), and the "polar" (_Ursus maritimus_). The hair upon other large bears (the polar excepted) is what may be termed "tufty," and their forms are different, being generally more uncouth and "chunkier." The black bear is, in fact, nearer to the polar in shape, as well as in the arrangement of his fur,--than to any other of the tribe. He is much smaller, however, rarely exceeding two-thirds the weight of large specimens of the latter. His colour is usually a deep black all over the body, with a patch of rich yellowish red upon the muzzle, where the hair is short and smooth. This ornamental patch is sometimes absent, and varieties of the black bear are seen of very different colours. Brown ones are common in some parts, and others of a cinnamon colour, and still others with white markings, but these last are rare. They are all of one species, however, the assertion of some naturalists to the contrary notwithstanding. The proof is, that the black varieties have been seen followed by coloured cubs, and _vice versa_. The black bear is omnivorous--feeds upon flesh as well as fruit, nuts, and edible roots. Habitually his diet is not carnivorous, but he will eat at times either carrion or living flesh. We say living flesh, for on capturing prey he does not wait to kill it, as most carnivorous animals, but tears and destroys it while still screaming. He may be said to swallow some of his food alive! Of honey he is especially fond, and robs the bee-hive whenever it is accessible to him. It is not safe from him even in the top of a tree, provided the entrance to it is large enough to admit his body; and when it is not, he often contrives to make it so by means of his sharp claws. He has but little fear of the stings of the angry bees. His shaggy coat and thick hide afford him ample protection against such puny weapons. It is supposed that he spends a good deal of his time ranging the forest in search of "bee trees." Of course he is a tree-climber--climbs by the "hug," not by means of his claws, as do animals of the cat kind; and in getting to the ground again descends the trunk, stern-foremost, as a hod-carrier would come down a ladder. In this he again differs from the _felidae_. The range of the black bear is extensive--in fact it may be said to be colimital with the forest, both in North and South America--though in the latter division of the continent, another species of large black bear exists, the _Ursus ornatas_. In the northern continent the American bear is found in all the wooded parts from the Atlantic to the Pacific, but not in the open and prairie districts. There the grizzly holds dominion, though both of them range together in the wooded valleys of the Rocky Mountains. The grizzly, on the other hand, is only met with west of the Mississippi, and affects the dry desert countries of the uninhabited West. The brown bear, supposed to be identical with the _Ursus arctus_ of North Europe, is only met with in the wild and treeless track known as "Barren grounds," which stretch across nearly the whole northern part of the continent from the last timber to the shores of the Arctic Sea, and in this region the black bear is not found. The zone of the polar bear joins with that of the brown, and the range of the former extends perhaps to the pole itself. At the time of the colonisation of America, the area of the present United States was the favourite home of the black bear. It was a country entirely covered with thick forests, and of course a suitable _habitat_ for him. Even to this day a considerable number of bears is to be found within the limits of the settlements. Scarcely a State in which some wild woodlands or mountain fastnesses do not afford shelter to a number of bears, and to kill one of them is a grand object of the hunter's ambition. Along the whole range of the Alleghanies black bears are yet found, and it will be long ere they are finally extirpated from such haunts. In the Western States they are still more common, where they inhabit the gloomy forests along the rivers, and creek bottoms, protected alike by the thick undergrowth and the swampy nature of the soil. Their den is usually in a hollow tree--sometimes a prostrate log if the latter be large enough, and in such a position as is not likely to be observed by the passing hunter. A cave in the rocks is also their favourite lair, when the geological structure of the country offers them so secure a retreat. They are safer thus; for when a bear-tree or log has been discovered by either hunter or farmer the bear has not much chance of escape. The squirrel is safe enough, as his capture will not repay the trouble of felling the tree; but such noble game as a bear will repay whole hours of hard work with the axe. The black bear lies torpid during several months of the winter. The time of his hibernation depends upon the latitude of the place and the coldness of the climate. As you approach the south this period becomes shorter and shorter, until in the tropical forests, where frost is unknown, the black bear ranges throughout the year. The mode of hunting the black bear does not differ from that practised with the fox or wild cat. He is usually chased by dogs, and forced into his cave or a tree. If the former, he is shot down, or the tree, if hollow, is felled. Sometimes smoking brings him out. If he escapes to a cave, smoking is also tried; but if that will not succeed in dislodging him, he must be left alone, as no dogs will venture to attack him there. The hunter often tracks and kills him in the woods with a bullet from his rifle. He will not turn upon man unless when wounded or brought to bay. Then his assault is to be dreaded. Should he grasp the hunter between his great forearms, the latter will stand a fair chance of being hugged to death. He does not attempt to use his teeth like the grizzly bear, but relies upon the muscular power of his arms. The nose appears to be his tenderest part, and his antagonist, if an old bear-hunter, and sufficiently cool, will use every effort to strike him there. A blow upon the snout has often caused the black bear to let go his hold, and retreat terrified! The log trap is sometimes tried with success. This is constructed in such a way that the removal of the bait operates upon a trigger, and a large heavy log comes down on the animal removing it--either crushing it to death or holding it fast by pressure. A limb is sometimes only caught; but this proves sufficient. The same kind of trap is used throughout the northern regions of America by the fur trappers--particularly the sable hunters and trappers of the white weasel (_Mustela erminea_). Of course that for the bear is constructed of the heaviest logs, and is of large dimensions. Redwood related an adventure that had befallen him while trapping the black bear at an earlier period of his life. It had nearly cost him his life too, and a slight halt in his gait could still be observed, resulting from that very adventure. We all collected around the blazing logs to listen to the trapper's story. CHAPTER TWENTY TWO. THE TRAPPER TRAPPED. "Well, then," began Redwood, "the thing I'm agoin' to tell you about, happened to me when I war a younker, long afore I ever thought I was a coming out hyar upon the parairas. I wan't quite growed at the time, though I was a good chunk for my age. "It war up thar among the mountains in East Tennessee, whar this child war raised, upon the head waters of the Tennessee River. "I war fond o' huntin' from the time that I war knee high to a duck, an' I can jest remember killin' a black bar afore I war twelve yeer old. As I growed up, the bar had become scacer in them parts, and it wan't every day you could scare up such a varmint, but now and then one ud turn up. "Well, one day as I war poking about the crik bottom (for the shanty whar my ole mother lived war not on the Tennessee, but on a crik that runs into it), I diskivered bar sign. There war tracks o' the bar's paws in this mud, an' I follered them along the water edge for nearly a mile--then the trail turned into about as thickety a bottom as I ever seed anywhar. It would a baffled a cat to crawl through it. "After the trail went out from the crik and towards the edge o' this thicket, I lost all hopes of follerin' it further, as the ground was hard, and covered with donicks, and I couldn't make the tracks out no how. I had my idea that the bar had tuk the thicket, so I went round the edge of it to see if I could find whar he had entered. "For a long time I couldn't see a spot whar any critter as big as a bar could a-got in without makin' some sort o' a hole, and then I begun to think the bar had gone some other way, either across the crik or further down it. "I war agoin' to turn back to the water, when I spied a big log lyin' half out o' the thicket, with one eend buried in the bushes. I noticed that the top of this log had a dirty look, as if some animal had tramped about on it; an' on goin' up and squintin' at it a little closter, I seed that that guess war the right one. "I clomb the log, for it war a regular rouster, bigger than that 'n we had so much useless trouble with, and then I scrammelled along the top o' it in the direction of the brush. Thar I seed the very hole whar the bar had got into the thicket, and thar war a regular beaten-path runnin' through the brake as far as I could see. "I jumped off o' the log, and squeezed myself through the bramble. It war a trail easy enough to find, but mighty hard to foller, I can tell ye. Thar war thistles, and cussed stingin' nettles, and briars as thick as my wrist, with claws upon them as sharp as fish-hooks. I pushed on, howsomever, feelin' quite sartin that sich a well-used track must lead to the bar's den, an' I war safe enough to find it. In coorse I reckoned that the critter had his nest in some holler tree, and I could go home for my axe, and come back the next morning--if smoking failed to git him out. "Well, I poked on through the thicket a good three hundred yards, sometimes crouching, and sometimes creeping on my hands and knees. I war badly scratched, I tell you, and now and then I jest thought to myself, what would be the consyquince if the bar should meet me in that narrow passage. We'd a had a tough tussel, I reckon--but I met no bar. "At last the brash grew thinner, and jest as I was in hopes I might stumble on the bar tree, what shed I see afore me but the face o' a rocky bluff, that riz a consid'able height over the crik bottom. I begun to fear that the varmint had a cave, and so, cuss him! he had--a great black gulley in the rocks was right close by, and thar was his den, and no mistake. I could easily tell it by the way the clay and stones had been pattered over by his paws. "Of coorse, my tracking for that day war over, and I stood by the mouth of the cave not knowin' what to do. I didn't feel inclined to go in. "After a while I bethought me that the bar mout come out, an' I laid myself squat down among the bushes facing the cave. I had my gun ready to give him a mouthful of lead, as soon as he should show his snout outside o' the hole. "'Twar no go. I guess he had heard me when I first come up, and know'd I war thar. I laid still until 'twar so dark I thought I would never find my way back agin to the crik; but, after a good deal of scramblin' and creepin' I got out at last, and took my way home. "It warn't likely I war agoin' to give that bar up. I war bound to fetch him out o' his boots if it cost me a week's hunting. So I returned the next morning to the place, and lay all day in front o' the cave. No bar appeared, an' I went back home a cussin'. "Next day I come again, but this time I didn't intend to stay. I had fetched my axe with me wi' the intention of riggin' up a log trap near the mouth o' the cave. I had also fetched a jug o' molasses and some yeers o' green corn to bait the trap, for I know'd the bar war fond o' both. "Well, I got upon the spot, an' makin' as leetle rumpus as possible, I went to work to build my trap. I found some logs on the ground jest the scantlin, and in less than an hour I hed the thing rigged an' the trigger set. 'Twan't no small lift to get up the big log, but I managed it wi' a lever I had made, though it took every pound o' strength in my body. If it come down on the bar I knew it would hold him. "Well, I had all ready except layin' the bait; so I crawled in, and was fixin' the green yeers and the 'lasses, when, jest at that moment, what shed I hear behind me but the `sniff' o' the bar! "I turned suddently to see. I had jest got my eye on the critter standin' right in the mouth o' his cave, when I feeled myself struck upon the buttocks, and flattened down to the airth like a pancake! "At the first stroke I thought somebody had hit me a heavy blow from behind, and I wish it had been that. It war wusser than that. It war the log had hit me, and war now lying with all its weight right acrosst my two leg's. In my hurry to git round I had sprung the trigger, and down comed the infernal log on my hams. "At fust I wan't scared, but I war badly hurt. I thought it would be all right as soon as I had crawled out, and I made an attempt to do so. It was then that I become scared in airnest; for I found that I couldn't crawl out. My legs were held in such a way that I couldn't move them, and the more I pulled the more I hurt them. They were in pain already with the heavy weight pressin' upon them, and I couldn't bear to move them. No more could I turn myself. I war flat on my face, and couldn't slew myself round any way, so as to get my hands at the log. I war fairly catched in my own trap! "It war jest about then I began to feel scared. Thar wan't no settlement in the hul crik bottom but my mother's old shanty, an' that were two miles higher up. It war as unlikely a thing as could happen that anybody would be passing that way. And unless some one did I saw no chance of gettin' clar o' the scrape I war in. I could do nothin' for myself. "I hollered as loud as I could, and that frightened the bar into his cave again. I hollered for an hour, but I could hear no reply, and then I war still a bit, and then I hollered again, an' kept this up pretty much for the hul o' that blessed day. "Thar wan't any answer but the echo o' my own shoutin', and the whoopin' of the owls that flew about over my head, and appeared as if they war mockin' me. "I had no behopes of any relief comin' from home. My ole mother had nobody but myself, and she wan't like to miss me, as I'd often stayed out a huntin' for three or four days at a time. The only chance I had, and I knew it too, war that some neighbour might be strayin' down the crik, and you may guess what sort o' chance that war, when I tell you thar wan't a neighbour livin' within less than five mile o' us. If no one come by I knew I must lay there till I died o' hunger and rotted, or the bar ate me up. "Well, night come, and night went. 'Twar about the longest night this child remembers. I lay all through it, a sufferin' the pain, and listening to the screechin' owls. I could a screeched as loud as any of them if that would a done any good. I heerd now and then the snuffin' o' the bar, and I could see thar war two o' them. I could see thar big black bodies movin' about like shadows, and they appeared to be gettin' less afeerd o' me, as they come close at times, and risin' up on their hind-quarters stood in front o' me like a couple o' black devils. "I begun to get afeerd they would attack me, and so I guess they would a-done, had not a circumstance happened that put them out o' the notion. "It war jest grey day, when one o' them come so clost that I expected to be attacked by him. Now as luck would have it, my rifle happened to be lyin' on the ground within reach. I grabbed it without saying a word, and slewin' up one shoulder as high as I could, I was able to sight the bar jest behind the fore leg. The brute wan't four feet from the muzzle, and slap into him went wad and all, and down he tumbled like a felled ox. I seed he war as dead as a buck. "Well, badly as I war fixed, I contrived to get loaded again, for I knowed that bars will fight for each other to the death; and I thought the other might attack me. It wan't to be seen at the time, but shortly after it come upon the ground from the direction of the crik. "I watched it closely as it shambled up, having my rifle ready all the while. When it first set eyes on its dead comrade it gave a loud snort, and stopped. It appeared to be considerably surprised. It only halted a short spell, and then, with a loud roar, it run up to the carcass, and sniffed at it. "I hain't the least o' a doubt that in two seconds more it would a-jumped me, but I war too quick for it, and sent a bullet right plum into one of its eyes, that come out again near the back o' its neck. That did the business, and I had the satisfaction to see it cowollop over nearly on top o' the other 'n. "Well, I had killed the bars, but what o' that. That wouldn't get me from under the log; and what wi' the pain I was sufferin', and the poor prospect o' bein' relieved, I thought I mout as well have let them eat me. "But a man don't die so long as he can help it, I b'lieve, and I detarmined to live it out while I could. At times I had hopes and shouted, and then I lost hope and lay still again. "I grew as hungry as a famished wolf. The bars were lying right before me, but jest beyond reach, as if to tantylise me. I could have ate a collop raw if I could a-got hold of it, but how to reach it war the difeeculty. "Needcesity they say is the mother o' invention; and I set myself to invent a bit. Thar war a piece o' rope I had brought along to help me wi' the trap, and that I got my claws on. "I made a noose on one eend o' it, and after about a score o' trials I at last flung the noose over the head o' one o' the bars, and drew it tight. I then sot to work to pull the bar nearer. If that bar's neck wan't well stretched I don't know what you'd call stretchin', for I tugged at it about an hour afore I could get it within reach. I did get it at last, and then with my knife I cut out the bar's tongue, and ate it raw. "I had satisfied one appetite, but another as bad, if not wusser, troubled me. That war thirst--my throat war as dry as a corn cob, and whar was the water to come from. It grew so bad at last that I thought I would die of it. I drawed the bar nearer me, and cut his juglar to see if thar war any relief from that quarter. Thar wan't. The blood war froze up thick as liver. Not a drop would run. "I lay coolin' my tongue on the blade o' my knife an' chawin' a bullet, that I had taken from my pouch. I managed to put in the hul of the next day this away, now and then shoutin' as hard as I could. Towards the evenin' I grew hungry again, and ate a cut out o' the cheek o' the bar; but I thought I would a-choked for want o' water. "I put in the night the best way I could. I had the owls again for company, and some varmint came up and smelt at the bars; but was frightened at my voice, and run away again. I suppose it war a fox or wolf, or some such thing, and but for me would a-made a meal off o' the bar's carcass. "I won't trouble you with my reflexshuns all that night; but I can assure ye they war anything but pleasant. I thought of my ole mother, who had nobody but me, and that helped to keep up my spirits. I detarmined to cut away at the bar, and hold out as long as possible. "As soon as day broke I set up my shoutin' again, restin' every fifeteen minutes or so, and then takin' afresh start. About an hour after sun-up, jest as I had finished a long spell o' screechin', I thought I heerd a voice. I listened a bit with my heart thumpin' against my ribs. Thar war no sound; I yelled louder than ever, and then listened. Thar war a voice. "`Damn ye! what are ye hollowin' about?' cried the voice. "I again shouted `Holloa!' "`Who the hell's thar?' inquired the voice. "`Casey!' I called back, recognising the voice as that of a neighbour who lives up the crik; `for God's sake this way.' "`I'm a-comin',' he replied; `'Taint so easy to get through hyar--that you, Redwood? What the hell's the matter? Damn this brush!' "I heard my neighbour breakin' his way through the thicket, and strange I tell ye all, but true it is, I couldn't believe I war goin' to get clar even then until I seed Casey standin' in front o' me. "Well, of coorse, I was now set free again, but couldn't put a foot to the ground. Casey carried me home to the shanty, whar I lay for well nigh six weeks, afore I could go about, and damn the thing! I han't got over it yet." So ended Redwood's story. CHAPTER TWENTY THREE. THE AMERICAN DEER. During our next day's journey we fell in with and killed a couple of deer--a young buck and doe. They were the first of these animals we had yet seen, and that was considered strange, as we had passed through a deer country. They were of the species common to all parts of the United States' territory--the "red" or "fallow" deer (_Cervus Virginianus_). It may be here remarked that the common deer of the United States, sometimes called "red deer," is the fallow deer of English parks, that the "elk" of America is the red deer of Europe, and the "elk" of Europe is the "moose" of America. Many mistakes are made in relation to this family of animals on account of these misapplied names. In North America there are six well-defined species of deer--the moose (_Cervus alces_); the elk (_Cervus Canadensis_); the caribou (_tarandus_); the black-tail or "mule" deer (_macrotis_); the long-tail (_leucurus_); and the Virginian, or fallow deer (_Virginianus_). The deer of Louisiana (_Cervus nemoralis_) is supposed by some to be a different species from any of the above; so also is the "mazama" of Mexico (_Cervus Mexicanus_). It is more probable that these two kinds are only varieties of the _Genus Virginianus_--the difference in colour, and other respects, resulting from a difference in food, climate, and such like causes. It is probable, too, that a small species of deer exists in the Russian possessions west of the Rocky Mountains, quite distinct from any of the six mentioned above; but so little is yet known of the natural history of these wild territories, that this can only be taken as conjecture. It may be remarked, also that of the caribou (_Cervus tarandus_) there are two marked varieties, that may almost be regarded in the light of species. One, the larger, is known as the "woodland caribou," because it inhabits the more southern and wooded districts of the Hudson's Bay territory; the other, the "barren ground caribou," is the "reindeer" of the Arctic voyagers. Of the six well-ascertained species, the last-mentioned (_Cervus Virginianus_) has the largest geographical range, and is the most generally known. Indeed, when the word "deer" is mentioned, it only is meant. It is the deer of the United States. The "black-tails" and "long-tails" are two species that may be called new. Though long known to trappers and hunters, they have been but lately described by the scientific naturalist. Their _habitat_ is the "far west" in California, Oregon, the high prairies, and the valleys of the Rocky Mountains. Up to a late period naturalists have had but little to do with these countries. For this reason their _fauna_ has so long remained comparatively unknown. The geographical disposition of the other four species is curious. Each occupies a latitudinal zone. That of the caribou, or rein deer, extends farthest north. It is not found within the limits of the United States. The zone of the moose overlaps that of the caribou, but, on the other side, goes farther south, as this species is met with along the extreme northern parts of the United States. The elk is next in order. His range "dovetails" into that of the moose, but the elk roves still farther into the temperate regions, being met with almost as far south as Texas. The fourth, the common deer, embraces in his range the temperate and torrid zones of both North and South America, while he is not found in higher latitudes than the southern frontier of Canada. The common deer, therefore, inhabits a greater area than any of his congeners, and is altogether the best-known animal of his kind. Most persons know him by sight. He is the smallest of the American species, being generally about five feet in length by three in height, and a little more than 100 pounds in weight. He is exceedingly well formed and graceful; his horns are not so large as those of the stag, but, like his, they are annually caducous, falling off in the winter and returning in the spring. They are rounded below, but in the upper part slightly flattened or palmated. The antlers do not rise upward, but protrude forward over the brow in a threatening manner. There is no regular rule, however, for their shape and "set," and their number also varies in different individuals. The horns are also present only in the male or buck; the doe is without them. They rise from a rough bony protuberance on the forehead, called the "burr." In the first year they grow in the shape of two short straight spikes; hence the name "spike-bucks" given to the animals of that age. In the second season a small antler appears on each horn, and the number increases until the fourth year, when they obtain a full head-dress of "branching honours." The antlers, or, as they are sometimes called, "points," often increase in number with the age of the animal, until as many as fifteen make their appearance. This, however, is rare. Indeed, the food of the animal has much to do with the growth of his horns. In an ill-fed specimen they do not grow to such size, nor branch so luxuriantly as in a well-fed fat buck. We have said that the horns fall annually. This takes place in winter-- in December and January. They are rarely found, however, as they are soon eaten up by the small-gnawing animals. The new horns begin to grow as soon as the old ones have dropped off. During the spring and summer they are covered with a soft velvety membrane, and they are then described as being "in the velvet." The blood circulates freely through this membrane, and it is highly sensitive, so that a blow upon the horns at this season produces great pain. By the time the "rutting" season commences (in October), the velvet has peeled off, and the horns are then in order for battle--and they need be, for the battles of the bucks during this period are terrible indeed.--Frequently their horns get "locked" in such conflicts, and, being unable to separate them, the combatants remain in this situation until both perish by hunger, or fall a prey to their natural enemy--the wolf. Many pairs of horns have been found in the forest thus locked together, and there is not a museum in America without this singular souvenir of mutual destruction! The hair of the American deer is thickly set and smooth on the surface. In winter it grows longer and is of a greyish hue; the deer is then, according to hunter phraseology, "in the grey." In the summer a new coat is obtained, which is reddish, or calf-coloured. The deer is then "in the red." Towards the end of August, or in autumn, the whole coat has a blue tinge. This is called "in the blue." At all times the animal is of a whitish appearance on the throat and belly and insides of the legs. The skin is toughest when "in the red," thickest "in the blue," and thinnest "in the grey." In the blue it makes the best buckskin, and is, therefore, most valuable when obtained in autumn. The fawns of this species are beautiful little creatures; they are fawn-coloured, and showered all over with white spots which disappear towards the end of their first summer, when they gradually get into the winter grey. The American deer is a valuable animal. Much of the buckskin of commerce is the product of its hides, and the horns are put to many uses. Its flesh, besides supplying the tables of the wealthy, has been for centuries almost the whole sustenance of whole nations of Indians. Its skins have furnished them with tents, beds, and clothing; its intestines with bowstrings, ball "raquets," and snow-shoes; and in the chase of this creature they have found almost their sole occupation as well as amusement. With so many enemies, it is a matter of wonder that this species has not long been extirpated; not only has man been its constant and persevering destroyer, but it has a host of enemies besides, in the cougar, the lynxes, the wolverine, and the wolves. The last are its worst foes. Hunters state that for one deer killed by themselves, five fall a prey to the wolves. These attack the young and feeble, and soon run them down. The old deer can escape from a wolf by superior speed; but in remote districts, where the wolves are numerous, they unite in packs of eight or ten, and follow the deer as hounds do, and even with a somewhat similar howling. They run by the nose, and unless the deer can reach water, and thus escape them, they will tire it down in the end. Frequently the deer, when thus followed in winter, makes for the ice, upon which he is soon overtaken by his hungry pursuers. Notwithstanding all this, the American deer is still common in most of the States, and in some of them even plentiful. Where the wolves have been thinned off by "bounty" laws, and the deer protected during the breeding season by legislative enactments, as is the case in New York, their number is said to be on the increase. The markets of all the great cities in America are supplied with venison almost as cheap as beef, which shows that the deer are yet far from being scarce. The habits of this creature are well-known. It is gregarious in its natural _habitat_. The herd is usually led by an old buck, who watches over the safety of the others while feeding. When an enemy approaches, this sentinel and leader strikes the ground sharply with his hoofs, snorts loudly, and emits a shrill whistle; all the while fronting the danger with his horns set forward in a threatening manner. So long as he does not attempt to run, the others continue to browse with confidence; but the moment their leader starts to fly, all the rest follow, each trying to be foremost. They are timid upon ordinary occasions, but the bucks in the rutting season are bold, and when wounded and brought "to bay," are not to be approached with impunity. They can inflict terrible blows, both with their hoofs and antlers; and hunters who have come too near them on such occasions have with difficulty escaped being gored to death. They are foes to the snake tribe, and kill the most venomous serpents without being bitten. The rattle-snake hides from their attack. Their mode of destroying these creatures is similar to that employed by the peccary (_dicotyles_): that is, by pouncing down upon them with the four hoofs held close together, and thus crushing them to death. The hostility of the peccary to snakes is easily understood, as no sooner has it killed one than it makes a meal of it. With the deer, of course, such is not the case, as they are not carnivorous. Its enmity to the reptile race can be explained only by supposing that it possesses a knowledge of their dangerous qualities, and thinks they should therefore be got rid of. The food of the American deer consists of twigs, leaves of trees, and grass. They are fonder of the tree-shoots than the grass; but their favourite morsels are the buds and flowers of _nymphae_, especially those of the common pond-lily. To get these, they wade into the lakes and rivers like the moose, and, like them, are good swimmers. They love the shady forest better than the open ground, and they haunt the neighbourhood of streams. These afford them protection, as well as a means of quenching thirst. When pursued, their first thought is to make for water, in order to elude the pursuer, which they often succeed in doing, throwing both dogs and wolves off the scent. In summer, they seek the water to cool themselves, and get free from flies and mosquitoes, that pester them sadly. They are fond of salt, and repair in great numbers to the salines, or salt springs, that abound in all parts of America. At these they lick up quantities of earth along with the salt efflorescence, until vast hollows are formed in the earth, termed, from this circumstance, salt "licks." The consequence of this "dirt-eating" is, that the excrement of the animal comes forth in hard pellets; and by seeing this, the hunters can always tell when they are in the neighbourhood of a "lick." The does produce in spring--in May or June, according to the latitude. They bring forth one, two, and very rarely three fawns at a birth. Their attachment to their young is proverbial. The mothers treat them with the greatest tenderness, and hide them while they go to feed. The bleating of the fawn at once recalls the mother to its side. The hunter often imitates this with success, using either his own voice, or a "call," made out of a cane-joint. An anecdote, told by Parry, illustrates this maternal fondness:--"The mother, finding her young one could not swim as fast as herself, was observed to stop repeatedly, so as to allow, the fawn to come up with her; and, having landed first, stood watching it with trembling anxiety as the boat chased it to the shore. She was repeatedly fired at, but remained immovable, until her offspring landed in safety, when they both cantered out of sight." The deer to which Parry refers is the small "caribou;" but a similar affection exists between the mother and fawns of the common deer. The American deer is hunted for its flesh, its hide, and "the sport." There are many modes of hunting it. The simplest and most common is that which is termed "still" hunting. In this, the hunter is armed with his rifle or deer-gun--a heavy fowling-piece--and steals forward upon the deer, as he would upon any other game. "Cover" is not so necessary as silence in such a hunt. This deer, like some antelopes, is of a "curious" disposition, and will sometimes allow the hunter to approach in full view without attempting to run off. But the slightest noise, such as the rustling of dry leaves, or the snapping of a stick, will alarm him. His sense of hearing is extremely acute. His nose, too, is a keen one, and he often scents the hunter, and makes off long before the latter has got within sight or range. It is necessary in "still" hunting to leave the dog at home; unless, indeed, he be an animal trained to the purpose. Another species of hunting is "trailing" the deer in snow. This is done either with dogs or without them. The snow must be frozen over, so as to cut the feet of the deer, which puts them in such a state of fear and pain, that the hunter can easily get within shot. I have assisted in killing twenty in a single morning in this way; and that, too, in a district where deer were not accounted plentiful. The "drive" is the most exciting mode of hunting deer; and the one practised by those who hunt for "the sport." This is done with hounds, and the horsemen who follow them also carry guns. In fact, there is hardly a species of hunting in America in which fire-arms are not used. Several individuals are required to make up a "deer drive." They are generally men who know the "lay" of the country, with all its ravines and passes. One or two only accompany the hounds as "drivers," while the rest get between the place where the dogs are beating the cover and some river towards which it is "calculated" the startled game will run. They deploy themselves into a long line, which sometimes extends for miles through the forest. Each, as he arrives at his station, or "stand," as it is called, dismounts, ties his horse in a thicket, and takes his stand, "covering" himself behind a log or tree. The stands are selected with reference to the configuration of the ground, or by paths which the deer are accustomed to take; and as soon as all have so arranged themselves, the dogs at a distant point are set loose, and the "drive" begins. The "stand men" remain quiet, with their guns in readiness. The barking of the dogs, afar off through the woods, usually admonishes them when a deer has been "put up;" and they watch with eager expectation, each one hoping that the game may come his way. Hours are sometimes passed without the hunter either seeing or hearing a living thing but himself and his horse; and many a day he returns home from such a "chase" without having had the slightest glimpse of either buck, doe, or fawn. This is discouraging; but at other times he is rewarded for his patient watching. A buck comes bounding forward, the hounds after him in full cry. At intervals he stops, and throws himself back on his haunches like a halted hare. His eyes are protruded, and watching backward. His beautiful neck is swollen with fear and rage, and his branching antlers tower high in the air. Again he springs forward, and approaches the silent hunter, who, with a beating heart, holds his piece in the attitude of "ready." He makes another of his pauses. The gun is levelled, the trigger pulled; the bullet speeds forth, and strikes into his broad chest, causing him to leap upward in the spasmodic effort of death. The excitement of a scene like this rewards the hunter for his long and lonely vigil. "Torch-hunting," or "fire-hunting," as it is sometimes termed, is another method of capturing the fallow deer. It is done by carrying a torch in a very dark night through woods where deer are known to frequent. The torch is made of pine-knots, well dried. They are not tied in bunches, as represented by some writers, but carried in a vessel of hard metal. A frying-pan with a long handle, as already stated, is best for the purpose. The "knots" are kindled within the pan, and, if good ones, yield a blaze that will light the woods for a hundred yards around. The deer seeing this strange object, and impelled by curiosity, approaches within range; and the "glance" of his eyes, like two burning coals, betrays him to the hunter, who with his deadly rifle "sights" between the shining orbs and fire. While we were on the subject of torch-hunting the doctor took up the cue, and gave us an account of a torch-hunt he had made in Tennessee. "I will tell you of a `torch-hunt,'" said he, "of which _pars magna fui_, and which ended with a `catastrophe.' It took place in Tennessee, where I was for a while sojourning. I am not much of a hunter, as you all know; but happening to reside in a `settlement,' where there were some celebrated hunters, and in the neighbourhood of which was an abundance of game, I was getting very fond of it. I had heard, among other things, of this `torch-hunting,'--in fact, had read many interesting descriptions of it, but I had never witnessed the sport myself; and was therefore eager, above all things, to join in a torch-hunt. "The opportunity at length offered. A party was made up to go hunting, of which I was one. "There were six of us in all; but it was arranged that we should separate into three pairs, each taking its own torch and a separate course through the woods. In each pair one was to carry the light, while the other managed the `shooting iron.' We were all to meet at an appointed rendezvous when the hunt was over. "These preliminaries being arranged, and the torches made ready, we separated. My partner and I soon plunged into the deep forest. "The night was dark as pitch--dark nights are the best--and when we entered the woods we had to grope our way. Of course, we had not yet set fire to our torch, as we had not reached the place frequented by the deer. "My companion was an old hunter, and by right should have carried the gun; but it was arranged differently, out of compliment to me--the stranger, he held in one hand the huge frying-pan, while in a bag over his shoulder was a bushel or more of dry pine-knots. "On arriving at the place where it was expected deer would be found, we set fire to our torch, and in a few moments the blaze threw its glaring circle around us, painting with vermilion tints the trunks of the great trees. "In this way we proceeded onward, advancing slowly, and with as little noise as possible. We talked only in whispers, keeping our eyes turned upon all sides at once. But we walked and walked, up hill and down hill, for, I should say, ten miles at the least; and not a single pair of bright orbs answered to our luminary. Not a deer's eye reflected the blaze of our torch. "We had kept the fire replenished and burning vividly to no purpose, until hardly a knot remained in the bag. "I had grown quite tired in this fruitless search. So had my companion, and both of us felt chagrin and disappointment. We felt this the more keenly as there had been a `supper-wager' laid between us and our friends, as to what party would kill the greatest number of deer, and we fancied once or twice that we heard shots far off in the direction the others had gone. We were likely to come back empty-handed, while they, no doubt, would bring a deer each, perhaps more. "We were returning towards the point from which we had started, both of us in a most unamiable mood, when all at once an object right before us attracted my attention, and brought me to a sudden halt. I did not wait to ask any questions. A pair of small round circles glistened in the darkness like two little discs of fire. Of course they were eyes. Of course, they were the eyes of a deer. "I could see no body, for the two luminous objects shone as if set in a ground of ebony. But I did not stay to scan in what they were set. My piece was up. I glanced hastily along the barrel. I sighted between the eyes. I pulled the trigger. I fired. "As I did so, I fancied that I heard my companion shouting to me, but the report hindered me from hearing what he said. "When the echoes died away, however, his voice reached me, in a full, clear tone, pronouncing these words:-- "`Tarnation, doctor! You've shot Squire Robbins's bull!' "At the same time the bellowing of the bull, mingling with his own loud laugh, convinced me that the hunter had spoken the truth. "He was a good old fellow, and promised to keep dark; but it was necessary to make all right with `Squire Robbins.' So the affair soon got wind, and my torch-hunt became, for a time, the standing joke of the settlement." CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR. DEER HUNT IN A "DUG-OUT." As we were now approaching the regions where the common fallow deer ceased to be met with, and where its place is supplied by two other species, these last became the subject of our talk. The species referred to are the "black-tails," and "long-tails" (_Cervus macrotis_ and _leucurus_). Ike and Redwood were well acquainted with both kinds, as they had often trapped beaver in the countries where these deer are found; and they gave us a very good account of the habits of these animals, which showed that both species were in many respects similar to the _Cervus Virginianus_. Their form, however, as well as their size, colour, and markings, leave no doubt of their being specifically distinct not only from the latter, but from each other. Indeed, there are two varieties of the black-tails, differing in some respects, although both have the dark hair upon the tail, and the long ears, which so much distinguish them from other deer. The great length of their ears gives to their heads something of a "mulish" look--hence they are often known among the trappers by the name of "mule deer." Ike and Redwood spoke of them by this name, although they also knew them as "black-tails," and this last is the designation most generally used. They receive it on account of the colour of the hair upon the upper side of their tail-tips, which is of a jetty blackness, and is very full and conspicuous. The two species have been often confounded with each other, though in many respects they are totally unlike. The black-tails are larger, their legs shorter and their bodies more "chunky," and altogether of stouter build. In running, they bound with all their feet raised at once; while those of the long-tailed species run more like the common fallow deer--by trotting a few steps, then giving a bound, and trotting as before. The ears of the black-tails stand up full half the height of their antlers, and their hair, of a reddish-brown colour, is coarser than the hair of the _Cervus Virginianus_, and more like the coat of the elk (_Cervus Canadensis_). Their hoofs, too, are shorter and wider, and in this respect there is also a similarity to the elk. The flesh of the black-tails is inferior to that of the fallow deer, while the long-tailed kind produces a venison very similar to the latter. Both species inhabit woodlands occasionally, but their favourite _habitat_ is the prairie, or that species of undulating country where prairie and forest alternate, forming a succession of groves and openings. Both are found only in the western half of the continent-- that is, in the wild regions extending from the Mississippi to the Pacific. In longitude, as far east as the Mississippi, they are rarely seen; but as you travel westward, either approaching the Rocky Mountains, or beyond these to the shores of the Pacific, they are the common deer of the country. The black-tailed kind is more southern in its range. It is found in the Californias, and the valleys of the Rocky Mountains, as far south as Texas; while to the north it is met with in Oregon, and on the eastern side of the Rocky Mountains, as high as the fifty-fourth parallel. The long-tailed species is the most common deer of Oregon and the Columbia River, and its range also extends east of the Rocky Mountains, though not so far as the longitude of the Mississippi. The hunter-naturalist, who had some years before made a journey to Oregon, and of course had become well acquainted with the habits of the _Cervus leucurus_, gave us a full account of them, and related a stirring adventure that had befallen him while hunting "long-tails" upon the Columbia. "The long-tailed deer," began he, "is one of the smallest of the deer kind. Its weight rarely exceeds 100 pounds. It resembles in form and habits the common fallow deer, the chief distinction being the tail, which is a very conspicuous object. This appendage is often found to measure eighteen inches in length! "While running, the tail is held erect, and kept constantly switching from side to side, so as to produce a singular and somewhat ludicrous effect upon the mind of the spectator. "The gait of this animal is also peculiar. It first takes two ambling steps that resemble a trot, after these it makes a long bound, which carries it about twice the distance of the steps, and then it trots again. No matter how closely pursued, it never alters this mode of progression. "Like the fallow deer, it produces spotted fawns, which are brought forth in the spring, and change their colour to that of the deer itself in the first winter. About the month of November they gather into herds, and remain together until April, when they separate, the females secreting themselves to bring forth their young. "The long-tailed deer is often found in wooded countries; though its favourite haunts are not amid the heavy timber of the great forests, but in the park-like openings that occur in many parts of the Rocky Mountain valleys. "Sometimes whole tracts of country are met with in these regions, whose surface exhibits a pleasing variety of woodland and prairie; sloping hills appear with coppices upon their crests and along their sides. Among these natural groves may be seen troops of the long-tailed deer, browsing along the declivities of the hills, and, by their elegant attitudes and graceful movements, adding to the beauty of the landscape. "Some years ago I had an opportunity of hunting the long-tailed, deer. I was on my way across the Rocky Mountains to Fort Vancouver, when circumstances rendered it necessary that I should stop for some days at a small trading-post on one of the branches of the Columbia. I was, in fact, detained, waiting for a party of fur-traders with whom I was to travel, and who required some time to get their packs in readiness. "The trading-post was a small place, with miserable accommodations, having scarcely room enough in its two or three wretched log-cabins to lodge half the company that happened at the time to claim its hospitality. As my business was simply to wait for my travelling companions, I was of course _ennuye_ almost to death in such a place. There was nothing to be seen around but packs of beaver, otter, mink, fox, and bear skins; and nothing to be heard but the incessant chattering of Canadian voyageurs, in their mixed jargon of French, English, and Indian. To make matters still more unpleasant, there was very little to eat, and nothing to drink but the clear water of the little mountain-stream upon which the fort was built. "The surrounding country, however, was beautiful; and the lovely landscapes that on every side met the eye almost compensated for the discomforts of the post. The surface of the country was what is termed rolling--gentle undulations here and there rising into dome-shaped hills of low elevation. These were crowned with copses of shrubby trees, principally of the wild filbert or hazel (_corylus_), with several species of _rosa_ and raspberry (rubus), and bushes of the june-berry (_amelanchier_), with their clusters of purplish-red fruit. The openings between were covered with a sward of short gramma grass, and the whole landscape presented the appearance of a cultivated park; so that one involuntarily looked along the undulating outlines of the hills for some noble mansion or lordly castle. "It is just in such situations that the fallow deer delights to dwell; and these are the favourite haunts of its near congeners, the long-tails. I had ascertained this from the people at the post; and the fact that fresh venison formed our staple and daily food was proof sufficient that some species of deer was to be found in the neighbourhood. I was not long, therefore, after my arrival, in putting myself in train for a hunt. "Unfortunately, the gentlemen of the company were too busy to go along with me; so also were the numerous _engages_; and I set out, taking only my servant, a _bois brule_, or half-breed, who happened, however, to be a good guide for such an expedition, as well as a first-rate hunter. "Setting out, we kept down the stream for some distance, walking along its bank. We saw numerous deer-tracks in the mud, where the animals had gone to and from the water. These tracks were almost fresh, and many of them, as my servant averred, must have been made the previous night by the animals coming to drink--a common habit with them, especially in hot weather. "But, strange to say, we walked a mile or more without getting a glimpse of a single deer, or any other sort of animal. I was becoming discouraged, when my man proposed that we should leave the stream, and proceed back among the hills. The deer, he believed, would be found there. "This was resolved upon; and we accordingly struck out for the high ground. We soon climbed up from the river bottom, and threaded our way amidst the fragrant shrubbery of amelanchiers and wild-roses, cautiously scrutinising every new vista that opened before us. "We had not gone far before we caught sight of several deer; we could also hear them at intervals, behind the copses that surrounded us, the males uttering a strange whistling sound, similar to that produced by blowing into the barrel of a gun, while this was occasionally replied to by the goat-like bleat of the females. "Strange to say, however, they were all very shy, and notwithstanding much cautious crouching and creeping among the bushes, we wandered about for nearly two-thirds of the day without getting a shot at any of them. "What had made them so wary we could not at the time, tell, but we afterwards learned that a large party of Flathead Indians had gone over the ground only a few days before, and had put the deer through a three days chase, from which they had not yet recovered. Indeed, we saw Indian `sign' all along the route, and at one place came upon the head and horns of a fine buck, which, from some fancy or other of the hunter, had been left suspended from the branch of a tree, and had thus escaped being stripped by the wolves. "At sight of this trophy, my companion appeared to be in ecstasies. I could not understand what there was in a worthless set of antlers to produce such joyful emotions; but as Blue Dick--such was the _soubriquet_ of my servant--was not much given to idle exhibitions of feeling, I knew there must be something in it. "`Now, master,' said he, addressing me, `if I had something else, I could promise you a shot at the long-tails, shy as they are.' "`Something else! What do you want?' I inquired. "`Something that ought to grow about yar, else I'm mightily mistaken in the sign. Let me try down yonder,'--and Dick pointed to a piece of low swampy ground that lay to one side of our course. "I assented, and followed him to the place. "We had hardly reached the border of the wet ground, when an exclamation from my companion told me that the `something' he wanted was in sight. "`Yonder, master; the very weed: see yonder.' "Dick pointed to a tall herbaceous plant that grew near the edge of the swamp. Its stem was fully eight feet in height, with large lobed leaves, and a wide-spreading umbel of pretty white flowers. I knew the plant well. It was that which is known in some places as master-wort, but more commonly by the name of cow parsnip. Its botanical name is _Heracleum lanatum_. I knew that its roots possessed stimulant and carminative properties; but that the plant had anything to do with deer-hunting, I was ignorant. "Dick, however, was better acquainted with its uses in that respect; and his hunter-craft soon manifested itself. "Drawing his knife from its sheath, he cut one of the joints from the stem of the heracleum, about six inches in length. This he commenced fashioning somewhat after the manner of a penny-trumpet. "In a few minutes he had whittled it to the proper form and dimensions, after which he put up his knife, and applying the pipe to his lips, blew into it. The sound produced was so exactly like that which I had already heard to proceed from the deer, that I was startled by the resemblance. "Not having followed his manoeuvres, I fancied for a moment that we had got into close proximity with one of the long-tails. My companion laughed, as he pointed triumphantly to his new made `call.' "`Now, master,' said he, `we'll soon "rub out" one of the long-tail bucks.' "So saying, he took up the antlers, and desired me to follow him. "We proceeded as before, walking quickly but cautiously among the thickets, and around their edges. We had gone only a few hundred paces farther, when the hollow whistle of a buck sounded in our ears. "`Now,' muttered Dick, `we have him. Squat down, master, under the bush--so.' "I did as desired, hiding myself under the leafy branches of the wild rose-trees. My companion cowered down beside me in such an attitude that he himself was concealed, while the buck's head and antlers were held above the foliage, and visible from several points where the ground was open. "As soon as we were fairly placed, Dick applied the call to his lips, and blew his mimic note several times in succession. We heard what appeared to be an echo, but it was the response of a rival; and shortly after we could distinguish a hoof-stroke upon the dry turf, as if some animal was bounding towards us. "Presently appeared a fine buck, at an opening between two copses, about one hundred paces from the spot where we lay. It had halted, thrown back upon its flanks until its haunches almost touched the ground, while its full large eye glanced over the opening, as if searching for some object. "At this moment Dick applied the reed to his lips, at the same time moving the horns backward and forward, in imitation of a buck moving his head in a threatening manner. "The stranger now perceived what appeared to him the branching horns of a rival, hearing, at the same time, the well-known challenge. This was not to be borne, and rising erect on all-fours, with his brow-antlers set forward, he accepted the challenge, and came bounding forward. "At the distance of twenty paces or so, be again baited, as if still uncertain of the character of his enemy; but that halt was fatal to him, for by Dick's directions I had made ready my rifle, and taking sight at his breast, I pulled trigger. The result was as my companion had predicted, and the buck was `rubbed out.' "After skinning our game, and hanging the meat out of reach of the barking wolves, we proceeded as before; and soon after another buck was slain in a manner very similar to that described. "This ended our day's hunt, as it was late before Dick had bethought him of the decoy; and taking the best parts of both the long-tails upon our shoulders, we trudged homeward to the post. "Part of our road, as we returned, lay along the stream, and we saw several deer approaching the water, but, cumbered as we were, we failed in getting a shot. An idea, however, was suggested to my companion that promised us plenty of both sport and venison for the next hunt--which was to take place by night. "This idea he communicated to me for my approval. I readily gave my consent, as I saw in the proposal the chances of enjoying a very rare sport. That sport was to be a fire-hunt; but not as usually practised among backwoodsmen, by carrying a torch through the woods. Our torch was to float upon the water, while we were snugly seated beside it; in other words, we would carry our torch in a canoe, and, floating down stream, would shoot the deer that happened to be upon the banks drinking or cooling their hoofs in the water. I had heard of the plan, but had never practised it, although I was desirous of so doing. Dick had often killed deer in this way, and therefore knew all about it. It was agreed, then, that upon the following night we should try the experiment. "During the next day, Dick and I proceeded in our preparations without saying anything to any one. It was our design to keep our night-hunt a secret, lest we might be unsuccessful, and get laughed at for our pains. On the other hand, should we succeed in killing a goodly number of long-tails, it would be time enough to let it be known how we had managed matters. "We had little difficulty in keeping our designs to ourselves. Every one was busy with his own affairs, and took no heed of our manoeuvres. "Our chief difficulty lay in procuring a boat; but for the consideration of a few loads of powder, we at length borrowed an old canoe that belonged to one of the Flathead Indians--a sort of hanger-on of the post. "This craft was simply a log of the cotton-wood, rudely hollowed out by means of an axe, and slightly rounded at the ends to produce the canoe-shape. It was that species of water craft popularly known throughout Western America as a `dug-out,' a phrase which explains itself. It was both old and ricketty, but after a short inspection, Blue Dick declared it would do `fust-rate.' "Our next move was to prepare our torch. For this we had to make an excursion to the neighbouring hills, where we found the very material we wanted--the dry knots of the pitch-pine-tree. "A large segment of birch-bark was then sought for and obtained, and our implements were complete. "At twilight all was ready, and stepping into our dug-out, we paddled silently down stream. "As soon as we had got out of the neighbourhood of the post, we lighted our torch. This was placed in a large frying-pan out upon the bow, and was in reality rather a fire of pine-knots than a torch. It blazed up brightly, throwing a glare over the surface of the stream, and reflecting in red light every object upon both banks. We, on the other hand, were completely hidden from view by means of the birch-bark screen, which stood up between us and the torch. "As soon as we were fairly under way, I yielded up the paddle to Dick, who now assigned to himself the double office of guiding the dug-out and keeping the torch trimmed. I was to look to the shooting; so, placing my trusty rifle across my thighs, I sat alternately scanning both banks as we glided along. "I shall never forget the romantic effect which was produced upon my mind during that wild excursion. The scenery of the river upon which we had launched our craft was at all times of a picturesque character: under the blaze of the pine-wood--its trees and rocks tinted with a reddish hue, while the rippling flood below ran like molten gold--the effect was heightened to a degree of sublimity which could not have failed to impress the dullest imagination. It was the autumn season, too, and the foliage, which had not yet commenced falling, had assumed those rich varied tints so characteristic of the American _sylva_-- various hues of green and golden, and yellow and deep red were exhibited upon the luxuriant frondage that lined the banks of the stream, and here and there drooped like embroidered curtains down to the water's edge. It was a scene of that wild beauty, that picturesque sublimity, which carries one to the contemplation of its Creator. "`Yonder!' muttered a voice, that roused me from my reverie. It was Dick who spoke; and in the dark shadow of the birch-bark I could see one of his arms extended, and pointing to the right bank. "My eyes followed the direction indicated; they soon rested upon two small objects, that from the darker background of the foliage appeared bright and luminous. These objects were round, and close to each other; and at a glance I knew them to be the eyes of some animal, reflecting the light of our torch. "My companion whispered me that they were the eyes of a deer. I took sight with my rifle, aiming as nearly as I could midway between the luminous spots. I pulled trigger, and my true piece cracked like a whip. "The report was not loud enough to drown the noises that came back from the shore. There was a rustling of leaves, followed by a plunge, as of some body felling in the water. "Dick turned the head of the dug-out, and paddled her up to the bank. The torch, blazing brightly, lit up the scene ahead of us, and our eyes were gratified by the sight of a fine buck, that had fallen dead into the river. He was about being drawn into the eddy of the current, but Dick prevented this, and, seizing him by the antlers, soon deposited him safely in the bottom of the dug-out. "Our craft was once more headed down stream, and we scrutinised every winding of the banks in search of another pair of gleaming eyes. In less than half an hour these appeared, and we succeeded in killing a second long-tail--a doe--and dragged her also into the boat. "Shortly after, a third was knocked over, which we found standing out in the river upon a small point of sand. This proved to be a young spike-buck, his horns not having as yet branched off into antlers. "About a quarter of a mile farther down, a fourth, deer was shot at, and missed, the dug-out having grazed suddenly against a rock just as I was pulling trigger, thus rendering my aim unsteady. "I need hardly say that this sport was extremely exciting; and we had got many miles from the post, without thinking either of the distance or the fact that we should be under the disagreeable necessity of paddling the old Flathead's canoe every inch of the way back again. Down stream it was all plain sailing; and Dick's duty was light enough, as it consisted merely in keeping the dug-out head foremost in the middle of the river. The current ran at the rate of three miles an hour, and therefore drifted us along with sufficient rapidity. "The first thing that suggested a return to either of us, was the fact that our pine-knots had run out: Dick had just piled the last of them in the frying-pan. "At this moment, a noise sounded in our ears that caused us some feelings of alarm: it was the noise of falling water. It was not new to us, for, since leaving the post, we had passed the mouths of several small streams that debouched into the one upon which we were, in most cases over a jumble of rocks, thus forming a series of noisy rapids. But that which we now heard was directly ahead of us, and must, thought we, be a rapid or fall of the stream itself; moreover, it sounded louder than any we had hitherto passed. "We lost little time in conjectures. The first impulse of my companion, upon catching the sound, was to stop the progress of the dug-out, which in a few seconds he succeeded in doing; but by this time our torch had shown us that there was a sharp turning in the river, with a long reach of smooth water below. The cascade, therefore, could not be in our stream, but in some tributary that fell into it near the bend. "On seeing this, Dick turned his paddle, and permitted the dug-out once more to float with the current. "The next moment we passed the mouth of a good-sized creek, whose waters, having just leaped a fall of several feet, ran into the river, covered with white froth and bubbles. We could see the fall at a little distance, through the branches of the trees; and as we swept on, its foaming sheet reflected the light of our torch like shining metal. "We had scarcely passed this point, when my attention was attracted by a pair of fiery orbs that glistened out of some low bushes upon the left bank of the river. I saw that they were the eyes of some animal, but what kind of animal I could not guess. I know they were not the eyes of a deer. Their peculiar scintillation, their lesser size, the wide space between them all convinced me they were not deer's eyes. Moreover, they moved at times, as if the head of the animal was carried about in irregular circles. This is never the case with the eyes of the deer, which either pass hurriedly from point to point, or remain with a fixed and steadfast gaze. "I knew, therefore, it was no deer; but no matter what--it was some wild creature, and all such are alike the game of the prairie-hunter. "I took aim, and pulled trigger. While doing so, I heard the voice of my companion warning me, as I thought, not to fire. I wondered at this admonition, but it was then too late to heed it, for it had been uttered almost simultaneously with the report of my rifle. "I first looked to the bank, to witness the effect of my shot. To my great surprise, the eyes were still there, gleaming from the bushes as brightly as ever. "Had I missed my aim? It is true, the voice of my companion had somewhat disconcerted me; but I still believed that my bullet must have sped truly, as it had been delivered with a good aim. "As I turned to Dick for an explanation, a new sound fell upon my ears that explained all, at the same time causing me no slight feeling of alarm. It was a sound not unlike that sometimes uttered by terrified swine, but still louder and more threatening. I knew it well--I knew it was the snort of the grizzly bear! "Of all American animals, the grizzly bear is the most to be dreaded. Armed or unarmed, man is no match for him, and even the courageous hunter of these parts shuns the encounter. This was why my companion had admonished me not to fire. I thought I had missed: it was not so. My bullet had hit and stung the fierce brute to madness; and a quick cracking among the bushes was immediately followed by a heavy plunge: the bear was in the water! "`Good heavens, he's after us!' cried Dick in accents of alarm, at the same time propelling the dug-out with all his might. "It proved true enough that the bear was after us, and the very first plunge had brought his nose almost up to the side of the canoe. However, a few well-directed strokes of the paddle set us in quick motion, and we were soon gliding rapidly down stream, followed by the enraged animal, that every now and then uttered one of his fierce snorts. "What rendered our situation a terrible one was, that we could not now see the bear, nor tell how far he might be from us. All to the rear of the canoe was of a pitchy darkness, in consequence of the screen of birch-bark. No object could be distinguished in that direction, and it was only by hearing him that we could tell he was still some yards off. The snorts, however, were more or less distinct, as heard amid the varying roar of the waterfall; and sometimes they seemed as if the snout from which they proceeded was close up to our stern. "We knew that if he once laid his paw upon the canoe, we should either be sunk or compelled to leap out and swim for it. We knew, moreover, that such an event would be certain death to one of us at least. "I need hardly affirm, that my companion used his paddle with all the energy of despair. I assisted him as much as was in my power with the butt-end of my gun, which was now empty. On account of the hurry and darkness, I had not attempted to re-load it. "We had shot down stream for a hundred yards or so, and were about congratulating ourselves on the prospect of an escape from the bear, when a new object of dread presented itself to our terrified imaginations. This object was the sound of falling water; but not as before, coming from some tributary stream. No. It was a fall of the river upon which we were floating, and evidently only a very short distance below us! "We were, in fact, within less than one hundred yards of it. Our excitement, in consequence of being pursued by the bear, as well as the fact that the sough of the cascade above still filled our ears, had prevented us from perceiving this new danger until we had approached it. "A shout of terror and warning from my companion seemed the echo of one I had myself uttered. Both of us understood the peril of our situation, and both, without speaking another word, set about attempting to stop the boat. "We paddled with all our strength--he with the oar, whilst I used the flat butt of my rifle. We had succeeded in bringing her to a sort of equilibrium, and were in hopes of being able to force her toward the bank, when all at once we heard a heavy object strike against the stern. At the same moment, the bow rose up into the air, and a number of the burning pine-knots fell back into the bottom of the canoe. They still continued to blaze; and their light now falling towards the stern, showed us a fearful object. The bear had seized hold of the dug-out, and his fierce head and long curving claws were visible over the edge! "Although the little craft danced about upon the water, and was likely to be turned keel upward, the animal showed no intention of relaxing its hold; but, on the contrary, seemed every moment mounting higher into the canoe. "Our peril was now extreme. We knew it, and the knowledge half paralysed us. "Both of us started up, and for some moments half sat, half crouched, uncertain how to act. Should we use the paddles, and get the canoe ashore, it would only be to throw ourselves into the jaws of the bear. On the other hand, we could not remain as we were, for in a few seconds we should be drifted over the falls; and how high these were we knew not. We had never heard of them: they might be fifty feet--they might be a hundred! High enough, they were, no doubt, to precipitate us into eternity. "The prospect was appalling, and our thoughts ran rapidly. Quick action was required. I could think of no other than to lean sternward, and strike at the bear with my clubbed rifle, at the same time calling upon my companion to paddle for the shore. We preferred, under all circumstances, risking the chances of a land encounter with our grizzly antagonist. "I had succeeded in keeping the bear out of the canoe by several well-planted blows upon the snout; and Dick was equally successful in forcing the dug-out nearer to the bank, when a sharp crack reached my ears, followed by a terrified cry from my companion. "I glanced suddenly round, to ascertain the cause of these demonstrations. Dick held in his hands a short round stick, which I recognised as the shaft of the paddle. The blade had snapped off, and was floating away on the surface! "We were now helpless. The _manege_ of the canoe was no longer possible. Over the falls she must go! "We thought of leaping out, but it was too late. We were almost upon the edge, and the black current that bore our craft swiftly along would have carried our bodies with like velocity. We could not make a dozen strokes before we should be swept to the brink: it was too late. "We both saw this; and each knew the feelings of the other, for we felt alike. Neither spoke; but, crouching down and holding the gunwales of the canoe, we awaited the awful moment. "The bear seemed to have some apprehension as well as ourselves; for, instead of continuing his endeavours to climb into the canoe, he contented himself with holding fast to the stern, evidently under some alarm. "The torch still blazed, and the canoe was catching fire; perhaps this it was that alarmed the bear. "The last circumstance gave us at the moment but little concern; the greater danger eclipsed the less. We had hardly noticed it, when we felt that we were going over! "The canoe shot outward as if propelled by some projectile force; then came a loud crash, as though we had dropped upon a hard rock. Water, and spray, and froth were dashed over our bodies; and the next moment, to our surprise as well as delight, we felt ourselves still alive, and seated in the canoe, which was floating gently in still smooth water. "It was quite dark, for the torch had been extinguished; but even in the darkness we could perceive the bear swimming and floundering near the boat. To our great satisfaction, we saw him heading for the shore, and widening the distance between himself and us with all the haste he could make. The unexpected precipitation over the falls had cooled his courage, if not his hostility. "Dick and I headed the canoe, now half full of water, for the opposite bank, which we contrived to reach by using the rifle and our hands for paddles. Here we made the little vessel fast to a tree, intending to leave it there, as we could not by any possibility get it back over the fall. Having hung our game out of reach of the wolves, we turned our faces up-stream, and, after a long and wearisome walk, succeeded in getting back to the post. "Next morning, a party went down for the venison, with the intention also of carrying the canoe back over the fall. The craft, however, was found to be so much injured, that it would not hang together during the portage, and was therefore abandoned. This was no pleasant matter to me, for it afterwards cost me a considerable sum before I could square with the old Flathead for his worthless dug-out." CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE. OLD IKE AND THE GRIZZLY. A--'s adventure ending in a grizzly bear story, drew the conversation upon that celebrated animal, and we listened to the many curious facts related about it, with more than usual interest. The grizzly bear (_Ursus ferox_) is, beyond all question, the most formidable of the wild creatures inhabiting the continent of America-- jaguar and cougar not excepted. Did he possess the swiftness of foot of either the lion or tiger of the Old World, he would be an assailant as dangerous as either; for he is endowed with the strength of the former, and quite equals the latter in ferocity. Fortunately, the horse outruns him; were it not so, many a human victim would be his, for he can easily overtake a man on foot. As it is, hundreds of well-authenticated stories attest the prowess of this fierce creature. There is not a "mountain-man" in America who cannot relate a string of perilous adventures about the "grizzly bar;" and the instances are far from being few, in which human life has been sacrificed in conflicts with this savage beast. The grizzly bear is an animal of large dimensions; specimens have been killed and measured quite equal to the largest size of the polar bear, though there is much variety in the sizes of different individuals. About 500 pounds might be taken as the average weight. In shape, the grizzly bear is a much more compact animal than either the black or polar species: his ears are larger, his arms stouter, and his aspect fiercer. His teeth are sharp and strong; but that which his enemies most dread is the armature of his paws. The paws themselves are so large, as frequently to leave in the mud a track of twelve inches in length, by eight in breadth; and from the extremities of these formidable fists protrude horn-like claws full six inches long! Of course, we are speaking of individuals of the largest size. These claws are crescent-shaped, and would be still longer, but in all cases nearly an inch is worn from their points. The animal digs up the ground in search of marmots, burrowing squirrels, and various esculent roots; and this habit accounts for the blunted condition of his claws. They are sharp enough, notwithstanding, to peel the hide from a horse or buffalo, or to drag the scalp from a hunter--a feat which has been performed by grizzly bears on more than one occasion. The colour of this animal is most generally brownish, with white hairs intermixed, giving that greyish or grizzled appearance--whence the trivial name, grizzly. But although this is the most common colour of the species, there are many varieties. Some are almost white, others yellowish red, and still others nearly black. The season, too, has much to do with the colour; and the pelage is shaggier and longer than that of the _Ursus Americanus_. The eyes are small in proportion to the size of the animal, but dark and piercing. The geographical range of the grizzly bear is extensive. It is well-known that the great chain of the Rocky Mountains commences on the shores of the Arctic Ocean, and runs southwardly through the North-American continent. In those mountains, the grizzly bear is found, from their northern extremity, at least as far as that point where the Rio Grande makes its great bend towards the Gulf of Mexico. In the United States and Canada, this animal has never been seen in a wild state. This is not strange. The grizzly bear has no affinity with the forest. Previous to the settling of these territories, they were all forest-covered. The grizzly is rarely found under heavy timber, like his congener the black bear; and, unlike the latter, he is not a tree-climber. The black bear "hugs" himself up a tree, and usually destroys his victim by compression. The grizzly does not possess this power, so as to enable him to ascend a tree-trunk; and for such a purpose, his huge dull claws are worse than useless. His favourite haunts are the thickets of _Corylus rubus_, and _Amelanchiers_, under the shade of which he makes his lair, and upon the berries of which he partially subsists. He lives much by the banks of streams, hunting among the willows, or wanders along the steep and rugged bluffs, where scrubby pine and dwarf cedar (_Juniperus prostrata_), with its rooting branches, forms an almost impenetrable underwood. In short, the grizzly bear of America is to be met with in situations very similar to those which are the favourite haunts of the African lion, which, after all, is not so much the king of the forest, as of the mountain and the open plain. The grizzly bear is omnivorous. Fish, flesh, and fowl are eaten by him apparently with equal relish. He devours frogs, lizards, and other reptiles. He is fond of the larvae of insects; these are often found in large quantities adhering to the under sides of decayed logs. To get at them, the grizzly bear will roll over logs of such size and weight, as would try the strength of a yoke of oxen. He can "root" like a hog, and will often plough up acres of prairie in search of the wapatoo and Indian turnip. Like the black bear, he is fond of sweets; and the wild-berries, consisting of many species of currant, gooseberry, and service berry, are greedily gathered into his capacious maw. He is too slow of foot to overtake either buffalo, elk, or deer, though he sometimes comes upon these creatures unawares; and he will drag the largest buffalo to the earth, if he can only get his claws upon it. Not unfrequently he robs the panther of his repast, and will drive a whole pack of wolves from the carrion they have just succeeded in killing. Several attempts have been made to raise the young grizzlies, but these have all been abortive, the animals proving anything but agreeable pets. As soon as grown to a considerable size, their natural ferocity displays itself, and their dangerous qualities usually lead to the necessity for their destruction. For a long time the great polar bear has been the most celebrated animal of his kind; and most of the bear-adventures have related to him. Many a wondrous tale of his prowess and ferocity has been told by the whaler and arctic voyager, in which this creature figures as the hero. His fame, however, is likely to be eclipsed by his hitherto less-known congener--the grizzly. The golden lure which has drawn half the world to California, has also been the means of bringing this fierce animal more into notice; for the mountain-valleys of the Sierra Nevada are a favourite range of the species. Besides, numerous "bear scrapes" have occurred to the migrating bands who have crossed the great plains and desert tracts that stretch from the Mississippi to the shores of the South Sea. Hundreds of stories of this animal, more or less true, have of late attained circulation through the columns of the press and the pages of the traveller's note-book, until the grizzly bear is becoming almost as much an object of interest as the elephant, the hippopotamus, or the king of beasts himself. Speaking seriously, he is a dangerous assailant. White hunters never attack him unless when mounted and well armed; and the Indians consider the killing a grizzly bear a feat equal to the scalping of a human foe. These never attempt to hunt him, unless when a large party is together; and the hunt is, among some tribes, preceded by a ceremonious feast and a bear-dance. It is often the lot of the solitary trapper to meet with this four-footed enemy, and the encounter is rated as equal to that with two hostile Indians. Of course, both Redwood and old Ike had met with more than one "bar scrape," and the latter was induced to relate one of his best. "Strengers," began he, "when you scare up a grizzly, take my advice, and gie 'im a wide berth--that is, unless yur unkimmun well mounted. Ov coorse, ef yur critter kin be depended upon, an' thur's no brush to 'tangle him, yur safe enuf; as no grizzly, as ever I seed, kin catch up wi' a hoss, whur the ground's open an' clur. F'r all that, whur the timmer's clost an' brushy, an' the ground o' that sort whur a hoss mout stummel, it are allers the safest plan to let ole Eph'm slide. I've seed a grizzly pull down as good a hoss as ever tracked a parairy, whur the critter hed got bothered in a thicket. The fellur that straddled him only saved himself by hookin' on to the limb o' a tree. 'Twant two minnits afore this child kim up--hearin' the rumpus. I hed good sight o' the bar, an' sent a bullet--sixty to the pound--into the varmint's brain-pan, when he immediately cawalloped over. But 'twur too late to save the hoss. He wur rubbed out. The bar had half skinned him, an' wur tarrin' at his guts! Wagh!" Here the trapper unsheathed his clasp-knife, and having cut a "chunk" from a plug of real "Jeemes's River," stuck it into his cheek, and proceeded with his narration. "I reck'n, I've seed a putty consid'able o' the grizzly bar in my time. Ef them thur chaps who writes about all sorts o' varmint hed seed as much o' the grizzly as I hev, they mout a gin a hul book consarnin' the critter. Ef I hed a plug o' bacca for every grizzly I've rubbed out, it 'ud keep my jaws waggin' for a good twel'month, I reck'n. Ye-es, strengers, I've done some bar-killin'--I hev that, an' no mistake! Hain't I, Mark? "Wal, I wur a-gwine to tell you ov a sarcumstance that happened to this child about two yeern ago. It wur upon the Platte, atween Chimbly Rock an' Laramies'. "I wur engaged as hunter an' guide to a carryvan o' emigrant folks that wur on thur way to Oregon. "Ov coorse I allers kept ahead o' the carryvan, an' picked the place for thur camp. "Wal, one arternoon I hed halted whur I seed some timmer, which ur a scace article about Chimbly Rock. This, thort I, 'll do for campin'-ground; so I got down, pulled the saddle off o' my ole mar, an' staked the critter upon the best patch o' grass that wur near, intendin' she shed hev her gut-full afore the camp cattle kim up to bother her. "I hed shot a black-tail buck, an' after kindlin' a fire, I roasted a griskin' o' him, an' ate it. "Still thur wan't no sign o' the carryvan, an' arter hangin' the buck out o' reach o' the wolves, I tuk up my rifle, an' set out to rackynoiter the neighbourhood. "My mar bein' some'at jaded, I let her graze away, an' went afoot; an' that, let me tell you, strengers, ar about the foolichest thing you kin do upon a parairy. I wan't long afore I proved it; but I'll kum to that by 'm by. "Wal, I fust clomb a conside'able hill, that gin me a view beyont. Thur war a good-sized parairy layin' torst the south an' west. Thur wur no trees 'ceptin' an odd cotton-wood hyur an' thur on the hillside. "About a mile off I seed a flock of goats--what you'd call antelopes, though goats they ur, as sure as goats is goats. "Thur waunt no kiver near them--not a stick, for the parairy wur as bar as yur hand; so I seed, at a glimp, it 'ud be no use a tryin' to approach, unless I tuk some plan to decoy the critters. "I soon thort o' a dodge, an' went back to camp for my blanket, which wur a red Mackinaw. This I knew 'ud be the very thing to fool the goats with, an' I set out torst them. "For the fust half-a-mile or so, I carried the blanket under my arm. Then I spread it out, an' walked behind it until I wur 'ithin three or four hundred yards o' the animals. I kept my eye on 'em through a hole in the blanket. They wur a-growin' scary, an' hed begun to run about in circles; so when I seed this, I knew it wur time to stop. "Wal, I hunkered down, an' still keepin' the blanket spread out afore me, I hung it upon a saplin' that I had brought from the camp. I then stuck the saplin' upright in the ground; an' mind ye, it wan't so easy to do that, for the parairy wur hard friz, an' I hed to dig a hole wi' my knife. Howsomdever, I got the thing rigged at last, an' the blanket hangin' up in front kivered my karkidge most complete. I hed nothin' more to do but wait till the goats shed come 'ithin range o' my shootin'-iron. "Wal, that wan't long. As ye all know, them goats is a mighty curious animal--as curious as weemen is--an arter runnin' backward an' forrard a bit, an' tossin' up thur heads, an' sniffin' the air, one o' the fattest, a young prong-horn buck, trotted up 'ithin fifty yards o' me. "I jest squinted through the sights, an' afore that goat hed time to wink twice, I hit him plum atween the eyes. Ov coorse he wur throwed in his tracks. "Now, you'd a-jumped up, an' frightened the rest away--that's what you'd a done, strengers. But you see I knowd better. I knowd that so long's the critters didn't see my karkidge, they wan't a-gwine to mind the crack o' the gun. So I laid still, in behopes to git a wheen more o' them. "As I hed calc'lated at fust, they didn't run away, an' I slipped in my charge as brisk as possible. But jest as I wur raisin' to take sight on a doe that hed got near enough, the hull gang tuk scare, an' broke off as ef a pack of parairy-wolves wur arter 'em. "I wur clean puzzled at this, for I knowd I hedn't done anythin' to frighten 'em, but I wan't long afore I diskivered the pause o' thur alarm. Jest then I heerd a snift, like the coughin' o' a glandered hoss; an' turnin' suddintly round, I spied the biggest bar it hed ever been my luck to set eyes on. He wur comin' direct torst me, an' at that minnit wan't over twenty yards from whur I lay. I knowd at a glimp he wur a grizzly! "'Tain't no use to say I wan't skeart; I wur skeart, an' mighty bad skeart, I tell ye. "At fust, I thort o' jumpin' to my feet, an' makin' tracks; but a minnit o' reflexshun showed me that 'ud be o' little use. Thur wur a half o' mile o' clur parairy on every side o' me, an' I knowd the grizzly laid catch up afore I hed made three hundred yards in any direction. I knowd, too, that ef I started, the varmint 'ud be sartin to foller. It wur plain to see the bar meant mischief; I kud tell that from the glint o' his eyes. "Thur wan't no time to lose in thinkin' about it. The brute wur still comin' nearer; but I noticed that he wur a-gwine slower an' slower, every now an' agin risin' to his hind-feet, clawin' his nose, an' sniffin' the air. "I seed that it wur the red blanket that puzzled him; an' seein' this, I crep' closter behint it, an' cached as much o' my karkidge as it 'ud kiver. "When the bar hed got 'ithin about ten yards o' the spot, he kim to a full stop, an' reared up as he hed did several times, with his belly full torst me. The sight wur too much for this niggur, who never afore had been bullied by eyther Injun or bar. "'Twur a beautiful shot, an' I kudn't help tryin' it, ef 't hed been my last; so I poked my rifle through the hole in the blanket, an' sent a bullet atween the varmint's ribs. "That wur, perhaps, the foolichest an' wust shot this child ever made. Hed I not fired it, the bar mout a gone off, feard o' the blanket; but I did fire, an' my narves bein' excited, I made a bad shot. "I had ta'en sight for the heart, an' I only hit the varmint's shoulder. "Ov coorse, the bar bein' now wounded, bekim savage, and cared no longer for the blanket. He roared out like a bull, tore at the place whur I hed hit him, an' then kim on as fast as his four legs 'ud carry him. "Things looked squally. I throwed away my emp'y gun, an' drawed my bowie, expectin' nothin' else than a regular stand-up tussle wi' the bar. I knowd it wur no use turnin' tail now; so I braced myself up for a desp'rate fight. "But jest as the bar hed got 'ithin ten feet o' me, an idee suddintly kim into my head. I hed been to Santa Fe, among them yaller-hided Mexikins, whur I hed seed two or three bull-fights. I hed seed them mattydoors fling thur red cloaks over a bull's head, jest when you'd a thort they wur a-gwine to be gored to pieces on the fierce critter's horns. "Jest then, I remembered thur trick; an' afore the bar cud close on me, I grabbed the blanket, spreadin' it out as I tuk holt. "Strangers, that wur a blanket an' no mistake! It wur as fine a five-point Mackinaw as ever kivered the hump-ribs o' a nor'-west trader. I used to wear it Mexikin-fashun when it rained; an' in coorse, for that purpose, thur wur a hole in the middle to pass the head through. "Wal, jest as the bar sprung at me, I flopped the blanket straight in his face. I seed his snout a passin' through the hole, but I seed no more; for I feeled the critter's claws touchin' me, an' I let go. "Now, thunk I, wur my time for a run. The blanket mout blin' him a leetle, an' I mout git some start. "With this thort, I glid past the animal's rump, an' struck out over the parairy. "The direction happened to be that that led torst the camp, half a mile off; but thur wur a tree nearer, on the side o' the hill. Ef I kud reach that, I knowd I 'ud be safe enuf, as the grizzly bar it don't climb. "For the fust hundred yards I never looked round; then I only squinted back, runnin' all the while. "I kud jest see that the bar appeared to be still a tossin' the blanket, and not fur from whur we hed parted kumpny. "I thort this some'at odd; but I didn't stay to see what it meant till I hed put another hundred yards atween us. Then I half turned, an' tuk a good look; an' if you believe me, strangers, the sight I seed thur 'ud a made a Mormon larf. Although jest one minnit afore, I wur putty nigh skeart out o' my seven senses, that sight made me larf till I wur like to bring on a colic. "Thur wur the bar wi' his head right a-through the blanket. One minnit, he 'ud rear up on his hind-feet, an' then the thing hung roun' him like a Mexikin greaser. The next minnit, he 'ud be down on all-fours, an' tryin' to foller me; an' then the Mackinaw 'ud trip him up, an' over he 'ud whammel, and kick to get free--all the while routin' like a mad buffalo. Jehosophat! it wur the funniest sight this child ever seed. Wagh! "Wal, I watched the game awhile--only a leetle while; for I knowd that if the bar could git clur o' the rag, he mout still overtake me, an' drive me to the tree. That I didn't wan't, eyther, so I tuk to my heels agin' and soon reached camp. "Thur I saddled my mar, an' then rid back to git my gun, an', perhaps, to give ole Eph'm a fresh taste o' lead. "When I clomb the hill agin, the bar wur still out on the parairy, an' I cud see that the blanket wur a-hanging around 'im. Howsomdever, he wur makin' off torst the hills, thinkin', maybe, he'd hed enuf o' my kumpny. "I wan't a-gwine to let 'im off so easy, for the skear he hed 'gin me; besides, he wur traillin' my Mackinaw along wi' 'im. So I galluped to whur my gun lay, an' havin' rammed home a ball, I then galluped arter ole grizzly. "I soon overhauled him, an' he turned on me as savagerous as ever. But this time, feeling secure on the mar's back, my narves wur steadier; an' I shot the bar plum through the skull, which throwed him in his tracks wi' the blanket wropped about 'im. "But sich a blanket as that wur then--ay, sich a blanket! I never seed sich a blanket! Thur wunt a square foot o' it that wan't torn to raggles. Ah, strangers, you don't know what it are to lose a five-point Mackinaw; no, that you don't. Cuss the bar!" CHAPTER TWENTY SIX. A BATTLE WITH GRIZZLY BEARS. As adventure with grizzly bears which had befallen the "captain" was next related. He had been travelling with a strange party--the "scalp-hunters,"--in the mountains near Santa Fe, when they were overtaken by a sudden and heavy fall of snow that rendered farther progress impossible. The "canon," a deep valley in which they had encamped, was difficult to get through at any time, but now the path, on account of the deep soft snow, was rendered impassable. When morning broke they found themselves fairly "in the trap." "Above and below, the valley was choked up with snow five fathoms deep. Vast fissures--_barrancas_--were filled with the drift; and it was perilous to attempt penetrating in either direction. Two men had already disappeared. "On each side of our camp rose the walls of the canon, almost vertical, to the height of a hundred feet. These we might have climbed had the weather been soft, for the rock was a trap formation, and offered numerous seams and ledges; but now there was a coating of ice and snow upon them that rendered the ascent impossible. The ground had been frozen hard before the storm came on, although it was now freezing no longer, and the snow would not bear our weight. All our efforts to get out of the valley proved idle; and we gave them over, yielding ourselves, in a kind of reckless despair, to wait for--we scarce knew what. "For three days we sat shivering around the fires, now and then casting looks of gloomy inquiry around the sky. The same dull grey for an answer, mottled with flakes slanting earthward, for it still continued to know. Not a bright spot cheered the aching eye. "The little platform on which we rested--a space of two or three acres-- was still free from the snow-drift, on account of its exposure to the wind. Straggling pines, stunted and leafless, grew over its surface, in all about fifty or sixty trees. From these we obtained our fires; but what were fires when we had no meat to cook upon them! "We were now in the third day without food! Without food, though not absolutely without eating--the men had bolted their gun-covers and the cat-skin flaps of their bullet-pouches, and were now seen--the last shift but one--stripping the _parfleche_ from the soles of their moccasins! "The women, wrapped in their _tilmas_, nestled closely in the embrace of father, brother, husband, and lover; for all these affections were present. The last string of _tasajo_, hitherto economised for their sake, had been parcelled out to them in the morning. That was gone, and whence was their next morsel to come? At long intervals, `_Ay da mi! Dios de mi alma_!' were heard only in low murmurs, as some colder blast swept down the canon. In the faces of those beautiful creatures might be read that uncomplaining patience--that high endurance--so characteristic of the Hispano-Mexican women. "Even the stern men around them bore up with less fortitude. Rude oaths were muttered from time to time, and teeth ground together, with that strange wild look that heralds insanity. Once or twice I fancied that I observed a look of still stranger, still wilder expression, when the black ring forms around the eye--when the muscles twitch and quiver along gaunt, famished jaws--when men gaze guilty-like at each other. O God! it was fearful! The half-robber discipline, voluntary at the best, had vanished under the levelling-rod of a common suffering, and I trembled to think-- "`It clars a leetle, out tharawa!' "It was the voice of the trapper, Garey, who had risen and stood pointing toward the East. "In an instant we were all upon our feet, looking in the direction, indicated. Sure enough, there was a break in the lead-coloured sky--a yellowish streak, that widened out as we continued gazing--the flakes fell lighter and thinner, and in two hours more it had ceased snowing altogether. "Half-a-dozen of us, shouldering our rifles, struck down the valley. We would make one more attempt to trample a road through the drift. It was a vain one. The snow was over our heads, and after struggling for two hours, we had not gained above two hundred yards. Here we caught a glimpse of what lay before us. As far as the eye could reach, it rested upon the same deep impassable masses. Despair and hunger paralysed our exertions, and, dropping off one by one, we returned to the camp. We fell down around the fires in sullen silence. Garey continued pacing back and forth, now glancing up at the sky, and at times kneeling down, and running his hand over the surface of the snow. At length he approached the fire, and in his slow, drawling manner, remarked-- "`It's a-gwine to friz, I reckin.' "`Well! and if it does?' asked one of his comrades, without caring for an answer to the question. "`Wal, an iv it does,' repeated the trapper, `we'll walk out o' this hyar jug afore sun-up, an' upon a good hard trail too.' "The expression of every face was changed, as if by magic. Several leaped to their feet. Gode, the Canadian, skilled in snow-craft, ran to a bank, and drawing his hand along the combing, shouted back-- "`_C'est vrai; il gele; il gele_!' "A cold wind soon after set in, and, cheered by the brightening prospect, we began to think of the fires, that, during our late moments of reckless indifference, had been almost suffered to burn out. The Delawares, seizing their tomahawks, commenced hacking at the pines, while others dragged forward the fallen trees, lopping off their branches with the keen scalping-knife. "At this moment a peculiar cry attracted our attention, and, looking around, we perceived one of the Indians drop suddenly upon his knees, striking the ground with his hatchet. "`What is it? what is it?' shouted several voices, in almost as many languages. "`_Yam-yam! yam-yam_!' replied the Indian, still digging at the frozen ground. "`The Injun's right; it's _man-root_!' said Garey, picking up some leaves which the Delaware had chopped off. "I recognised a plant well-known to the mountain-men--a rare, but wonderful convolvulus, the _Iponea leptophylla_. The name of `man-root' is given to it by the hunters from the similarity of its root in shape, and sometimes in size, to the body of a man. It is esculent, and serves to sustain human life. "In an instant, half-a-dozen men were upon their knees, chipping and hacking the hard clay, but their hatchets glinted off as from the surface of a rock. "`Look hyar!' cried Garey; `ye're only spoilin' yer tools. Cut down a wheen o' these pine saplin's, and make a fire over him!' "The hint was instantly followed, and in a few minutes a dozen pieces of pine were piled upon the spot, and set on fire. "We stood around the burning branches with eager anticipation. Should the root prove a `full-grown man,' it would make a supper for our whole party; and with the cheering idea of supper, jokes were ventured upon-- the first we had heard for some time--the hunters tickled with the novelty of unearthing the `old man' ready roasted, and speculating whether he would prove a `fat old hoss.' "A hollow crack sounded from above, like the breaking of a dead tree. We looked up. A large object--an animal--was whirling outward and downward from a ledge that projected half-way up the cliff. In an instant it struck the earth, head foremost, with a loud `bump,' and, bounding to the height of several feet, came back with a somersault on its legs, and stood firmly. "An involuntary `hurrah!' broke from the hunters, who all recognised, at a glance, the `Carnero cimmaron,' or `bighorn.' He had cleared the precipice at two leaps, alighting each time on his huge crescent-shaped horns. "For a moment, both parties--hunters and game--seemed equally taken by surprise, and stood eyeing each other in mute wonder. It was but for a moment. The men made a rush for their rifles, and the animal, recovering from his trance of astonishment, tossed back his horns, and bounded across the platform. In a dozen springs he had readied the selvedge of the snow, and plunged into its yielding bank; but, at the same instant, several rifles cracked, and the white wreath was crimsoned behind him. He still kept on, however, leaning and breaking through the drift. "We struck into his track, and followed with the eagerness of hungry wolves. We could tell by the numerous _gouts_ that he was shedding his life-blood, and about fifty paces farther on we found him dead. "A shout apprised our companions of our success, and we had commenced dragging back the prize, when wild cries reached us from the platform,-- the yells of men, the screams of women, mingled with oaths and exclamations of terror! "We ran on towards the entrance of the track. On reaching it, a sight was before us that caused the stoutest to tremble. Hunters, Indians, and women were running to and fro in frantic confusion, uttering their varied cries, and pointing upward. We looked in that direction--a row of fearful objects stood upon the brow of the cliff. We knew our enemy at a glance,--the dreaded monsters of the mountains--the grizzly bears! "There were; five of them--five in sight--there might be others in the background. Five were enough to destroy our whole party, caged as we were, and weakened by famine. "They had reached the cliff in chase of the cimmaron, and hunger and disappointment were visible in their horrid aspects. Two of them had already crawled close to the scarp, and were pawing over and snuffing the air, as if searching for a place to descend. The other three reared themselves up on their hams, and commenced manoeuvring with their forearms, in a human-like and comical pantomime! "We were in no condition to relish this amusement. Every man hastened to arm himself, those who had emptied their rifles hurriedly re-loading them. "`For your life don't!' cried Garey, catching at the gun of one of the hunters. "The caution came too late: half-a-dozen bullets were already whistling upwards. "The effect was just what the trapper had anticipated. The bears, maddened by the bullets, which had harmed them no more than the pricking of as many pins, dropped to their all-fours again, and, with fierce growls, commenced descending the cliff. "The scene of confusion was now at its height. Several of the men, less brave than their comrades, ran off to hide themselves in the snow, while others commenced climbing the low pine-trees! "`Cache the gals!' cried Garey. `Hyar, yer darned Spanish greasers! if yer won't light, hook on to the weemen a wheen o' yer, and toat them to the snow. Cowardly slinks,--wagh!' "`See to them, doctor,' I shouted to the German, who, I thought, might be best spared from the fight; and the next, moment, the doctor, assisted by several Mexicans, was hurrying the terrified girls towards the spot where we had left the cimmaron. "Many of us knew that to hide, under the circumstances, would be worse than useless. The fierce but sagacious brutes would have discovered, us one by one, and destroyed, us in detail. `They must, be met and fought!' that was the word; and we resolved to carry it into execution. "There were about a dozen of us who `stood up to it'--all the Delaware and Shawanoes, with Garey and the mountain-men. "We kept firing at the bears as they ran along the ledges in their zigzag descent, but our rifles were out of order, our fingers were numbed with cold, and our nerves weakened with hunger. Our bullets drew blood from the hideous brutes, yet not a shot proved deadly. It only stung them into fiercer rage. "It was a fearful moment when the last shot was fired, and still not an enemy the less. We flung away the guns, and, clutching the hatchets and hunting-knives, silently awaited our grizzly foes. "We had taken our stand close to the rock. It was our design to have the first blow, as the animals, for the most part, came stern-foremost down the cliff. In this we were disappointed. On reaching a ledge some ten feet from the platform, the foremost bear halted, and, seeing our position, hesitated to descend. The next moment, his companions, maddened with wounds, came tumbling down upon the same ledge, and, with fierce growls, the five huge bodies were precipitated into our midst. "Then came the desperate struggle, which I cannot describe,--the shouts of the hunters, the wilder yells of our Indian allies, the hoarse worrying of the bears, the ringing of tomahawks from skulls like flint, the deep, dull `thud' of the stabbing-knife, and now and then a groan, as the crescent claw tore up the clinging muscle. O God! it was a fearful scene! "Over the platform bears and men went rolling and struggling, in the wild battle of life and death. Through the trees, and into the deep drift, staining the snow with their mingled blood! Here, two or three men were engaged with a single foe--there, some brave hunter stood battling alone. Several were sprawling upon the ground. Every moment, the bears were lessening the number of their assailants! "I had been struck down at the commencement of the struggle. On regaining my feet, I saw the animal that had felled me hugging the prostrate body of a man. "It was Gode. I leaned over the bear, clutching its shaggy skin. I did this to steady myself; I was weak and dizzy; so were we all. I struck with all my force, stabbing the animal on the ribs. "Letting go the Frenchman, the bear turned suddenly, and reared upon me. I endeavoured to avoid the encounter, and ran backward, fending him off with my knife. "All at once I came against the snow-drift, and fell over on my back. Next moment, the heavy body was precipitated upon me, the sharp claws pierced deep into my shoulder,--I inhaled the monster's fetid breath; and striking wildly with my right arm, still free, we rolled over and over in the snow. "I was blinded by the dry drift. I felt myself growing weaker and weaker; it was the loss of blood. I shouted--a despairing shout--but it could not have been heard at ten paces' distance. Then there was a strange hissing sound in my ears,--a bright light flashed across my eyes; a burning object passed over my face, scorching the skin; there was a smell as of singeing hair; I could hear voices, mixed with the roars of my adversary; and all at once the claws were drawn out of my flesh, the weight was lifted from my breast, and I was alone! "I rose to my feet, and, rubbing the snow out of my eyes, looked around. I could see no one. I was in a deep hollow made by our struggles, but I was alone! "The snow all around me was dyed to a crimson; but what had become of my terrible antagonist? Who had rescued me from his deadly embrace? "I staggered forward to the open ground. Here a new scene met my gaze: a strange-looking man was running across the platform, with a huge firebrand,--the bole of a burning pine-tree,--which he waved in the air. He was chasing one of the hears, that, growling with rage and pain, was making every effort to reach the cliffs. Two others were already half-way up, and evidently clambering with great difficulty, as the blood dripped back from their wounded flanks. "The bear that was pursued soon took to the rocks, and, urged by the red brand scorching his shaggy hams, was soon beyond the reach of his pursuer. The latter now made towards a fourth, that was still battling with two or three weak antagonists. This one was `routed' in a twinkling, and with yells of terror followed his comrades up the bluff. The strange man looked around for the fifth. It had disappeared. Prostrate, wounded men were strewed over the ground, but the bear was nowhere to be seen. He had doubtless escaped through the snow. "I was still wondering who was the hero of the firebrand, and where he had come from. I have said he was a strange-looking man. He was so-- and like no one of our party that I could think of. His head was bald,--no, not bald, but naked,--there was not a hair upon it, crown or sides, and it glistened in the clear light like polished ivory. I was puzzled beyond expression, when a man--Garey--who had been felled upon the platform by a blow from one of the bears, suddenly sprang to his feet, exclaiming,-- "`Go it, Doc! Three chyars for the doctor!' "To my astonishment, I now recognised the features of that individual, the absence of whose brown locks had produced such a metamorphosis as, I believe, was never effected by means of borrowed hair. "`Here's your scalp, Doc,' cried Garey, running up with the wig, `by the livin' thunder! yer saved us all;' and the hunter seized the German in his wild embrace. "Wounded men were all around, and commenced crawling together. But where was the fifth of the bears? Four only had escaped by the cliff. "`Yonder he goes!' cried a voice, as a light spray, rising above the snow-wreath, showed that some animal was struggling through the drift. "Several commenced loading their rifles, intending to follow, and, if possible, secure him. The doctor armed himself with a fresh pine; but before these, arrangements were completed, a strange cry came from the spot, that caused our blood to run cold again. The Indians leaped to their feet, and, seizing their tomahawks, rushed to the gap. They knew the meaning of that cry--it was the death-yell of their tribe! "They entered the road that we had trampled down in the morning, followed by those who had loaded their guns. We watched them from the platform with anxious expectation, but before they had reached the spot, we could see that, the `stoor' was slowly settling down. It was plain that the struggle had ended. "We still stood waiting in breathless silence, and watching the floating spray that noted their progress through the drift. At length they had reached the scene of the struggle. There was an ominous stillness, that lasted for a moment, and then the Indian's fate was announced in the sad, wild note that came wailing up the valley. It was the dirge of a Shawano warrior! "They had found their brave comrade dead, with his scalping-knife buried in the heart of his terrible antagonist! "It was a costly supper, that bear-meat, but, perhaps, the sacrifice had saved many lives. We would keep the `cimmaron' for to-morrow; next day, the man-root; and the next,--what next? Perhaps--the man! "Fortunately, we were not, driven to this extremity. The frost, had again set in, and the surface of the snow, previously moistened by the sun and rain, soon became caked into ice strong enough to bear us, and upon its firm crust we escaped out of the perilous pass, and gained the warmer region of the plains in safety." CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE SWANS OF AMERICA. In our journey we had kept far enough to the north to avoid the difficult route of the Ozark Hills; and we at length encamped upon the Marais de Cygnes, a branch of the Osage River. Beyond this we expected to fall in with the buffalo, and of course we were full of pleasant anticipation. Near the point where we had pitched our camp, the banks of the river were marshy, with here and there small lakes of stagnant water. In these a large number of swans, with wild geese and other aquatic birds, were swimming and feeding. Of course our guns were put in requisition, and we succeeded in killing a brace of swans, with a grey goose (Anser _Canadensis_), and a pair of ducks. The swans were very large ones--of the Trumpeter species--and one of them was cooked for supper. It was in excellent condition, and furnished a meal for the whole of our party! The other swan, with the goose and ducks, were stowed away for another occasion. While "discussing" the flesh of this great and noble bird, we also discussed many of the points in its natural history. "White as a swan" is a simile old as language itself. It would, no doubt, puzzle an Australian, used to look upon those beautiful and stately birds as being of a very different complexion. The simile holds good, however, with the North-American species, all three of which--for there are three of them--are almost snow-white. We need not describe the form or general appearance of the swan. These are familiar to every one. The long, upright, and gracefully-curving neck; the finely-moulded breast, the upward-tending tail-tip, the light "dip," and easy progression through the water, are points that everybody has observed, admired, and remembered. These are common to all birds of the genus _Cygnus_, and are therefore not peculiar to the swans of America. Many people fancy there are but two kinds of swans--the white and black. It is not long since the black ones have been introduced to general notoriety, as well as to general admiration. But there are many distinct species besides--species differing from each other in size, voice, and other peculiarities. In Europe alone, there are four native swans, specifically distinct. It was long believed that the common American swan (_Cygnus Americanus_) was identical with the common European species, so well-known in England. It is now ascertained, however, not only that these two are specifically distinct, but that in North America there exist two other species, differing from the _Cygnus Americanus_, and from each other. These are the Trumpeter (_Cygnus buccinnator_) and the small swan of Bewick (_Cygnus Bewickii_), also an inhabitant of European countries. The common American species is of a pure white, with black hill, logs, and feet. A slight tinge of brownish red is found on some individuals on the crown of the head, and a small patch of orange-yellow extends from the angles of the mouth to the eye. On the base of the bill is a fleshy tubercle or knob, and the upper mandible is curved at the tip. The young of this species are of a bluish-grey colour, with more of the brown-red tinge upon the head. The naked yellow patch, extending from the angles of the mouth to the eye, in the young birds, is covered with feathers, and their bills are flesh-coloured. This description answers in every respect for the swan of Bewick; but the latter species is only three-fourths the size of the former; and, besides, it has only eighteen tail feathers, while the American swan has twenty. Their note is also entirely unlike. The "Trumpeter" is different from either. He is the largest, being frequently met with of nearly six feet in length, while the common swan rarely exceeds five. The bill of the Trumpeter is not tuberculated; and the yellow patch under the eye is wanting. The bill, legs, and feet are entirely black. All the rest is white, with the exception of the head, which is usually tinged with chestnut or red-brown. When young, he is of a greyish-white, with a yellow mixture, and the head of deeper red-brown. His tail feathers are twenty-four in number; but there is a material difference between him and his congeners in the arrangement of the windpipe. In the Trumpeter this enters a protuberance that stands out on the dorsal aspect of the sternum, which is wanting in both the other kinds. It may be that this arrangement has something to do with his peculiar note, which differs altogether from that of the others. It is much fuller and louder, and at a distance bears a considerable resemblance to the trumpet or French horn. Hence the trivial name by which this species is known to the hunters. All the American swans are migratory--that is, they pass from north to south, every autumn, and back again from south to north in the beginning of spring. The period of their migration is different with the three species. The Trumpeter is the earliest, preceding all other birds, with the exception of the eagles. The _Cygnus Americanus_ comes next; and, lastly, the small swans, that are among the very latest of migratory birds. The Trumpeters seek the north at the breaking up of the ice. Sometimes they arrive at a point in their journey where this has not taken place. In such cases they fly back again until they reach some river or lake from which the ice has disappeared, where they remain a few days, and wait the opening of the waters farther north. When they are thus retarded and sent back, it is always in consequence of some unusual and unseasonable weather. The swans go northward to breed. Why they do so is a mystery. Perhaps they feel more secure in the inhospitable wastes that lie within the Arctic circle. The Trumpeters breed as far south as latitude 61 degrees, but most of them retire within the frigid zone. The small swans do not nest so far south, but pursue their course still onward to the Polar Sea. Here they build immense nests by raising heaps of peat moss, six feet in length by four in width, and two feet high. In the top of these heaps is situated the nest, which consists of a cavity a foot deep, and a foot and a half in diameter. The Trumpeters and American swans build in marshes and the islands of lakes. Where the muskrat (_Fiber zibethicus_) abounds, his dome-shaped dwelling--at that season, of course, deserted--serves often as the breeding-place boll? for the swans and wild geese. On the top of this structure, isolated in the midst of great marshes, these birds are secure from all their enemies--the eagle excepted. The eggs of the Trumpeter are very large, one of them being enough to make a good meal for a man. The eggs of the American species are smaller and of a greenish appearance, while those of the Bewick swan are still smaller and of a brownish-white colour, with a slight clouding of darker hue. Six or seven eggs is the usual "setting." The cygnets, when half or full-grown, are esteemed good eating, and are much sought after by the hunters and Indians of the fur countries. When the cygnets are full-grown, and the frost makes its appearance upon the lakes and rivers of the hyperborean regions, the swans begin to shift southwards. They do not migrate directly, as in the spring, but take more time on their journey, and remain longer in the countries through which they pass. This no doubt arises from the fact that a different motive or instinct now urges them. In the spring they are under the impulse of philo-progenitiveness. Now they range from lake to lake and stream to stream in search only of food. Again, as in the spring, the Trumpeters lead the van--winging their way to the great lakes, and afterwards along the Atlantic coast, and by the line of the Mississippi, to the marshy shores of the Mexican Sea. It may be remarked that this last-mentioned species--the Trumpeter--is rare upon the Atlantic coast, where the common swan is seen in greatest plenty. Again, the Trumpeter does not appear on the Pacific or by the Colombia River, where the common swan is met with, but the latter is there outnumbered by the small species (_Cygnus Bewickii_) in the ratio of five to one. This last again is not known in the fur countries of the interior, where the _Cygnus Americanus_ is found, but where the Trumpeter exists in greatest numbers. Indeed the skins of the Trumpeter are those which are mostly exported by the Hudson's Bay Company, and which form an important article of their commerce. The swan is eagerly hunted by the Indians who inhabit the fur countries. Its skin brings a good price from the traders, and its quills are valuable. Besides, the flesh is a consideration with these people, whose life, it must be borne in mind, is one continuous struggle for food; and who, for one-half the year, live upon the very verge of starvation. The swan, therefore, being a bird that weighs between twenty and thirty pounds, ranks among large game, and is hunted with proportionate ardour. Every art the Indian can devise is made use of to circumvent these great birds, and snares, traps, and decoys of all kinds are employed in the pursuit. But the swans are among the shyest of God's creatures. They fly so rapidly, unless when beating against the wind, that it requires a practised shot to hit them on the wing. Even when moulting their feathers, or when young, they can escape--fluttering over the surface of the water faster than a canoe can be paddled. The most usual method of hunting them is by snares. These are set in the following manner:-- A lake or river is chosen, where it is known the swans are in the habit of resting for some time on their migration southward--for this is the principal season of swan-catching. Some time before the birds make their appearance, a number of wicker hedges are constructed, running perpendicularly out from the bank, and at the distance of a few yards from each other. In the spaces between, as well as in openings left in the fences themselves, snares are set. These snares are made of the intestines of the deer, twisted into a round shape, and looped. They are placed so that several snares may embrace the opening, and the swans cannot pass through without being caught. The snare is fastened to a stake, driven into the mud with sufficient firmness to hold the bird when caught and struggling. That the snare may not be blown out of its proper place by the wind, or carried astray by the current, it is attached to the wattles of the hedge by some strands of grass. These, of course, are easily broken, and give way the moment a bird presses against the loop. The fences or wattle-hedges are always constructed projecting out from the shore--for it is known that the swans must keep close in to the land while feeding. Whenever a lake or river is sufficiently shallow to make it possible to drive in stakes, the hedges are continued across it from one side to the other. Swans are also snared upon their nests. When a nest is found, the snare is set so as to catch the bird upon her return to the eggs. These birds, like many others, have the habit of entering the nest on one side, and going out by the other, and it is upon the entrance side that the snare is set. The Indians have a belief that if the hands of the persons setting the snare be not clean, the bird will not approach it, but rather desert her eggs, even though she may have been hatching them for some time. It is, indeed, true that this is a habit of many birds, and may be so of the wild swan. Certain it is that the nest is always reconnoitred by the returning bird with great caution, and any irregularity appearing about it will render her extremely shy of approaching it. Swans are shot, like other birds, by "approaching" them under cover. It requires very large shot to kill them--the same that is used for deer, and known throughout America as "buck-shot." In England this size of shot is termed "swan shot." It is difficult to get within range of the wild swan, he is by nature a shy bird; and his long neck enables him to see over the sedge that surrounds him. Where there happens to be no cover--and this is generally the case where he haunts--it is impossible to approach him. Sometimes the hunter floats down upon him with his canoe hidden by a garniture of reeds and bushes. At other times he gets near enough in the disguise of a deer or other quadruped--for the swan, like most wild birds, is less afraid of the lower animals than of man. During the spring migration, when the swan is moving northward, the hunter, hidden under some rock, bank, or tree, frequently lures him from his high flight by the imitation of his well-known "hoop." This does not succeed so well in the autumn. When the swans arrive prematurely on their spring journey, they resort sometimes in considerable flocks to the springs and waterfalls, all other places being then ice-bound. At this time the hunters concealing themselves in the neighbourhood, obtain the desired proximity, and deal destruction with their guns. A-- related an account of a swan hunt by torch-light, which he had made some years before. "I was staying some days," said he, "at a remote, settlement upon one of the streams that run into the Red river of the north, it was in the autumn season, and the Trumpeter-swans had arrived in the neighbourhood on their annual migration to the south. I had been out several times after them with my gun, but was unable to get a shot at them in consequence of their shyness. I had adopted every expedient I could think of--calls, disguises, and decoys--but all to no purpose. I resolved, at length, to try them by torch-light. "It so happened that none of the hunters, at the settlement had ever practised this method; but as most of them had succeeded, by some means or other, in decoying and capturing several swans by other means, my hunter-pride was touched, and I was most anxious to show that I could kill swans as well as they. I had never seen Swans shot by torch-light, but I had employed the plan for killing deer, as you already know, and I was determined to make a trial of it upon the swans. "I set secretly about it, resolved to steal a march upon my neighbours, if possible. My servant alone was admitted into my confidence, and we proceeded to make the necessary arrangements. "These were precisely similar to those already described in my limit of the long-tails, except that the canoe, instead of being `a dug-out,' was a light craft of birch-bark, such as are in use among the Chippowas and other Indians of the northern countries. The canoe was obtained from a settler, and tilled with torch-wood and other necessary articles, but these were clandestinely put on board. "I was now ready, and a dark night was all that was wanted to enable me to carry out my plan. "Fortunately I soon obtained this to my heart's satisfaction. A night arrived as dark as Erebus; and with my servant using the paddle, we pushed out and shot swiftly down stream. "As soon as we had cleared the `settlement,' we lit our pine-knots in the frying-pan. The blaze refracted from the concave and blackened surface of the bark, cast a brilliant light over the semicircle ahead of us, at the same time that we, behind the screen of birch-bark, were hid in utter darkness. I had heard that the swans, instead of being frightened by torch-light, only became amazed, and even at times curious enough to approach it, just as the deer and some other animals do. This proved to be correct, as we had very soon a practical illustration of it. "We had not gone a mile down the river when we observed several white objects within the circle of our light; and paddling a little nearer, we saw that they were swans. We could distinguish their long, upright necks; and saw that they had given up feeding, and were gazing with wonder at the odd object that was approaching them. "There were five of them in the flock; and I directed my servant to paddle towards that which seemed nearest, and to use his oar with as much silence as possible. At the same time I looked to the caps of my double-barrelled gun. "The swans for a time remained perfectly motionless, sitting high in the water, with their long necks raised far above the surface. They appeared to be more affected by surprise than fear. "When we had got within about a hundred yards of them, I saw that they began to move about, and close in to one another; at the same time was heard proceeding from them a strange sound resembling very much the whistle of the fallow deer. I had heard of the singing of the swan, as a prelude to its death, and I hoped that which now reached my ears was a similar foreboding. "In order to make it so, I leaned forward, levelled my double-barrel-- both barrels being cocked--and waited the _moment_. "The birds had `clumped' together, until their long serpent-like necks crossed each other. A few more noiseless strokes of the paddle brought me within reach, and aiming for the heads of three that `lined,' I pulled both triggers at once. "The immense recoil flung me back, and the smoke for a moment prevented us from seeing the effect. "As soon as it had been wafted aside, our eyes were feasted by the sight of two large white objects floating down the current, while a third, evidently wounded, struggled along the surface, and beating the water into foam with its broad wings. "The remaining two had risen high into the air, and were heard uttering their loud trumpet-notes as they winged their flight through the dark heavens. "We soon bagged our game, both dead and wounded, and saw that they were a large `gander' and two young birds. "It was a successful beginning; and having replenished our torch, we continued to float downward in search of more. Half a mile farther on, we came in sight of three others, one of which we succeeded in killing. "Another `spell' of paddling brought us to a third flock, out of which I got one for each barrel of my gun; and a short distance below I succeeded in killing a pair of the grey wild geese. "In this way we kept down the river for at least ten miles I should think, killing both swans and geese as we went. Indeed, the novelty of the thing, the wild scenery through which we passed--rendered more wild and picturesque by the glare of the torch--and the excitement of success, all combined to render the sport most attractive; and but that our `pine-knots' had run out, I would have continued it until morning. "The failure of these at length brought our shooting to a termination, and we were compelled to put about, and undertake the much less pleasant, and much more laborious, task, of paddling ten miles up-stream. The consciousness, however, of having performed a great feat--in the language of the Canadian hunters, a grand `_coup_,' made the labour seem more light, and we soon arrived at the settlement, and next morning triumphantly paraded our game-bag in front of our `lodge.' "Its contents were twelve trumpeter-swans, besides three of the `hoopers.' We had also a pair of Canada geese; a snow-goose, and three brant,--these last being the produce of a single shot. "The hunters of the settlement were quite envious, and could not understand what means I had employed to get up such a `game-bag.' I intended to have kept that for some time a secret; but the frying-pan and the piece of blackened bark were found, and these betrayed my stratagem; so that on the night after, a dozen canoes, with torches at their bows, might have been seen floating down the waters of the stream." CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT. HUNTING THE MOOSE. While crossing the marshy bottom through which our road led, a singular hoof-track was observed in the mud. Some were of opinion that it was a track of the great moose-deer, but the hunter-naturalist, better informed, scouted the idea--declaring that moose never ranged, so far to the south. It was no doubt a very large elk that had made the track, and to this conclusion all at length came. The great moose-deer, however, was an interesting theme, and we rode along conversing upon it. The moose (_Cervus alces_) is the largest of the deer kind. The male is ordinarily as large as a mule; specimens have been killed of still greater dimensions. One that has been measured stood seventeen bands, and weighed 1200 pounds; it was consequently larger than most horses. The females are considerably smaller than the males. The colour of the moose, like that of other animals of the deer kind, varies with the season; it varies also with the sex. The male is tawny-brown over the back, sides, head, and thighs; this changes to a darker hue in winter, and in very old animals it is nearly black; hence the name "black elk," which is given in some districts to the moose. The under parts of the body are light-coloured, with a tinge of yellow or soiled white. The female is of a sandy-brown colour above, and beneath almost white. The calves are sandy-brown, but never spotted, as are the fawns of the common deer. The moose is no other than the elk of Northern Europe; but the elk of America (_Cervus Canadensis_), as already stated, is altogether a different animal. These two species may be mistaken for each other, in the season when their antlers are young, or in the velvet; then they are not unlike to a superficial observer. But the animals are rarely confounded--only the names. The American elk is not found indigenous in the eastern hemisphere, although he is the ornament of many a lordly park. The identity of the moose with the European elk is a fact that leads to curious considerations. A similar identity exists between the caribou of Canada and the reindeer of Northern Europe--they are both the _Cervus tarandus_ of Pliny. So also with the polar hear of both hemispheres, the arctic, fox, and several other animals. Hence we infer, that there existed at some period either a land connection, or some other means of communication, between the northern parts of both continents. Besides being the largest, the moose is certainly the most ungraceful of the deer family. His head is long, out of all proportion; so, too, are his legs; while his neck is short in an inverse ratio. His ears are nearly a foot in length, asinine, broad, and slouching; his eyes are small; and his muzzle square, with a deep _sulcus_ in the middle, which gives it the appearance of being bifid. The upper lip overhangs the under by several inches, and is highly prehensile. A long tuft of coarse hair grows out of an excrescence on the throat, in the angle between the head and neck. This tuft is observed both in the male and female, though only when full-grown. In the young, the excrescence is naked. An erect mane, somewhat resembling that of a cropped Shetland pony, runs from the base of the horns over the withers, and some way down the back. This adds to the stiff and ungainly appearance of the animal. The horns of the moose are a striking characteristic: they are palmated or flattened out like shovels, while along the edge rise the points or antlers. The width from horn to horn at their tops is often more than four feet, and the breadth of a single one, antlers included, is frequently above thirty inches. A single pair has been known to weigh as much as 60 pounds avoirdupois! Of course this stupendous head-dress gives the moose quite an imposing appearance; and it is one of the wonders of the naturalist what can be its object. The horns are found only on the males, and attain their full size only when these have reached their seventh year. In the yearlings appear two knobs, about an inch in length; in two-year-olds, these knobs have become spikes a foot high; in the third year they begin to palmate, and antlers rise along their edges; and so on, until the seventh year, when they become fully developed. They are annually caducous, however, as with the common deer, so that these immense appendages are the growth of a few weeks! The haunts and habits of the moose differ materially from those of other deer. He cannot browse upon level ground without kneeling or widening his legs to a great extent: this difficulty arises from the extreme length of his legs, and the shortness of his neck. He can do better upon the sides of steep hills, and he is often seen in such places grazing _upward_. Grass, however, is not his favourite food: he prefers the twigs and leaves of trees--such as birch, willow, and maple. There is one species of the last of which he is extremely fond; it is that known as striped maple (_Acer striatum_), or, in the language of hunters, "moose-wood." He peels off the bark from old trees of this sort, and feeds upon it, as well as upon several species of mosses with which the arctic regions abound. It will be seen that in these respects he resembles the giraffe: he may be regarded as the giraffe of the frigid zone. The moose loves the forest; he is rarely found in the open ground--on the prairie, never. On open level ground, he is easily overtaken by the hunter, as he makes but a poor run in such a situation. His feet are tender, and his wind short; besides, as we have already said, he cannot browse there without great inconvenience. He keeps in the thick forest and the impenetrable swamp, where he finds the food most to his liking. In summer, he takes to the water, wading into lakes and rivers, and frequently swimming across both. This habit renders him at that season an easy prey to his enemies, the Indian hunters, for in the water he is easily killed. Nevertheless, he loves to bury himself in the water, because along the shores of lakes and margins of rivers he finds the tall reed-grass, and the pond-lily--the latter a particular favourite with him. In this way, too, he rids himself of the biting gnats and stinging mosquitoes that swarm there; and also cools his blood, fevered by parasites, larvae, and the hot sun. The female moose produces one, two, and sometimes three calves at a birth; this is in April or May. The period of gestation is nine-months. During the summer, they are seen in families--that is, a bull, a cow, and two calves. Sometimes the group includes three or four cows; but this is rare. Occasionally, when the winter comes on, several of these family parties unite, and form herds of many individuals. When the snow is deep, one of these herds will tread down a space of several acres, in which they will be found browsing on the bark and twigs of the trees. A place of this sort is termed by the hunters a "moose-yard;" and in such a situation the animals become an easy prey. They are shot down on the spot, and those that attempt to escape through the deep snow are overtaken and brought to bay by dogs. This can only happen, however, when the snow is deep and crusted with frost; otherwise, the hunters and their dogs, as well as their heavier game, would sink in it. When the snow is of old standing, it becomes icy on the surface through the heat of the sun, rain, and frost; then it will bear the hunter, but not the deer. The latter break through it, and as these animals are tender-hoofed, they are lacerated at every jump. They soon feel the pain, give up the attempt to escape, and come to bay. It is dangerous for dogs to approach them when in this mood. They strike with the hoofs of their forefeet, a single blow of which often knocks the breath out of the stoutest deer-hound. There are many records of hunters having been sacrificed in a similar manner. Where the moose are plentiful, the Indians hunt them by pounding. This is done simply by inclosing a large tract of woods, with a funnel-shaped entrance leading into the inclosure. The wide mouth of the entrance embraces a path which the deer habitually take; upon this they are driven by the Indians, deployed in a wide curve, until they enter the funnel, and the pound itself. Here there are nooses set, in which many are snared, while others are shot down by the hunters who follow. This method is more frequently employed with the caribou, which are much smaller, and more gregarious than the moose-deer. We have already said that the moose are easily captured in summer, when they resort to the lakes and rivers to wade and swim. The biting of gnats and mosquitoes renders them less fearful of the approach of man. The Indians then attack them in their canoes, and either shoot or spear them while paddling alongside. They are much less dangerous to assail in this way than the elk or even the common deer (_Cervus Virginianus_), as the latter, when brought in contact with the frail birch-canoe, often kick up in such a manner as to upset it, or break a hole through its side. On the contrary, the moose is frequently caught by the antlers while swimming, and in this way carried alongside without either difficulty or danger. Although in such situations these huge creatures are easily captured, it is far otherwise as a general rule. Indeed, few animals are more shy than the moose. Its sight is acute; so, too, with its sense of smell; but that organ in which it chiefly confides is the ear. It can hear the slightest noise to a great distance; and the hunter's foot among the dead leaves, or upon the frozen snow-crust, often betrays him long before he can creep within range. They are, however, frequently killed by the solitary hunter stealing upon them, or "approaching," as it is termed. To do this, it is absolutely necessary to keep to leeward of them, else the wind would carry to their quick ears even the cautious tread of the Indian hunter. There is one other method of hunting the moose often practised by the Indians--that is, trailing them with _rackets_, or snow-shoes, and running them down. As I had partaken of this sport I was able to give an account of it to my companions. "In the winter of 18--, I had occasion to visit a friend who lived in the northern part of the state of Maine. My friend was a backwood settler; dwelt in a comfortable log-house; raised corn, cattle, and hogs; and for the rest, amused himself occasionally with a hunt in the neighbouring woods. This he could do without going far from home, as the great forests of pine, birch, and maple trees on all sides surrounded his solitary clearing, and his nearest neighbour was about twenty miles off. Literally, my friend lived in the woods, and the sports of the chase were with him almost a necessity; at all events, they were an everyday occupation. "Up to the time of my visit, I had never seen a moose, except in museums. I had never been so far north upon the American Continent; and it must be remembered, that the geographical range of the moose is confined altogether to the cold countries. It is only in the extreme northern parts of the United States that he appears at all. Canada, with the vast territories of the Hudson's Bay Company, even to the shores of the Arctic Sea, is the proper _habitat_ of this animal. "I was familiar with bears; cougars I had killed; elk and fallow deer I had driven; 'coons and 'possums I had treed; in short, I had been on hunting terms with almost every game in America except the moose. I was most eager, therefore, to have a shot at one of these creatures, and I well remember the delight I experienced when my friend informed me there were moose in the adjacent woods. "On the day after my arrival, we set forth in search of them, each armed with a hunting-knife and a heavy deer-gun. We went afoot; we could not go otherwise, as the snow lay to the depth of a yard, and a horse would have plunged through it with difficulty. It was an old snow, moreover, thickly crusted, and would have maimed our horses in a few minutes. We, with our broad rackets, could easily skim along without sinking below the surface. "I know not whether you have ever seen a pair of rackets, or Indian snow-shoes, but their description is easy. You have seen the rackets used in ball-play. Well, now, fancy a hoop, not of circular form, but forced into an elongated pointed ellipse, very much after the shape of the impression that a capsized boat would make in snow; fancy this about three feet long, and a foot across at its widest, closely netted over with gut or deer-thong, with bars in the middle to rest the foot upon, and a small hole to allow play to the toes, and you will have some idea of a snow-shoe. Two of these--right and left--make a pair. They are simply strapped on to your boots, and then their broad surface sustains you, even when the snow is comparatively soft, but perfectly when it is frozen. "Thus equipped, my friend and I set out _a pied_, followed by a couple of stout deer-hounds. We made directly for a part of the woods where it was known to my friend that the striped maple grew in great plenty. It has been stated already, that the moose are particularly fond of these trees, and there we would be most likely to fall in with them. "The striped maple is a beautiful deciduous little tree or shrub, growing to the height of a dozen feet or so in its natural _habitat_. When cultivated, it often reaches thirty feet. There is one at Schonbrunn, near Vienna, forty feet high, but this is an exception, and is the largest known. The usual height is ten or twelve feet, and it is more often the underwood of the forest than the forest itself. When thus situated, under the shade of loftier trees, it degenerates almost to the character of a shrub. "The trunk and branches of the striped maple are covered with a smooth green bark, longitudinally marked with light and dark stripes, by which the tree is easily distinguished from others, and from which it takes its name. It has other trivial names in different parts of the country. In New York state, it is called `dogwood;' but improperly so, as the real dogwood (_Cornus florida_) is a very different tree. It is known also as `false dogwood,' and `snake-barked maple.' The name `moose-wood' is common among the hunters and frontiers-men for reasons already given. Where the striped maple is indigenous, it is one of the first productions that announces the approach of spring. Its buds and leaves, when beginning to unfold, are of a roseate hue, and soon change to a yellowish green; the leaves are thick, cordate, rounded at the base, with three sharp lobes at the other extremity, and finely serrated. They are usually four or five inches in length and breadth. The tree flowers in May and June, and its flowers are yellow-green, grouped on long peduncles. The fruit, like all other maples, consists of _samarae_ or `keys;' it is produced in great abundance, and is ripe in September or October. "The wood is white and finely grained; it is sometimes used by cabinet-makers as a substitute for holly, in forming the lines with which they inlay mahogany. "In Canada, and those parts of the United States where it grows in great plenty, the farmers in spring turn out their cattle and horses to feed upon its leaves and young shoots, of which these animals are extremely fond; the more so, as it is only in very cold regions that it grows, and the budding of its foliage even precedes the springing of the grass. Such is the tree which forms the favourite browsing of the moose. "To return to my narrative. "After we had shuffled about two miles over the snow, my friend and I entered a tract of heavy timber, where the striped maple formed the underwood. It did not grow regularly, but in copses or small thickets. We had already started some small game, but declined following it, as we were bent only on a moose-chase. "We soon fell in with signs that indicated the propinquity of the animals we were in search of. In several of the thickets, the maples were stripped of their twigs and bark, but this had been done previous to the falling of the snow. As yet, there were no tracks: we were not long, however, before this welcome indication was met with. On crossing a glade where there was but little snow, the prints of a great split hoof were seen, which my friend at once pronounced to be those of the moose. "We followed this trail for some distance, until it led into deeper snow and a more retired part of the forest. The tracks were evidently fresh ones, and those, as my friend asserted, of an old bull. "Half-a-mile farther on, they were joined by others; and the trail became a broken path through the deep snow, as if it had been made by farm-cattle following each other in single file. Four moose had passed, as my friend--skilled in woodcraft--confidently asserted, although I could not have told that from the appearance of the trail. He went still farther in his `reckoning,' and stated that they were a bull, a cow, and two nine-months' calves. "`You shall soon see,' he said, perceiving that I was somewhat incredulous. `Look here!' he continued, bending down and pressing the broken snow with his fingers; `they are quite fresh--made within the hour. Speak low--the cattle can't be far off. Yonder, as I live! yonder they are--hush!' "My friend, as he spoke, pointed to a thicket about three hundred yards distant; I looked in that direction, but at first could perceive nothing more than the thickly-growing branches of the maples. "After a moment, however, I could trace among the twigs the long dark outlines of a strange animal's back, with a huge pair of palmated horns rising above the underwood. It was the bull-moose--there was no mistaking him for any other creature. Near him other forms--three of them--were visible: these were of smaller stature, and I could see that they were hornless. They were the cow and calves; and the herd was made up, as my companion had foretold, of these four individuals. "We had halted on the moment, each of us holding one of the dogs, and endeavouring to quiet them, as they already scented the game. We soon saw that it was of no use remaining where we were, as the herd was fully three hundred yards from us, far beyond the reach of even our heavy deer-guns. "It would be of no use either to attempt stealing forward. There was no cover that would effectually conceal us, for the timber around was not large, and we could not, therefore, make shift with the tree-trunks. "There was no other mode, then, but to let the dogs free of their leashes, and dash right forward. We knew we should not get a shot until after a run; but this would not be long, thought we, as the snow was in perfect order for our purpose. "Our dogs were therefore unleashed, and went off with a simultaneous `gowl,' while my friend and I followed as fast as we could. "The first note of the deer-hounds was a signal for the herd, and we could hear their huge bodies crashing through the underwood, as they started away. "They ran across some open ground, evidently with the intention of gaining the heavy timber beyond. On this ground there was but little snow; and as we came out through the thicket we had a full view of the noble game. The old bull was in the lead, followed by the others in a string. I observed that none of them galloped--a gait they rarely practise--but all went in a shambling trot, which, however, was a very fast one, equal to the speed of a horse. They carried their heads horizontally, with their muzzles directed forward, while the huge antlers of the bull leaned back upon his shoulders as he ran. Another peculiarity that struck me--the divisions of their great split hoofs, as they lifted them from the ground, met with a cracking sound, like the bursting of percussion-caps; and the four together rattled as they ran, as though a string of Christmas crackers had been touched off. I have often heard a similar cracking from the hoofs of farm-cattle; but with so many hoofs together, keeping up the fire incessantly, it produced a very odd impression upon me. "In a short time they were out of sight, but we could hear the baying of the dogs as the latter closed upon them, and we followed, guided by the trail they had made. "We had skated along for nearly a mile, when the howl of the hounds began to sound through the woods with more abrupt and fiercer echoes. We knew by this that the moose had been brought to bay, and we hurried forward, eager to have a shot. "On arriving at the place, we found that only the old bull had made stand, and he was successfully engaged in keeping off the dogs, both with feet and horns. The others had gone forward, and were out of view. "The bull, on seeing us approach, once more took the trot, and, followed by the dogs, was soon out of sight. "On reaching the spot where he had made his temporary halt, we found that his trail there parted from that of the other three, as he had taken almost an opposite direction. Whether he had done so considerately, in order to lead the dogs away from his weaker companions, I know not; perhaps our sudden appearance had terrified him into confusion, and he had struck out without looking before him. "We did not reflect on these points at the time. My friend, who probably was thinking more about the meat than the sport, without halting a moment, followed the trail of the cow and calves; while I, guided by different motives, took after the bull. I was in too great a hurry to heed some admonitions which were given by my friend as we parted company. As our trails separated, I heard him shouting to me to mind what I was about; but the courses we followed soon carried us beyond earshot or sight of each other. "I followed the chase about half a mile farther, guided by the tracks, as well as by the baying of the hounds. Again this assumed the fierce angry tone that denoted a battle going on between the dogs and the deer. "As I neared the spot, the voices of the former seemed to grow feebler; then there was a continued howling, as if the hounds were being roughly handled, and one of them I noticed was altogether silent. "On arriving on the scene, which I did soon after, I learned the cause of this change of tune. One of the dogs met me running back on the trail on three legs only, and woefully mangled. The moose was standing in a snow-pit, which had been trodden out by the animals while battling, and near his feet lay the other dog, mutilated in a most fearful manner, and evidently quite dead. The bull, in his rage, still continued to assail the dead body of the hound, rising and pouncing down upon it with his fore-hoofs until the ribs cracked under the concussion! "On seeing me, he again struck into the snow, and made off; I saw, however, that his limbs were much lacerated by the frozen crust, and that he ran slowly, leaving red tracks behind him. "I did not stop by the dogs--one being dead, and the survivor but little better--but kept on after the game. "We had now got into a tract where the snow lay of more than usual depth, and my snow-shoes enabled me to skim along faster than the moose himself, that I could easily perceive was growing feebler at every plunge. I saw that I was gaining upon him, and would soon be alongside. The woods through which we were passing were pretty open, and I could note every movement of the chase. "I had got within a hundred yards of him, and was thinking of firing at him as he ran, when all at once he came to a stop, and wheeling suddenly round, stood facing me. His huge antlers were thrown back until they touched his withers; his mane stood erect; all the hair upon his body seemed to bristle forward; and his whole attitude was one of rage and defiance: he was altogether as formidable-looking an enemy as it had ever been my lot to encounter. "My first thought, on getting near enough, was to raise my rifle and fire, which I did. I aimed for his chest, that was fair before me; but I shot wide, partly because my fingers were numbed with cold, and partly because the sun at the moment flashed in my eyes as I glanced along the barrel. I hit the moose, however, but in a part that was not mortal--in the shoulder. "The shot enraged him, and without waiting for me to re-load, he dashed madly forward and towards me; a few plunges brought him up, and I had no resource but to get behind a tree. "Fortunately there were some large pines in the neighbourhood, and behind one of these I took shelter--not, however, before the enraged animal had almost impaled me upon his antlers. As I slipped behind the trunk, he was following me so close that his horns came in contact with the tree, causing it to vibrate by the terrific shock. He himself drew back a pace or two, and then stopped and stood fast, eyeing the tree with sullen rage; his eyes glared, and his long stiff hair seemed to quiver as he threatened. "In the hope that he would allow me time, I again bethought me of re-loading my gun. What was my chagrin to find that I had not a grain of powder about me! My friend and I had started with but one powder-flask, and that he had carried with him. My gun was as useless as a bar of iron. "What was to be done? I dared not, approach the bull with my knife: my life would not have been worth five minutes' purchase. His horns and great sharp hoofs were weapons superior to mine. He might throw me down at the first outset, gore me to death, or trample me in the snow. I dared not risk such an encounter. "After reflecting for some time, I concluded that it would be wiser for me to leave the moose where he was, and take the back track without him. But how was I to get away from the spot? I was still behind the tree, and the enraged bull was within three feet of it on the other side, without showing any symptoms of retiring. Should I step either to one side or the other, he would launch himself upon me, and the result would be my certain destruction. "I now began to perceive that I was in a fix--regularly `treed,' in fact; and the knowledge was anything but cheering. I did not know how long I might be kept so; perhaps the moose might not leave me at all, or until hunger had done its work. The wound I had given him had certainly rendered him desperate and vengeful, and he appeared as if determined to protract the siege indefinitely. "After remaining nearly an hour in this situation, I began to grow angry and impatient. I had shouted to frighten the bull, but to no purpose; I had shouted, and at the top of my voice, in hopes that I might be heard by my friend, but there was no response except the echoes of my own voice borne hoarsely through the aisles of the winter forest. I grew impatient of my odd captivity, and determined to stand it no longer. "On stealing a glance behind me, I perceived a tree as large as the one which sheltered me. I resolved to make for that one, as it would at least not render my situation worse should I reach it in safety. This I effected, but not without having my speed put to the test, for the moose followed so close as almost to touch me with his brow-antlers. Once behind this new tree, I was no better off than before, except that it brought me some twenty paces nearer home. The moose--still stood in front of me only a few feet distant, and threatening as fiercely as ever. "After waiting some minutes for my breath, I selected a third tree in the right direction, and made for it in a similar manner, the moose following as before. "Another rest and another run brought me behind a fresh tree, and another and another, until I must have made a full mile through the woods, still followed by my implacable and untiring enemy. I knew, however, that I was going homeward, for I guided myself by the trail which we had made in the chase. "I was in hopes that I might make the whole back-journey in this way, when all at once I perceived that the heavy timber came to an end, and a wide, almost open tract intersected the country, over this the trees were small stunted pines, far apart, and offering no hope of shelter from my relentless persecutor. "I had no alternative now but to remain where I was, and await the arrival of my friend, who, I presumed, would come after me as soon as he had finished his own hunt. "With this dubious hope, I kept my stand, although I was ready to drop with fatigue. To add to my misery, it commenced snowing. I saw this with feelings akin to terror, for I knew that the snow would soon blind the trail; and how, then, was my friend to follow it, and find me? The bull still stood before me in the same threatening attitude, occasionally snorting, striking the ground with his hoofs, and ready to spring after me whenever I should move. Ever as I changed the attitude of my body, he would start forward again, until I could almost touch him with the muzzle of my gun. "These manoeuvres on his part suggested to me an experiment, and I wondered that I had not thought of it before. I was not long in resolving to carry it out. I was armed with a stout hunting-knife, a bowie; it was pointed as sharp as a needle; and could I only have ventured near enough to the bull, I would soon have settled the dispute with him. The idea now occurred to me of converting my bowie into a lance by splicing it upon the barrel of my gun. With this I had hopes of being able to reach my powerful assailant without coming within range either of his hoofs or horns. "The lance was soon made, a pair of buckskin gaiters which I wore furnished me with thongs. My gun happened to be a long rifle; and the knife, spliced firmly to the muzzle, rendered it a formidable weapon, so that in a few minutes I stood in a better attitude than I had assumed for hours before. "The affair soon came to an issue. As I had anticipated, by showing myself a little to one side of the tree, the bull sprang forward, and I was enabled, by a dexterous thrust, to plant the knife between his ribs. It entered his heart, and the next moment I saw him rolling over, and kicking the crimsoned snow around him in the struggles of death. "I had scarcely completed my victory, when a loud whoop sounded in my ears, and looking up, I saw my friend making towards me across the open ground. He had completed his chase, having killed all three, cut them up, and hung their meat upon the trees, to be sent for on our return to the house. "By his aid the bull was disposed of in a similar manner; and being now satisfied with our day's sport--though my friend very much regretted the loss of his fine dog--we commenced shuffling homeward." CHAPTER TWENTY NINE. THE PRAIRIE-WOLF AND WOLF-KILLER. After crossing the Marais de Cygnes River the country became much more open. There was a mixture of timber and prairie-land--the latter, however, constantly gaining the ascendancy as we advanced farther west. The openings became larger, until they assumed the appearance of vast meadows, inclosed by groves, that at a distance resembled great hedges. Now and then there were copses that stood apart from the larger tracts of forests, looking like islands upon the surface of a green sea, and by the name of "islands" these detached groves are known among the hunters and other denizens of prairie-land. Sometimes the surface was undulating or, as it is there termed, "rolling," and our road was varied, ascending or descending, as we crossed the gentle declivities. The timber through which we had up to this time been passing consisted of ash, burr oak, black walnut, chestnut oak, buck eye, the American elm, hickory, hackberry, sumach, and, in low moist places, the sycamore, and long-leaved willow. These trees, with many others, form the principal growth of the large forests, upon the banks of the Mississippi, both cast and west. As we advanced westward, Besancon called our attention to the fact, that all these kinds of timber, one by one, disappeared from the landscape, and in their place a single species alone made up the larger growth of the forest. This was the celebrated "cotton-wood," a species of poplar (_Populus angulatus_). I say celebrated, because, being almost the only tree of large size which is found throughout the region of the great plains, it is well-known to all hunters and prairie travellers, who regard it with a peculiar veneration. A grove of cotton-wood is always a glad sight to those who traverse the limitless levels of the prairie. It promises shelter from the wind or sun, wood for the camp-fire, and, above all, water to slake the thirst. As the ocean mariner regards the sight of the welcome port, with similar feelings of joy the mariner of the "prairie-sea" beholds, over the broad waste, the silvery foliage of the cotton-wood grove, regarding it as his temporary home--his place of rest and refuge. After travelling through hundreds of small prairies, separated from each other by groves of cotton-wood, we arrived at a high point on the waters of the "Little Osage," another tributary of the larger river of that name. As yet we had met with no traces of the buffalo, and were beginning to doubt the correctness of the information we had received at Saint Louis, when we fell in with a band of Kansas Indians--a friendly tribe--who received us in the most courteous manner. From them we learned that the buffalo had been upon the Little Osage at an earlier period in that same year, but that harassed and decimated by their own hunters, they had roamed much farther west, and were now supposed to be on the other side of the "Neosho," or Grand River--a northern tributary of the Arkansas. This was anything but pleasant news. We should have at least another hundred miles to travel before coming up with our game; but there was no thought of going back, until we had done so. No. One and all declared that rather than give up the object of our expedition, we would travel on to the Rocky Mountains themselves, risking the chances of being scalped by hostile Indians. There was a good deal of bravado in this, it is true; but we were fully determined that we would not go back without our buffalo-hunt. Thanking our Kansas friends for their courtesy, we parted from them, and headed westward for the Neosho. As we proceeded, timber became scarce, until at length it was found only on the banks of streams widely distant from each other. Sometimes not a tree was in sight for the whole day's journey. We were now fairly on the prairies. We crossed the Neosho at length--still no buffalo. We kept on, and crossed several other large streams, all flowing south-eastwardly to the Arkansas. Still no buffalo. We began to yearn exceedingly for a sight of the great game. The few deer that were killed from time to time offered us but poor sport, and their meat was not sufficient for our supply. Of bacon we were heartily tired, and we longed for fresh buffalo-beef. The praises lavished by our guides upon the delicacy of this viand-- their talk over the camp-fire, about "fat cow" and "_boudins_" and "hump-ribs," quite tantalised our palates, and we were all eager to try our teeth upon these vaunted tit-bits. No buffalo appeared yet, and we were forced to chew our bacon, as well as our impatience, for several days longer. A great change now took place in the appearance of the country. The timber became still more scarce, and the soil drier and more sandy. Species of cactus (_opuntia_) appeared along the route, with several other plants new to the eyes of most of us, and which to those of Besancon were objects of extreme interest. But that which most gratified us was the appearance of a new herbage, different entirely from what we had been passing over, and this was hailed by our guides with exclamations of joy. It was the celebrated "buffalo grass." The trappers declared we should not have much farther to go until we found the buffaloes themselves, for, wherever this grass existed in plenty, the buffalo, unless driven off by hunting, were sure to be found. The buffalo grass is a short grass, not more than a few inches in height, with crooked and pointed culms, often throwing out suckers that root again, and produce other leaves and culms, and in this way form a tolerably thick sward. When in flower or seed, it is headed by numerous spikes of half an inch in length, and on these the spikelets are regular and two rowed. It is a species of _Sesleria_ (_Sesleria dactyloides_), but Besancon informed us that it possesses characters that cause it to differ from the genus, and to resemble the _Chondrosium_. The buffalo grass is not to be confounded with, another celebrated grass of the Texan and North Mexican prairies, the "gramma" of the Spaniards. This last is a true Chondrosium, and there are several species of it. The _Chondrosium foeneum_ is one of the finest fodders in the world for the food of cattle, almost equal to unthrashed oats. The buffalo grass forms the favourite and principal fodder of the buffaloes whenever it is in season, and these animals roam over the prairies in search of it. Of course with this knowledge we were now on the _qui vive_. At every new rise that we made over the swells of the prairie our eyes were busy, and swept the surface on every side of us, and in the course of a few days we encountered several false alarms. There is an hallucination peculiar to the clear atmosphere of these regions. Objects are not only magnified, but frequently distorted in their outlines, and it is only an old hunter that knows a buffalo when he sees one. Brothers a bush is often taken for a wild bull, and with us a brace of carrion crows, seated upon the crest of a ridge, were actually thought to be buffaloes, until they suddenly took wing and rose into the air, thus dispelling the illusion! Long before this time we had encountered that well-known animal of the great plains--the "prairie-wolf,"--(_Lupus latrans_). The prairie-wolf inhabits the vast and still unpeopled territories that lie between the Mississippi River and the shores of the Pacific Ocean. Its range extends beyond what is strictly termed "the prairies." It is found in the wooded and mountainous ravines of California and the Rocky Mountain districts. It is common throughout the whole of Mexico, where it is known as the "coyote." I have seen numbers of this species on the battle-field, tearing at corpses, as far south as the valley of Mexico itself. Its name of prairie-wolf is, therefore, in some respects inappropriate, the more so as the larger wolves are also inhabitants of the prairie. No doubt this name was given it, because the animal was first observed in the prairie country west of the Mississippi by the early explorers of that region. In the wooded countries east of the great river, the common large wolf only is known. Whatever doubt there may be of the many varieties of the large wolf being distinct species, there can be none with regard to the _Lupus latrans_. It differs from all the others in size, and in many of its habits. Perhaps it more nearly resembles the jackal than any other animal. It is the New World representative of that celebrated creature. In size, it is just midway between the large wolf and fox. With much of the appearance of the former, it combines all the sagacity of the latter. It is usually of a greyish colour, lighter or darker, according to circumstances, and often with a tinge of cinnamon or brown. As regards its cunning, the fox is "but a fool to it." It cannot be trapped. Some experiments made for the purpose, show results that throw the theory of instinct quite into the background. It has been known to burrow under a "dead fall," and drag off the bait without springing the trap. The steel-trap it avoids, no matter how concealed; and the cage-trap has been found "no go." Farther illustrations of the cunning of the prairie-wolf might be found in its mode of decoying within reach the antelopes and other creatures on which it preys. Of course this species is as much fox as wolf, for in reality a small wolf is a fox, and a large fox is a wolf. To the traveller and trapper of the prairie regions, it is a pest. It robs the former of his provisions--often stealing them out of his very tent; it unbaits the traps of the latter, or devours the game already secured in them. It is a constant attendant upon the caravans or travelling-parties that cross prairie-land. A pack of prairie-wolves will follow such a party for hundreds of miles, in order to secure the refuse left at the camps. They usually he down upon the prairie, just out of range of the rifles of the travellers; yet they do not observe this rule always, as they know there is not much danger of being molested. Hunters rarely shoot them, not deeming their hides worth having, and not caring to waste a charge upon them. They are more cautious when following a caravan of California emigrants, where there are plenty of "greenhorns" and amateur-hunters ready to fire at anything. Prairie-wolves are also constant attendants upon the "gangs" of buffalo. They follow these for hundreds of miles--in fact, the outskirts of the buffalo herd are, for the time being, their home. They he down on the prairie at a short distance from the buffaloes, and wait and watch, in hopes that some of these animals may get disabled or separated from the rest, or with the expectation that a cow with her new-dropped calf may fall into the rear. In such cases, the pack gather round the unfortunate individual, and worry it to death. A wounded or superannuated bull sometimes "falls out," and is attacked. In this case the fight is more desperate, and the bull is sadly mutilated before he can be brought to the ground. Several wolves, too, are laid _hors de combat_ during the struggle. The prairie traveller may often look around him without seeing a single wolf; but let him fire off his gun, and, as if by magic, a score of them will suddenly appear. They start from their hiding-places, and rush forward in hopes of sharing in the produce of the shot. At night, they enliven the prairie-camp with their dismal howling, although most travellers would gladly dispense with such music. Their note is a bark like that of a terrier-dog repeated three times, and then prolonged into a true wolf's howl. I have heard farm-house dogs utter a very similar bark. From this peculiarity, some naturalists prefer calling them the "barking wolf," and that (_Lupus latrans_) is the specific appellation given by Say, who first described them. Prairie-wolves have all the ferocity of their race, but no creature could be more cowardly. Of course no one fears them under ordinary circumstances, but they have been known to make a combined attack upon persons disabled, and in severe weather, when they themselves were rendered unusually savage by hunger, as already stated. But they are not regarded with fear either by traveller or hunter; and the latter disdains to waste his charge upon such worthless game. Our guide, Ike, was an exception to this rule. He was the only one of his sort that shot prairie-wolves, and he did so "on sight." I believe if it had been the last bullet in his pouch, and an opportunity had offered of sending it into a prairie-wolf, he would have despatched the leaden missile. We asked him how many he had killed in his time. He drew a small notched stick from his "possible sack," and desired us to count the notches upon it. We did so. There were one hundred and forty-five in all. "You have killed one hundred and forty-five, then?" cried we, astonished at the number. "Yes, i'deed," replied he, with a quiet chuckle, "that many dozen; for every 'un of them nutches count twelve. I only make a nutch when I've throwed the clur dozen." "A hundred and forty-five dozen!" we repeated in astonishment; and yet I have no doubt of the truth of the trapper's statement, for he had no interest in deceiving us. I am satisfied from what I knew of him, that he had slain the full number stated--one thousand seven hundred and forty! Of course we became curious to learn the cause of his antipathy to the prairie-wolves; for we knew he had an antipathy, and it was that that had induced him to commit such wholesale havoc among these creatures. It was from this circumstance he had obtained the soubriquet of "wolf-killer." By careful management, we at last got him upon the edge of the stray, and quietly pushed him into it. He gave it to us as follows:-- "Wal, strengers, about ten winters agone, I wur travellin' from Bent's Fort on the Arkensaw, to 'Laramie on the Platte, all alone by myself. I had undertuk the journey on some business for Bill Bent--no matter now what. "I had crossed the divide, and got within sight o' the Black Hills, when one night I had to camp out on the open parairy, without either bush or stone to shelter me. "That wur, perhaps, the coldest night this nigger remembers; thur wur a wind kim down from the mountains that wud a froze the bar off an iron dog. I gathered my blanket around me, but that wind whistled through it as if it had been a rail-fence. "'Twan't no use lyin' down, for I couldn't a slep, so I sot up. "You may ask why I hadn't a fire? I'll tell you why. Fust, thur wan't a stick o' timber within ten mile o' me; and, secondly, if thur had been I dasen't a made a fire. I wur travellin' as bad a bit o' Injun ground as could been found in all the country, and I'd seen Injun sign two or three times that same day. It's true thur wur a good grist o' buffler-chips about, tol'ably dry, and I mout have made some sort o' a fire out o' that; an' at last I did make a fire arter a fashion. I did it this a way. "Seeing that with the cussed cold I wan't agoin' to get a wink o' sleep, I gathered a wheen o' the buffler-chips. I then dug a hole in the ground with my bowie, an' hard pickin' that wur; but I got through the crust at last, and made a sort o' oven about a fut, or a fut and a half deep. At the bottom I laid some dry grass and dead branches o' sage plant, and then settin' it afire, I piled the buffler-chips on top. The thing burnt tol'able well, but the smoke o' the buffler-dung would a-choked a skunk. "As soon as it had got fairly under way, I hunkered, an' sot down over the hole, in sich a position as to catch all the heat under my blanket, an' then I was comf'table enough. Of coorse no Injun kud see the smoke arter night, an it would a tuk sharp eyes to have sighted the fire, I reckon. "Wal, strengers, the critter I rode wur a young mustang colt, about half-broke. I had bought him from a Mexikin at Bent's only the week afore, and it wur his fust journey, leastwise with me. Of coorse I had him on the lariat; but up to this time I had kept the eend o' the rope in my hand, because I had that same day lost my picket pin; an' thinkin' as I wan't agoin' to sleep, I mout as well hold on to it. "By 'm by, however, I begun to feel drowsy. The fire 'atween my legs promised to keep me from freezin', an' I thort I mout as well take a nap. So I tied the lariat round my ankles, sunk my head atween my knees, an' in the twinklin' o' a goat's tail I wur sound. I jest noticed as I wur goin' off, that the mustang wur out some yards, nibbling away at the dry grass o' the parairy. "I guess I must a slep about an hour, or tharabouts--I won't be sartint how long. I only know that I didn't wake o' my own accord. I wur awoke; an' when I did awoke, I still thort I wur a-dreamin'. It would a been a rough dream; but unfort'nately for me, it wan't a dream, but a jenwine reality. "At fust, I cudn't make out what wur the matter wi' me, no how; an' then I thort I wur in the hands o' the Injuns, who were draggin' me over the parairy; an' sure enough I wur a draggin' that a way, though not by Injuns. Once or twice I lay still for jest a second or two, an' then away I went agin, trailin' and bumpin' over the ground, as if I had been tied to the tail o' a gallopin' hoss. All the while there wur a yellin' in my ears as if all the cats an' dogs of creation were arter me. "Wal, it wur some time afore I compre'nded what all this rough usage meant. I did at last. The pull upon my ankles gave me the idea. It wur the lariat that wur round them. My mustang had stampedoed, and wur draggin' me at full gallop acrosst the parairy! "The barkin', an' howlin', an' yelpin' I heerd, wur a pack o' parairy-wolves. Half-famished, they had attacked the mustang, and started him. "All this kim into my mind at once. You'll say it wur easy to lay hold on the rope, an' stop the hoss. So it mout appear; but I kin tell you that it ain't so easy a thing. It wan't so to me. My ankles wur in a noose, an' wur drawed clost together. Of coorse, while I wur movin' along, I couldn't get to my feet; an' whenever the mustang kim to a halt, an' I had half gathered myself, afore I laid reach the rope, away went the critter agin, flingin' me to the ground at full length. Another thing hindered me. Afore goin' to sleep, I had put my blanket on Mexikin-fashion--that is, wi' my head through a slit in the centre-- an' as the drag begun, the blanket flopped about my face, an' half-smothered me. Prehaps, however, an' I thort so arterwurd, that blanket saved me many a scratch, although it bamfoozled me a good bit. "I got the blanket off at last, arter I had made about a mile, I reckon, and then for the fust time I could see about me. Such a sight! The moon wur up, an' I kud see that the ground wur white with snow. It had snowed while I wur asleep; but that wan't the sight--the sight war, that clost up an' around me the hul parairy wur kivered with wolves--cussed parairy-wolves! I kud see their long tongues lollin' out, an' the smoke steamin' from their open mouths. "Bein' now no longer hampered by the blanket, I made the best use I could o' my arms. Twice I got hold o' the lariat, but afore I kud set myself to pull up the runnin' hoss, it wur jerked out o' my hand agin. "Somehow or other, I had got clutch o' my bowie, and at the next opportunity I made a cut at the rope, and heerd the clean `snig' o' the knife. Arter that I lay quiet on the parairy, an' I b'lieve I kinder sort o' fainted. "'Twan't a long faint no how; for when I got over it, I kud see the mustang about a half a mile off, still runnin' as fast as his legs could carry him, an' most of the wolves howlin' arter him. A few of these critters had gathered about me, but gettin' to my feet, I made a dash among them wi' the shinin' bowie, an' sent them every which way, I reckon. "I watched the mustang until he wur clur out o' sight, an' then I wur puzzled what to do. Fust, I went back for my blanket, which I soon rekivered, an' then I follered the back track to get my gun an' other traps whur I had camped. The trail wur easy, on account o' the snow, an' I kud see whur I had slipped through it all the way. "Having got my possibles, I then tuk arter the mustang, and follered for at least ten miles on his tracks, but I never see'd that, mustang agin. Whether the wolves hunted him down or not, I can't say, nor I don't care if they did, the scarey brute! I see'd their feet all the way arter him in the snow, and I know'd it wur no use follering further. It wur plain I wur put down on the parairy, so I bundled my possibles, and turned head for Laramies afoot. I had a three days' walk o' it, and prehaps I didn't cuss a few! "I wur right bad used. Thur wan't a bone in my body that didn't ache, as if I had been passed through a sugar-mill; and my clothes and skin were torn consid'ably. It mout a been wuss but for the blanket an' the sprinkle o' snow that made the ground a leetle slickerer. "Howsomever, I got safe to the Fort, whur I wur soon rigged out in a fresh suit o' buckskin an' a hoss. "But I never arterward see'd a parairy-wolf within range o' my rifle, that I didn't let it into him, an' as you see, I've throwed a good wheen in their tracks since then. Wagh! Hain't I, Mark?" CHAPTER THIRTY. HUNTING THE TAPIR. At one of our prairie-camps our English comrade furnished us with the following account of that strange creature, the tapir. "No one who has turned over the pages of a picture-book of mammalia will be likely to forget the odd-looking animal known as the tapir. Its long proboscis-like snout, its stiff-maned neck, and clumsy hog-like body, render the _tout ensemble_ of this creature so peculiar, that there is no mistaking it for any other animal. "When full-grown, the tapir, or anta, as it is sometimes called, is six feet in length by four in height--its weight being nearly equal to that of a small bullock. Its teeth resemble those of the horse; but instead of hoofs, its feet are toed--the fore ones having four toes, while the hind-feet have only three each. The eyes are small and lateral, while the ears are large and pointed. The skin is thick, somewhat like that of the hippopotamus, with a very thin scattering of silky hairs over it; but along the ridge of the neck, and upon the short tail, the hairs are longer and more profuse. The upper jaw protrudes far beyond the extremity of the under one. It is, moreover, highly prehensile, and enables the tapir to seize the roots upon which it feeds with greater ease. In fact, it plays the part of the elephant's proboscis to a limited degree. "Although the largest quadruped indigenous to South America, the tapir is not very well-known to naturalists. Its haunts are far beyond the borders of civilisation. It is, moreover, a shy and solitary creature, and its active life is mostly nocturnal; hence no great opportunity is offered for observing its habits. The chapter of its natural history is therefore a short one. "The tapir is an inhabitant of the tropical countries of America, dwelling near the banks of rivers and marshy lagoons. It is the American representative of the rhinoceros and hippopotamus, or, more properly, of the _maiba_, or Indian tapir (_Tapirus Indicus_) of Sumatra, which has but lately become known to naturalists. The latter, in fact, is a near congener, and very much, resembles the tapir of South America. "The tapir is amphibious--that is, it frequents the water, can swim and dive well, and generally seeks its food in the water or the soft marshy sedge; but when in repose, it is a land animal, making its haunt in thick coverts of the woods, and selecting a dry spot for its lair. Here it will remain couched and asleep during the greater part of the day. At nightfall, it steals forth, and following an old and well-used path, it approaches the bank of some river, and plunging in, swims off in search of its food--the roots and stems of several species of water-plants. In this business it occupies most of the hours of darkness; but at daybreak, it swims back to the place where it entered the water, and going out, takes the `backtrack' to its lair, where it sleeps until sunset again warns it forth. "Sometimes during rain, it leaves its den even at midday. On such occasions, it proceeds to the river or the adjacent swamp, where it delights to wallow in the mud, after the manner of hogs, and often for hours together. Unlike the hog, however, the tapir is a cleanly animal. After wallowing, it never returns to its den until it has first plunged into the clear water, and washed the mud thoroughly from its skin. "It usually travels at a trot, but when hard pressed it can gallop. Its gallop is peculiar. The fore-legs are thrown far in advance, and the head is carried between them in a very awkward manner, somewhat after the fashion of a frolicsome donkey. "The tapir is strictly a vegetable feeder. It lives upon flags and roots of aquatic plants. Several kinds of fruits, and young succulent branches of trees, form a portion of its food. "It is a shy, timid animal, without any malice in its character; and although possessed of great strength, never uses it except for defence, and then only in endeavours to escape. It frequently suffers itself to be killed without making any defence, although with its great strength and well-furnished jaws it might do serious hurt to an enemy. "The hunt of the tapir is one of the amusements, or rather employments, of the South-American Indians. Not that the flesh of this animal is so eagerly desired by them: on the contrary, it is dry, and has a disagreeable taste, and there are some tribes who will not eat of it, preferring the flesh of monkeys, macaws, and the armadillo. But the part most prized is the thick, tough skin, which is employed by the Indians in making shields, sandals, and various other articles. This is the more valuable in a country where the thick-skinned and leather-yielding mammalia are almost unknown. "Slaying the tapir is no easy matter. The creature is shy; and, having the advantage of the watery clement, is often enabled to dive beyond the reach of pursuit, and thus escape by concealing itself. Among most of the native tribes of South America, the young hunter who has killed a tapir is looked upon as having achieved something to be proud of. "The tapir is hunted by bow and arrow, or by the gun. Sometimes the `gravatana,' or blow-tube, is employed, with its poisoned darts. In any case, the hunter either lies in wait for his prey, or with a pack of dogs drives it out of the underwood, and takes the chances of a `flying shot.' "When the trail of a tapir has been discovered, its capture becomes easy. It is well-known to the hunter that this animal, when proceeding from its lair to the water and returning, always follows its old track until a beaten-path is made, which is easily discernible. "This path often betrays the tapir, and leads to its destruction. "Sometimes the hunter accomplishes this by means of a pitfall, covered with branches and palm-leaves; at other times, he places himself in ambuscade, either before twilight or in the early morning, and shoots the unsuspecting animal as it approaches on its daily round. "Sometimes, when the whereabouts of a tapir has been discovered, a whole tribe sally out, and take part in the hunt. Such a hunt I myself witnessed on one of the tributaries of the Amazon. "In the year 18--, I paid a visit to the Jurunas up the Xingu. Their _Malaccas_ (palm-hut villages) lie beyond the falls of that river. Although classed as `wild Indians,' the Jurunas are a mild race, friendly to the traders, and collect during a season considerable quantities of _seringa_ (Indian-rubber), sarsaparilla, as well as rare birds, monkeys, and Brazil-nuts--the objects of Portuguese trade. "I was about to start back for Para, when nothing would serve the _tuxava_, or chief of one of the maloccas, but that I should stay a day or two at his village, and take part in some festivities. He promised a tapir-hunt. "As I knew that among the Jurunas were some skilled hunters, and as I was curious to witness an affair of this kind, I consented. The hunt was to come off on the second day of my stay. "The morning arrived, and the hunters assembled, to the number of forty or fifty, in an open space by the malocca; and having got their arms and equipments in readiness, all repaired to the _praya_, or narrow beach of sand, which separated the river from the thick underwood of the forest. Here some twenty or thirty _ubas_ (canoes hollowed out of tree-trunks) floated on the water, ready to receive the hunters. They were of different sizes; some capable of containing half a dozen, while others were meant to carry only a single person. "In a few minutes the ubas were freighted with their living cargoes, consisting not only of the hunters, but of most of the women and boys of the malocca, with a score or two of dogs. "These dogs were curious creatures to look at. A stranger, ignorant of the customs of the Jurunas, would have been at some loss to account for the peculiarity of their colour. Such dogs I had never seen before. Some were of a bright scarlet, others were yellow, others blue, and some mottled with a variety of tints! "What could it mean? But I knew well enough. _The dogs were dyed_! "Yes, it is the custom among many tribes of South-American Indians to dye not only their own bodies, but the hairy coat of their dogs, with brilliant colours obtained from vegetable juices, such as the huitoc, the yellow raucau (_annato_), and the blue of the wild indigo. The light grey, often white, hair of these animals favours the staining process; and the effect produced pleases the eye of their savage masters. "On my eye the effect was strange and fantastical. I could not restrain my laughter when I first scanned these curs in their fanciful coats. Picture to yourself a pack of scarlet, and orange, and purple dogs! "Well, we were soon in the ubas, and paddling up-stream. The tuxava and I occupied a canoe to ourselves. His only arms were a light fusil, which I had given him as a present. It was a good piece, and he was proud of it. This was to be its first trial. I had a rifle for my own weapon. The rest were armed variously: some had guns, others the native bow and arrows; some carried the gravatana, with arrows dipped in curari poison; some had nothing but machetes, or cutlasses--for clearing the underwood, in case the game had to be driven from the thickets. "There was a part of the river, some two or three miles above the malocca, where the channel was wider than elsewhere--several miles in breadth at this place. Here it was studded with islands, known to be a favourite resort of the tapirs. This was to be the scene of our hunt. "We approached the place in about an hour; but on the way I could not help being struck with the picturesqueness of our party. No `meet' in the hunting-field of civilised countries could have equalled us in that respect. The ubas, strung out in a long irregular line, sprang up-stream in obedience to the vigorous strokes of the rowers, and these sang in a sort of irregular concert as they plied their paddles. The songs were improvised: they told the feats of the hunters already performed, and promised others yet to be done. I could hear the word `tapira' (tapir), often repeated. The women lent their shrill voices to the chorus; and now and then interrupted the song with peals of merry laughter. The strange-looking flotilla--the bronzed bodies of the Indians, more than half nude--their waving black hair--their blue-head belts and red cotton armlets--the bright _tangas_ (aprons) of the women--their massive necklaces--the macaw feathers adorning the heads of the hunters--their odd arms and equipments--all combined to form a picture which, even to me, accustomed to such sights, was full of interest. "At length we arrived among the islands, and then the noises ceased. The canoes were paddled as slowly and silently as possible. "I now began to understand the plan of the hunt. It was first to discover an island upon which a tapir was supposed to be, and then encompass it with the hunters in their canoes, while a party landed with the dogs, to arouse the game and drive it toward the water. "This plan promised fair sport. "The canoes now separated; and in a short while each of them were seen coursing quietly along the edge of some islet, one of its occupants leaning inward, and scrutinising the narrow belt of sand that bordered the water. "In some places no such sand-belt appeared. The trees hung over, their branches even dipping into the current, and forming a roofed and dark passage underneath. In such places a tapir could have hidden himself from the sharpest-eyed hunters, and herein lies the chief difficulty of this kind of hunt. "It was not long before a low whistle was heard from one of the ubas, a sign for the others to come up. The traces of a tapir had been discovered. "The chief, with a stroke or two of his palm-wood paddle, brought our canoe to the spot. "There, sure enough, was the sign--the tracks of a tapir in the sand-- leading to a hole in the thick underwood, where a beaten-path appeared to continue onward into the interior of the island, perhaps to the tapir-den. The tracks were fresh--had been made that morning in the wet sand--no doubt the creature was in its lair. "The island was a small one, with some five or six acres of surface. The canoes shot off in different directions, and in a few minutes were deployed all around it. At a given signal, several hunters leaped ashore, followed by their bright-coloured assistants--the dogs; and then the chopping of branches, the shouts of the men, and the yelping of their canine companions, were all heard mingling together. "The island was densely wooded. The _uaussu_ and _piriti_ palms grew so thickly, that their crowned heads touched each other, forming a close roof. Above these, rose the taller summits of the great forest trees, _cedrelas, zamangs_, and the beautiful long-leaved silk-cotton (_bombax_); but beneath, a perfect net-work of sipos or creepers and llianas choked up the path, and the hunters had to clear every step of the way with their machetes. Even the dogs, with all their eagerness, could make only a slow and tortuous advance among the thorny vines of the smilax, and the sharp spines that covered the trunks of the palms. "In the circle of canoes that surrounded the island, there was perfect silence; each had a spot to guard, and each hunter sat, with arms ready, and eyes keenly fixed on the foliage of the underwood opposite his station. "The uba of the chief had remained to watch the path where the tracks of the tapir had been observed. We both sat with guns cocked and ready; the dogs and hunters were distinctly heard in the bushes approaching the centre of the islet. The former gave tongue at intervals, but their yelping grew louder, and was uttered with a fiercer accent. Several of them barked at once, and a rushing was heard towards the water. "It came in our direction, but not right for us; still the game was likely to issue at a point within range of our guns. A stroke of the paddle brought us into a better position. At the same time several other canoes were seen shooting forward to the spot. "The underwood crackled and shook; reddish forms appeared among the leaves; and the next moment a dozen animals, resembling a flock of hogs, tumbled out from the thicket, and flung themselves with a splashing into the water. "`No--tapir no--capivara,' cried the chief; but his voice was drowned by the reports of guns and the twanging of bowstrings. Half a dozen of the capivaras were observed to fall on the sandy margin, while the rest plunged forward, and, diving beyond the reach of pursuit, were seen no more. "This was a splendid beginning of the day's sport; for half a dozen at a single volley was no mean game, even among Indians. "But the nobler beast, the tapir, occupied all our thoughts; and leaving the capivaras to be gathered in by the women, the hunters got back to their posts in a few seconds. "There was no doubt that a tapir would be roused. The island had all the appearance of being the haunt of one or more of these creatures, besides the tracks were evidence of their recent presence upon the spot. The beating, therefore, proceeded as lively as ever, and the hunters and dogs now penetrated to the centre of the thicket. "Again the quick angry yelping of the latter fell upon the ear; and again the thick cover rustled and shook. "`This time the tapir,' said the chief to me in an undertone, adding the next moment in a louder voice, `Look yonder!' "I looked in the direction pointed out. I could perceive something in motion among the leaves--a dark brown body, smooth and rounded, the body of a tapir! "I caught only a glimpse of it, as it sprang forward into the opening. It was coming at full gallop, with its head carried between its knees. The dogs were close after, and it looked not before it, but dashed out and ran towards us as though blind. "It made for the water, just a few feet from the bow of our canoe. The chief and I fired at the same time. I thought my bullet took effect, and so thought the chief did his; but the tapir, seeming not to heed the shots, plunged into the stream, and went under. "The next moment the whole string of dyed dogs came sweeping out of the thicket, and leaped forward to where the game had disappeared. "There was blood upon the water. The tapir is hit, then, thought I; and was about to point out the blood to the chief, when on turning I saw the latter poising himself knife in hand, near the stern of the canoe. He was about to spring out of it. His eye was fixed on some object under the water. "I looked in the same direction. The waters of the Xingu are as clear as crystal: against the sandy bottom, I could trace the dark brown body of the tapir. It was making for the deeper channel of the river, but evidently dragging itself along with difficulty. One of its legs was disabled by our shots. "I had scarcely time to get a good view of it before the chief sprang into the air, and dropped head foremost into the water. I could see a struggle going on at the bottom--turbid water came to the surface--and then up came the dark head of the savage chief. "`Ugh!' cried he, as he shook the water from his thick tresses, and beckoned me to assist him--`Ugh! Senhor, you eat roast tapir for dinner. Si--bueno--here tapir.' "I pulled him into the boat, and afterwards assisted to haul up the huge body of the slain tapir. "As was now seen, both our shots had taken effect; but it was the rifle-bullet that had broken the creature's leg, and the generous savage acknowledged that he would have had but little chance of overtaking the game under water, had it not been previously crippled. "The hunt of the day proved a very successful one. Two more tapirs were killed; several capivaras; and a paca--which is an animal much prized by the Indians for its flesh, as well as the teeth--used by them in making their blow-guns. We also obtained a pair of the small peccaries, several macaws, and no less than a whole troop of guariba monkeys. We returned to the malocca with a game-bag as various as it was full, and a grand dance of the Juruna women wound up the amusements of the day." CHAPTER THIRTY ONE. THE BUFFALOES AT LAST. The long looked for day at length arrived when the game were to be met with, and I had myself the "distinguished honour" of being the first not only to see the great buffalo, but to throw a couple of them "in their tracks." This incident, however, was not without an "adventure," and one that was neither very pleasant nor without peril. During several late days of our journey we had been in the habit of straggling a good deal in search of game--deer if we could find it, but more especially in hopes of falling in with the buffalo. Sometimes we went in twos or threes, but as often one of the party rode off alone to hunt wherever his inclination guided him. Sometimes these solitary expeditions took place while the party was on the march, but oftener during the hours after we had pitched our night-camp. One evening, after we had camped as usual, and my brave horse had eaten his "bite" of corn, I leaped into the saddle and rode off in hopes of finding something fresh for supper. The prairie where we had halted was a "rolling" one, and as the camp had been fixed on a small stream, between two great swells, it was not visible at any great distance. As soon, therefore, as I had crossed one of the ridges, I was out of sight of my companions. Trusting to the sky for my direction, I continued on. After riding about a mile, I came upon buffalo "sign," consisting of several circular holes in the ground, five or six feet in diameter, known as buffalo wallows I saw at a glance that the sign was fresh. There were several wallows; and I could tell by the tracks, in the dusk, there had been bulls in that quarter. So I continued on in hopes of getting a sight of the animals that had been wallowing. Shortly after, I came to a place where the ground was ploughed up, as if a drove of hogs had been rooting it. Here there had been a terrible fight among the bulls--it was the rutting season, when such conflicts occur. This augured well. Perhaps they are still in the neighbourhood, reasoned I, as I gave the spur to my horse, and galloped forward with more spirit. I had ridden full five miles from camp, when my attention was attracted by an odd noise ahead of me. There was a ridge in front that prevented me from seeing what produced the noise; but I knew what it was--it was the bellowing of a buffalo-bull. At intervals, there were quick shocks, as of two hard substances coming in violent contact with each other. I mounted the ridge with caution, and looked over its crest. There was a valley beyond; a cloud of dust was rising out of its bottom, and in the midst of this I could distinguish two huge forms--dark and hirsute. I saw at once that they were a pair of buffalo-bulls engaged in a fierce fight. They were alone; there were no others in sight, either in the valley or on the prairie beyond. I did not halt longer than to see that the cap was on my rifle, and to cock the piece. Occupied as the animals were, I did not imagine they would heed me: or, if they should attempt flight, I knew I could easily overtake one or other; so, without farther hesitation or precaution, I rode towards them. Contrary to my expectation, they both "winded" me, and started off. The wind was blowing freshly towards them, and the sun had thrown my shadow between them, so as to draw their attention. They did not run, however, as if badly scared; on the contrary, they went off, apparently indignant at being disturbed in their fight; and every now and then both came round with short turnings, snorted, and struck the prairie with their hoofs in a violent and angry manner. Once or twice, I fancied they were going to charge upon me; and had I been otherwise than well mounted, I should have been very chary of risking such an encounter. A more formidable pair of antagonists, as far as appearance went, could not have been well conceived. Their huge size, their shaggy fronts, and fierce glaring eyeballs, gave them a wild and malicious seeming, which was heightened by their bellowing, and the threatening attitudes in which they continually placed themselves. Feeling quite safe in my saddle, I galloped up to the nearest, and sent my bullet into his ribs. It did the work. He fell to his knees--rose again--spread out his legs, as if to prevent a second fall--rocked from side to side like a cradle--again came to his knees; and after remaining in this position for some minutes, with the blood running from his nostrils, rolled quietly over on his shoulder, and lay dead. I had watched these manoeuvres with interest, and permitted the second bull to make his escape; a side-glance had shown me the latter disappearing over the crest of the swell. I did not care to follow him, as my horse was somewhat jaded, and I knew it would cost me a sharp gallop to come up with him again; so I thought no more of him at that time, but alighted, and prepared to deal with the one already slain. There stood a solitary tree near the spot--it was a stunted cotton-wood. There were others upon the prairie, but they were distant; this one was not twenty yards from the carcass. I led my horse up to it, and taking the trail-rope from the horn of the saddle, made one end fast to the bit-ring, and the other to the tree. I then went back, drew my knife, and proceeded to cut up the buffalo. I had hardly whetted my blade, when a noise from behind caused me to leap to an upright attitude, and look round; at the first glance, I comprehended the noise. A huge dark object was passing the crest of the ridge, and rushing down the hill towards the spot where I stood. It was the buffalo-bull, the same that had just left me. The sight, at first thought, rather pleased me than otherwise. Although I did not want any more meat, I should have the triumph of carrying two tongues instead of one to the camp. I therefore hurriedly sheathed my knife, and laid hold of my rifle, which, according to custom, I had taken the precaution to re-load. I hesitated a moment whether to run to my horse and mount him, or to fire from where I stood. That question, however, was settled by the buffalo. The tree and the horse were to one side of the direction in which he was running, but being attracted by the loud snorting of the horse, which had begun to pitch and plunge violently, and deeming it perhaps a challenge, the buffalo suddenly swerved from his course, and ran full tilt upon the horse. The latter shot out instantly to the full length of the trail-rope--a heavy "pluck" sounded in my ears, and the next instant I saw my horse part from the tree, and scour off over the prairie, as if there had been a thistle under his tail. I had knotted the rope negligently upon the bit-ring, and the knot had "come undone." I was chagrined, but not alarmed as yet. My horse would no doubt follow back his own trail, and at the worst I should only have to walk to the camp. I should have the satisfaction of punishing the buffalo for the trick he had served me; and with this design I turned towards him. I saw that he had not followed the horse, but was again heading himself in my direction. Now, for the first time, it occurred to me that I was in something of a scrape. The bull was coming furiously on. Should my shot miss, or even should it only wound him, how was I to escape? I knew that he could overtake me in a three minutes' stretch; I knew that well. I had not much time for reflection--not a moment, in fact: the infuriated animal was within ten paces of me. I raised my rifle, aimed at his fore-shoulder, and fired. I saw that I had hit him; but, to my dismay, he neither fell nor stumbled, but continued to charge forward more furiously than ever. To re-load was impossible. My pistols had gone off with my horse and holsters. Even to reach the tree was impossible; the bull was between it and me. To make off in the opposite direction was the only thing that held out the prospect of five minutes' safety; I turned and ran. I can run as fast as most men, and upon that occasion I did my best. It would have put "Gildersleeve" into a white sweat to have distanced me; but I had not been two minutes at it, when I felt conscious that the buffalo gained upon me, and was almost treading upon my heels! I knew it only by my ears--I dared not spare time to look back. At this moment, an object appeared before me, that promised, one way or another, to interrupt the chase; it was a ditch or gully, that intersected my path at right angles. It was several feet in depth, dry at the bottom, and with perpendicular sides. I was almost upon its edge before I noticed it, but the moment it came under my eye, I saw that it offered the means of a temporary safety at least. If I could only leap this gully, I felt satisfied that the buffalo could not. It was a sharp leap--at least, seventeen feet from cheek to cheek; but I had done more than that in my time; and, without halting in my gait, I ran forward to the edge, and sprang over. I alighted cleverly upon the opposite bank, where I stopped, and turned round to watch my pursuer. I now ascertained how near my end I had been: the bull was already up to the very edge of the gully. Had I not made my leap at the instant I did, I should have been by that time dancing upon his horns. He himself had balked at the leap; the deep chasm-like cleft had cowed him. He saw that he could not clear it; and now stood upon the opposite bank with head lowered, and spread nostrils, his tail lashing his brown flanks, while his glaring black eyes expressed the full measure of his baffled rage. I remarked that my shot had taken effect in his shoulder, as the blood trickled from his long hair. I had almost begun to congratulate myself on having escaped, when a hurried glance to the right, and another to the left, cut short my happiness. I saw that on both sides, at a distance of less than fifty paces, the gully shallowed out into the plain, where it ended; at either end it was, of course, passable. The bull observed this almost at the same time as myself; and, suddenly turning away from the brink, he ran along the edge of the chasm, evidently with the intention of turning it. In less than a minute's time we were once more on the same side, and my situation appeared as terrible as ever; but, stepping back for a short run, I re-leaped the chasm, and again we stood on opposite sides. During all these manoeuvres I had held on to my rifle; and, seeing now that I might have time to load it, I commenced feeling for my powder-horn. To my astonishment, I could not lay my hands upon it: I looked down to my breast for the sling--it was not there; belt and bullet-pouch too--all were gone! I remembered lifting them over my head, when I set about cutting the dead bull. They were lying by the carcass. This discovery was a new source of chagrin; but for my negligence, I could now have mastered my antagonist. To reach the ammunition would be impossible; I should be overtaken before I had got half-way to it. I was not allowed much time to indulge in my regrets; the bull had again turned the ditch, and was once more upon the same side with me, and I was compelled to take another leap. I really do not remember how often I sprang backwards and forwards across that chasm; I should think a dozen times at least, and I became wearied with the exercise. The leap was just as much as I could do at my best; and as I was growing weaker at each fresh spring, I became satisfied that I should soon leap short, and crush myself against the steep rocky sides of the chasm. Should I fall to the bottom, my pursuer could easily reach me by entering at either end, and I began to dread such a finale. The vengeful brute showed no symptoms of retiring; on the contrary, the numerous disappointments seemed only to render him more determined in his resentment. An idea now suggested itself to my mind, I had looked all round to see if there might not be something that offered a better security. There were trees, but they were too distant: the only one near was that to which my horse had been tied. It was a small one, and, like all of its species (it was a cotton-wood), there were no branches near the root. I knew that I could clamber up it by embracing the trunk, which was not over ten inches in diameter. Could I only succeed in reaching it, it would at least shelter me better than the ditch, of which I was getting heartily tired. But the question was, could I reach it before the bull? It was about three hundred yards off. By proper manoeuvring, I should have a start of fifty. Even, with that, it would be a "close shave;" and it proved so. I arrived at the tree, however, and sprang up it like a mountebank; but the hot breath of the buffalo steamed after me as I ascended, and the concussion of his heavy skull against the trunk almost shook me back upon his horns. After a severe effort of climbing, I succeeded in lodging myself among the branches. I was now safe from all immediate danger, but how was the affair to end? I knew from the experience of others, that my enemy might stay for hours by the tree--perhaps for days! Hours would be enough. I could not stand it long. I already hungered, but a worse appetite began to torture me: thirst. The hot sun, the dust, the violent exercise of the past hour, all contributed to make me thirsty. Even then, I would have risked life for a draught of water. What would it come to should I not be relieved? I had but one hope--that my companions would come to my relief; but I knew that that would not be before morning. They would miss me of course. Perhaps my horse would return to camp--that would send them out in search for me--but not before night had fallen. In the darkness they could not follow my trail. Could they do so in the light? This last question, which I had put to myself, startled me. I was just in a condition to look upon the dark side of everything, and it now occurred to me that they might not be able to find me! There were many possibilities that they might not. There were numerous horse-trails on the prairie, where Indians had passed. I saw this when tracking the buffalo. Besides, it might rain in the night, and obliterate them all--my own with the rest. They were not likely to find me by chance. A circle of ten miles diameter is a large tract. It was a rolling prairie, as already stated, full of inequalities, ridges with valleys between. The tree upon which I was perched stood in the bottom of one of the valleys--it could not be seen from any point over three hundred yards distant. Those searching for me might pass within hail without perceiving either the tree or the valley. I remained for a long time busied with such gloomy thoughts and forebodings. Night was coming on, but the fierce and obstinate brute showed no disposition to raise the siege. He remained watchful as ever, walking round and round at intervals, lashing his tail, and uttering that snorting sound so well-known, to the prairie-hunter, and which so much resembles the grunting of hogs when suddenly alarmed. Occasionally he would bellow loudly like the common bull. While watching his various manoeuvres, an object on the ground drew my attention--it was the trail-rope left by my horse. One end of it was fastened round the trunk by a firm knot--the other lay far out upon the prairie, where it had been dragged. My attention had been drawn to it by the bull himself, that in crossing over it had noticed it, and now and then pawed it with his hoofs. All at once a bright idea flashed upon me--a sudden hope arose within me--a plan of escape presented itself, so feasible and possible, that I leaped in my perch as the thought struck me. The first step was to get possession of the rope. This was not such an easy matter. The rope was fastened around the tree, but the knot had slipped down the trunk and lay upon the ground. I dared not descend for it. Necessity soon suggested a plan. My "picker"--a piece of straight wire with a ring-end--hung from one of my breast buttons. This I took hold of, and bent into the shape of a grappling-hook. I had no cord, but my knife was still sate in its sheath; and, drawing this, I cut several thongs from the skirt or my buckskin shirt, and knotted them together until they formed a string long enough to reach the ground. To one end I attached the picker; and then letting it down, I commenced angling for the rope. After a few transverse drags, the hook caught the latter, and I pulled it up into the tree, taking the whole of it in until I held the loose end in my hands. The other end I permitted to remain as it was; I saw it was securely knotted around the trunk, and that was just what I wanted. It was my intention to lasso the bull; and for this purpose I proceeded to make a running-noose on the end of the trail-rope. This I executed with great care, and with all my skill. I could depend upon the rope; it was raw hide, and a hotter was never twisted; but I knew that if anything should chance to slip at a critical moment, it might cost me my life. With this knowledge, therefore, I spliced the eye, and made the knot as firm as possible, and then the loop was reeved through, and the thing was ready. I could throw a lasso tolerably well, but the branches prevented me from winding it around my head. It was necessary, therefore, to get the animal in a certain position under the tree, which, by shouts and other demonstrations, I at length succeeded in effecting. The moment of success had arrived. He stood almost directly below me. The noose was shot down--I had the gratification to see it settle around his neck; and with a quick jerk I tightened it. The rope ran beautifully through the eye, until both eye and loop were buried beneath the shaggy hair of the animal's neck. It embraced his throat in the right place, and I felt confident it would hold. The moment the bull felt the jerk upon his throat, he dashed madly out from the tree, and then commenced running in circles around it. Contrary to my intention, the rope had slipped from my hands at the first drag upon it. My position was rather an unsteady one, for the branches were slender, and I could not manage matters as well as I could have wished. But I now felt confident enough. The bull was tethered, and it only remained for me to get out beyond the length of his tether, and take to my heels. My gun lay on one side, near the tree, where I had dropped it in my race: this, of course, I meant to carry off with me. I waited then until the animal, in one of his circles, had got round to the opposite side, and slipping silently down the trunk, I sprang out, picked up my rifle, and ran. I knew the trail-rope to be about twenty yards in length, but I ran a hundred, at least, before making halt. I had even thoughts of continuing on, as I still could not help some misgivings about the rope. The bull was one of the largest and strongest. The rope might break, the knot upon the tree might give way, or the noose might slip over his head. Curiosity, however, or rather a desire to be assured of my safety, prompted me to look around, when, to my joy, I beheld the huge monster stretched upon the plain. I could see the rope as taut as a bow-string; and the tongue protruding from the animal's jaws showed me that he was strangling himself as fast as I could desire. At the sight, the idea of buffalo-tongue for supper returned in all its vigour; and it now occurred to me that I should eat that very tongue, and no other. I immediately turned in my tracks, ran towards my powder and balls-- which, in my eagerness to escape, I had forgotten all about--seized the horn and pouch, poured in a charge, rammed down a bullet, and then stealing nimbly up behind the still struggling bull, I placed the muzzle within three feet of his brisket, and fired. He gave a death-kick or two, and then lay quiet: it was all over with him. I had the tongue from between his teeth in a twinkling; and proceeding to the other bull, I finished the operations I had commenced upon him. I was too tired to think of carrying a very heavy load; so I contented myself with the tongues, and slinging these over the barrel of my rifle, I shouldered it, and set out to grope my way back to camp. The moon had risen, and I had no difficulty in following my own trail; but before I had got half-way, I met several of my companions shouting, and at intervals firing off their guns. My horse had got back a little before sunset. His appearance had, of course, produced alarm, and the camp had turned out in search of me. Several who had a relish for fresh meat galloped back to strip the two bulls of the remaining tit-bits; but before midnight all had returned; and to the accompaniment of the hump-ribs spurting in the cheerful blaze, I recounted the details of my adventure. CHAPTER THIRTY TWO. THE BISON. The bison--universally, though improperly, called buffalo--is, perhaps, the most interesting animal in America. Its great size and strength-- the prodigious numbers in which it is found--its peculiar _habitat_--the value of its flesh and hide to the traveller, as well as to the many tribes of Indians--the mode of its chase and capture--all these circumstances render the buffalo an interesting and highly-prized animal. Besides, it is the largest ruminant indigenous to America, exceeding in weight even the moose-deer, which latter, however, equals it in height. With the exception of the musk-ox, it is the only indigenous animal of the bovine tribe, but the latter being confined to a very limited range, near the Arctic Sea, has been less subject to the observation and attention of the civilised world. The buffalo, therefore, may be regarded as the representative of the ox in America. The appearance of the animal is well-known; pictorial illustration has rendered it familiar to the eyes of every one. The enormous head, with its broad triangular front--the conical hump on the shoulders--the small but brilliantly-piercing eyes--the short black horns, of crescent shape--the profusion of shaggy hair about, the neck and foreparts of the body--the disproportioned bulk of the smaller hind-quarters--the short tail, with its tufted extremity; all these are characteristics. The hind-quarters are covered with a much shorter and smoother coat of hair, which adds to their apparent disproportion, and this, with the long hirsute covering of the breast, neck, hump, and shoulders, gives to the buffalo--especially when seen in a picture--a somewhat lion-like figure. The naked tail, with its tuft at the end, strengthens this similarity. Some of the characteristics above enumerated belong only to the bull. The cow is less shaggy in front, has a smaller head, a less fierce appearance, and is altogether more like the common black cattle. The buffalo is of a dark brown colour--sometimes nearly black--and sometimes of a burnt or liver hue; but this change depends on the season. The young coat of hair is darker, but changes as the season advances. In autumn it is nearly black, and then the coat of the animal has a shiny appearance; but as winter comes on, and the hair lengthens, it becomes lighter and more bleached-like. In the early part of summer it has a yellowish brown hue, and at this time, with rubbing and wallowing, part of it has already come off, while large flakes hang raggled and loose from the flanks, ready at any moment to drop off. In size, the American buffalo competes with the European species (_Bos aurochs_), now nearly extinct. These animals differ in shape considerably, but the largest individuals of each species would very nearly balance one another in weight. Either of them is equal in size and weight to the largest specimens of the common ox--prize oxen, of course, excepted. A full-grown buffalo-bull is six feet high at the shoulders, eight feet from the snout to the base of the tail, and will weigh about 1500 pounds. Rare individuals exist whose weight much exceeds this. The cows are, of course, much smaller than the bulls, and scarcely come up to the ordinary standard of farm-cattle. The flesh of the buffalo is juicy and delicious, equal, indeed superior, to well-fed beef. It may be regarded as beef with a _game flavour_. Many people--travellers and hunters--prefer it to any other species of meat. The flesh of the cow, as may be supposed, is more tender and savoury than that of the bull; and in a hunt when "meat" is the object, the cow is selected as a mark for the arrow or bullet. The parts most esteemed are the tongue, the "hump-ribs" (the long spinous processes of the first dorsal vertebra), and the marrow of the shank bones. "Boudins" (part of the intestines) are also favourite "tit-bits" among the Indians and trappers. The tongues, when dried, are really superior to those of common beeves, and, indeed, the same may be said of the other parts, but there is a better and worse in buffalo-beef, according to the age and sex of the animal. "Fat cow" is a term for the super-excellent, and by "poor bull," or "old bull," is meant a very unpalatable article, only to be eaten by the hunter in times of necessity. The range of the buffalo is extensive, though not as it once was. It is gradually being restricted by hunter-pressure, and the encroachments of civilisation. It now consists of a longitudinal strip, of which the western boundary may be considered the Rocky Mountains, and the eastern the Mississippi River, though it is only near the head waters of the latter that the range of this animal extends so far east. Below the mouth of the Missouri no buffalo are found near the Mississippi, nor within two hundred miles of it--not, in fact, until you have cleared the forests that fringe this stream, and penetrated a good distance into the prairie tract. At one period, however, they roamed as far to the east as the Chain of the Alleghanies. In Texas, the buffalo yet extends its migrations to the head waters of the Brazos and Colorado, but it is not a Mexican animal. Following the Rocky Mountains from the great bend of the Rio Grande, northward, we find no buffalo west of them until we reach the higher latitudes near the sources of the Saskatchewan. There they have crossed the mountains, and are now to be met with in some of the plains that lie on the other side. This, however, is a late migration, occasioned by hunter-pressure upon the eastern slope. The same has been observed at different periods, at other points in the Rocky Mountain chain, where the buffalo had made a temporary lodgment on the Pacific side of the mountains, but where they are now entirely extinct. It is known, from the traditional history of the tribes on the west side, that the buffalo was only a newcomer among them, and was not indigenous to that division of the Continent. Following the buffaloes north, we find their range co-terminous with the prairies. The latter end in an angle between the Peace River and the great Slave Lake, and beyond this the buffalo does not run. There is a point, however, across an arm of the Slave Lake where buffalo are found. It is called Slave Point, and although contiguous to the primitive rocks of the "Barren Grounds" it is of a similar geology (_stratified_ limestone) with the buffalo prairies to the west. This, to the geologist, is an interesting fact. From the Slave Lake, a line drawn to the head waters of the Mississippi, and passing through Lake Winnipeg, will shut in the buffalo country along the north-east. They are still found in large bands upon the western shores of Winnipeg, on the plains of the Saskatchewan and the Red River of the north. In fact, buffalo-hunting is one of the chief employments of the inhabitants of that half-Indian colony known as the "Red River Settlements." One of the most singular facts in relation to the buffalo is their enormous numbers. Nothing but the vast extent of their pasturage could have sustained such droves as have from time to time been seen. Thousands frequently feed together, and the plain for miles is often covered with a continuous drove. Sometimes they are seen strung out into a long column, passing from place to place, and roads exist made by them that resemble great highways. Sometimes these roads, worn by the rains, form great hollows that traverse the level plain, and they often guide the thirsty traveller in the direction of water. Another curious fact about the buffalo is their habit of wallowing. The cause of this is not well-ascertained. It may be that they are prompted to it, as swine are, partly to cool their blood by bringing their bodies in contact with the colder earth, and partly to scratch themselves as other cattle do, and free their skins from the annoying insects and parasites that prey upon them. It must be remembered that in their pasturage no trees or "rubbing posts" are to be found, and in the absence of these they are compelled to resort to wallowing. They fling themselves upon their sides, and using their hunch and shoulder as a pivot, spin round and round for hours at a time. In this rotatory motion they aid themselves by using the legs freely. The earth becomes hollowed out and worn into a circular basin, often of considerable depth, and this is known as a "buffalo wallow." Such curious circular concavities are seen throughout the prairies where these animals range; sometimes grown over with grass, sometimes freshly hollowed out, and not unfrequently containing water, with which the traveller assuages his thirst, and so, too, the buffalo themselves. This has led to the fanciful idea of the early explorers that there existed on the American Continent an animal who _dug its own wells_! The buffaloes make extensive migrations, going in large "gangs." These are not periodical, and are only partially influenced by climate. They are not regular either in their direction. Sometimes the gangs will be seen straying southward, at other times to the north, east, or west. The search of food or water seems partially to regulate these movements, as with the passenger-pigeon, and some other migratory creatures. At such times the buffaloes move forward in an impetuous march which nothing seems to interrupt. Ravines are passed, and waterless plains traversed, and rivers crossed without hesitation. In many cases broad streams, with steep or marshy banks, are attempted, and thousands either perish in the waters or become mired in the swamp, and cannot escape, but die the most terrible of deaths. Then is the feast of the eagles, the vultures, and the wolves. Sometimes, too, the feast of the hunter; for when the Indians discover a gang of buffaloes in a difficulty of this kind, the slaughter is immense. Hunting the buffalo is, among the Indian tribes, a profession rather than a sport. Those who practise it in the latter sense are few indeed, as, to enjoy it, it is necessary to do as we had done, make a journey of several hundred miles, and risk our scalps, with no inconsiderable chance of losing them. For these reasons few amateur-hunters ever trouble the buffalo. The true professional hunters--the white trappers and Indians--pursue these animals almost incessantly, and thin their numbers with lance, rifle, and arrow. Buffalo-hunting is not all sport without peril. The hunter frequently risks his life; and numerous have been the fatal results of encounters with these animals. The bulls, when wounded, cannot be approached, even on horseback, without considerable risk, while a dismounted hunter has but slight chance of escaping. The buffalo runs with a gait apparently heavy and lumbering--first heaving to one side, then to the other, like a ship at sea; but this gait, although not equal in speed to that of a horse, is far too fast for a man on foot, and the swiftest runner, unless favoured by a tree or some other object, will be surely overtaken, and either gored to death by the animal's horns, or pounded to a jelly under its heavy hoofs. Instances of the kind are far from being rare, and could amateur-hunters only get at the buffalo, such occurrences would be fearfully common. An incident illustrative of these remarks is told by the traveller and naturalist Richardson, and may therefore be safely regarded as a fact. "While I resided at Charlton House, an incident of this kind occurred. Mr Finnan McDonald, one of the Hudson's Bay Company's clerks, was descending the Saskatchewan in a boat, and one evening, having pitched his tent for the night, he went out in the dusk to look for game. "It had become nearly dark when he fired at a bison bull, which was galloping over a small eminence; and as he was hastening forward to see if the shot had taken effect, the wounded beast made a rush at him. He had the presence of mind to seize the animal by the long hair on his forehead, as it struck him on the side with its horn, and being a remarkably tall and powerful man, a struggle ensued, which continued until his wrist was severely sprained, and his arm was rendered powerless; he then fell, and after receiving two or three blows, became senseless. "Shortly after, he was found by his companions lying bathed in blood, being gored in several places; and the bison was couched beside him, apparently waiting to renew the attack, had he shown any signs of life. Mr McDonald recovered from the immediate effects of the injuries he received, but died a few months after." Dr Richardson adds:--"Many other instances might be mentioned of the tenaciousness with which this animal pursues its revenge; and I have been told of a hunter having been detained for many hours in a tree, by an old bull which had taken its post below to watch him." The numbers of the buffalo, although still very great, are annually on the decrease. Their woolly skins, when dressed, are of great value as an article of commerce. Among the Canadians they are in general use; they constitute the favourite wrappers of the traveller in that cold climate: they line the cariole, the carriage, and the sleigh. Thousands of them are used in the northern parts of the United States for a similar purpose. They are known as buffalo-robes, and are often prettily trimmed and ornamented, so as to command a good price. They are even exported to Europe in large quantities. Of course this extensive demand for the robes causes a proportionate destruction among the buffaloes. But this is not all. Whole tribes of Indians, amounting to many thousands of individuals, subsist entirely upon these animals, as the Laplander upon the reindeer, or the Guarani Indian upon the _moriche_ palm. Their blankets are buffalo-robes, part of their clothing buffalo-leather, their tents are buffalo-hides, and buffalo-beef is their sole food for three parts of the year. The large prairie tribes--as the Sioux, the Pawnees, the Blackfeet, the Crows, the Chiennes, the Arapahoes, and the Comanches, with several smaller bands-- live upon the buffalo. These tribes, united, number at least 100,000 souls. No wonder the buffalo should be each year diminishing in numbers! It is predicted that in a few years the race will become extinct. The same has been often said of the Indian. The _soi-disant_ prophet is addicted to this sort of melancholy foreboding, because he believes by such babbling he gains a character for philanthropic sympathy; besides, it has a poetic sound. Believe me, there is not the slightest danger of such a destiny for the Indian: his race is not to become extinct; it will be on the earth as long as that of either black or white. Civilisation is removing the seeds of decay; civilisation will preserve the race of the red man yet to multiply. Civilisation, too, may preserve the buffalo. The hunter races must disappear, and give place to the more useful agriculturist. The prairies are wide--vast expanses of that singular formation must remain in their primitive wildness, at least for ages, and these will still be a safe range for the buffalo. CHAPTER THIRTY THREE. TRAILING THE BUFFALO. After a breakfast of fresh buffalo-meat we took the road in high spirits. The long-expected sport would soon come off. Every step showed us "buffalo sign"--tracks, wallows, fresh ordure. None of the animals were yet in sight, but the prairie was filled with undulations, and no doubt "a gang" would be found in some of the valleys. A few miles farther on, and we came suddenly upon a "buffalo road," traversing the prairie nearly at right angles to our own direction. This caused a halt and consultation. Should we follow the road? By all means thought every one. The tracks were fresh--the road a large one-- thousands of buffaloes must have passed over it; where were they now? They might be a hundred miles off, for when these animals get upon one of those regular roads they often journey at great speed, and it is difficult to overtake them. When merely browsing over the prairie the case is different. Then they travel only a few miles a day, and a hunter trailing them soon comes up with the gang. Ike and Redwood were consulted as to what was best to be done. They had both closely examined the trail, bending down to the ground, and carefully noting every symptom that would give them a clue to the condition of the herd--its numbers--its time of passing--the rate of its speed, etcetera. "Thur's a good grist o' 'em," said Ike, "leastways a kupple o' thousand in the gang--thur's bulls, cows, yearlins, an' young calf too, so we'll have a choice o' meat--either beef or veal. Kin we do better than foller 'em up? Eh, Mark?" "Wal! I don't think we can, ole boss," replied Redwood. "They passed hyur yesterday, jest about noon--that is the thick o' the drove passed then." "How do you tell that?" inquired several. "Oh, that's easy made out," replied the guide, evidently regarding the question as a very simple one; "you see most o' these hyur tracks is a day old, an' yet thur not two." "And why not?" "Why how could they be two," asked the guide in astonishment, "when it rained yesterday before sun-up? Thur made since the rain, yu'll admit that?" We now remembered the rain, and acknowledged the truth of this reasoning. The animals must have passed since it rained; but why not immediately after, in the early morning? How could Redwood tell that it was the hour of noon? How? "Easy enough, comrades," replied he. "Any greenhorn mout do that," added Ike. The rest, however, were puzzled and waited the explanation. "I tells this a way," continued the guide. "Ef the buffler had passed by hyur, immediately after the rain, thar tracks wud a sunk deeper, and thar wud a been more mud on the trail. As thar ain't no great slobber about, ye see, I make my kalklations that the ground must a been well dried afore they kim along, and after such a wet, it could not a been afore noon at the least--so that's how I know the buffler passed at that hour." We were all interested in this craft of our guides, for without consulting each other they had both arrived at the same conclusion by the same process of mental logic. They had also determined several other points about the buffalo--such as that they had not all gone together, but in a straggling herd; that some had passed more rapidly than the rest; that no hunters were after them; and that it was probable they were not bound upon any distant migration, but only in search of water; and the direction they had taken rendered this likely enough. Indeed most of the great buffalo roads lead to watering-places, and they have often been the means of conducting the thirsty traveller to the welcome rivulet or spring, when otherwise he might have perished upon the dry plain. Whether the buffalo are guided by some instinct towards water, is a question not satisfactorily solved. Certain it is, that their water paths often lead in the most direct route to streams and ponds, of the existence of which they could have known nothing previously. It is certain that many of the lower animals possess either an "instinct," or a much keener sense in these matters than man himself. Long before the thirsty traveller suspects the propinquity of water, his sagacious mule, by her joyful hinney, and suddenly altered bearing, warns him of its presence. We now reasoned that if the buffalo had been making to some watering-place, merely for the purpose of drinking and cooling their flanks, they would, of course, make a delay there, and so give us a chance of coming up. They had a day the start of us, it is true, but we should do our best to overhaul them. The guides assured us we were likely to have good sport before we came up with the great gang. There were straggling groups they had no doubt, some perhaps not over thirsty, that had hung in the rear. In high hopes, then, we turned our heads to the trail, and travelled briskly forward. We had not gone many hundred yards when a very singular scene was presented to our eyes. We had gained the crest of a ridge, and were looking down into a little valley through which ran the trail. At the bottom of the valley a cloud of dust was constantly rising upward, and very slowly moving away, as the day was quite calm. Although there had been rain a little over thirty hours before, the ground was already parched and dry as pepper. But what caused the dust to rise? Not the wind--there was none. Some animal then, or likely more than one! At first we could perceive no creature within the cloud, so dun and thick was it; but after a little a wolf dashed out, ran round a bit, and then rushed in again, and then another and another, all of them with open jaws, glaring eyes, manes erect, and tails switching about in a violent and angry manner. Now and then we could only see part of their bodies, or their bushy tails flung upward, but we could hear by their yelping barks that they were engaged in a fierce contest either among themselves, or with some other enemy. It was not among themselves, as Ike and Redwood both affirmed. "An old bull 's the game," said they; and without waiting a moment, the two trappers galloped forward, followed closely by the rest of our party. We were soon in the bottom of the little valley. Ike already cracking away at the wolves--his peculiar enemies. Several others, led away by the excitement, also emptied their pieces at these worthless creatures, slaying a number of them, while the rest, nearly a dozen in all, took to their heels, and scampered off over the ridges. The dust gradually began to float off, and through the thinner cloud that remained we now saw what the wolves had been at. Standing in the centre of a ring, formed by its own turnings and struggles, was the huge form of a buffalo-bull. Its shape indicated that it was a very old one, lank, lean, and covered with long hair, raggled and torn into tufts. Its colour was that of the white dust, but red blood was streaming freshly down its hind flanks, and from its nose and mouth. The cartilage of the nose was torn to pieces by the fierce enemies it had so lately encountered, and on observing it more closely we saw that its eyes were pulled out of their sockets, exhibiting a fearful spectacle. The tail was eaten off by repeated wrenches, and the hind-quarters were sadly mangled. Spite of all this mutilation, the old bull still kept his feet, and his prowess had been proved, for no less than five wolves lay around, that he had "rubbed out" previous to our arrival. He was a terrible and melancholy spectacle--that old bull, and all agreed it would be better to relieve him by a well-aimed bullet. This was instantly fired at him; and the animal, after rocking about a while on his spread legs, fell gently to the earth. Of course he had proved himself too tough to be eatable by anything but prairie-wolves, and we were about to leave him as he lay. Ike, however, had no idea of gratifying these sneaking creatures at so cheap a rate. He was determined they should not have their dinner so easily, so taking out his knife he extracted the bladder, and some of the smaller intestines from the buffalo. These he inflated in a trice, and then rigging up a sapling over the body, he hung them upon it, so that the slightest breeze kept them in motion. This, as we had been already assured, was the best mode of keeping wolves at a distance from any object, and the hunter, when wolves are near, often avails himself of it to protect the venison or buffalo-meat which he is obliged to leave behind him. The guide having rigged his "scare wolf," mounted his old mare, and again joined us, muttering his satisfaction as he rode along. We had not travelled much farther when our attention was attracted by noises in front, and again from a ridge we beheld a scene still more interesting than that we had just witnessed. As before, the actors were buffalo and wolves, but this time there was very little dust, as the contest was carried on upon the green turf--and we could see distinctly the manoeuvres of the animals. There were three buffaloes--a cow, her calf, and a large bull that was acting as their champion and protector. A pack of wolves had gathered around them, in which there were some of the larger species, and these kept up a continuous attack, the object of which was to destroy the calf, and its mother if possible. This the bull was using all his endeavours to prevent, and with considerable success too, as already several of the wolves were down, and howling with pain. But what rendered the result doubtful was that fresh wolves were constantly galloping up to the spot, and the buffaloes would likely have to yield in time. It was quite amusing to see the efforts made by the cunning brutes, to separate the calf front its protector. Sometimes they would get it a few feet to the one side, and fling it to the ground; but before they could do it any great injury, the active bull, and the cow as well, would rush forward upon them, scattering the cowardly creatures like a flock of birds. Then the calf would place itself between the old ones, and would thus remain for a while, until the wolves, having arranged some new plan, would recommence the attack, and drive it forth again. Once the position was strikingly in favour of the buffaloes. This position, which seemed in the hurry of the conflict to turn up accidentally, was in fact the result of design, for the old ones every now and then endeavoured to renew it, but were hindered by the stupidity of the calf. The latter was placed between them in such a way that the heads of the bull and cow were in opposite directions, and thus both flanks were guarded. In this way the buffaloes might have held their ground, but the silly calf when closely menaced by the wolves foolishly started out, rendering it necessary for its protectors to assume a new attitude of defence. It was altogether a singular conflict, a touching picture of parental fondness. The end of it was easily guessed. The wolves would tire out the old ones, and get hold of the calf of course, although they might spend a long time about it. But the great herd was distant, and there was no hope for the cow to get her offspring back to its protection. It would certainly be destroyed. Notwithstanding our sympathy for the little family thus assailed, we were not the less anxious to do for them just what the wolves wished to do--kill and eat them. With this intent we all put spur to our horses, and galloped right forward to the spot. Not one of the animals--neither wolves nor buffaloes--took any notice of us until we were within a few yards of them. The wolves then scampered off, but already the cracking rifles and shot-guns were heard above the shouts of the charging cavalcade, and both the cow and calf were seen sinking to the earth. Not so the huge bull. With glaring eyeballs he glanced around upon his new assailants, and then, as if aware that farther strife was useless, he stretched forth his neck, and breaking through the line of horsemen, went off in full flight. A fresh touch of the spur, with a wrench of the bridle-rein, brought our horses round, and set their heads after him, and then followed as fine a piece of chasing as I remember to have taken part in. The whole eight of us swept over the plain in pursuit, but as we had all emptied our pieces on first charging up, there was not one ready to deliver a shot even should we overtake the game. In the quick gallop no one thought of re-loading. Our pistols, however, were still charged, and these were grasped and held in readiness. It was one of the most exciting chases. There before us galloped the great game, under full view, with neither brake nor bush to interrupt the pleasure of our wild race. The bull proved to be one of the fastest of his kind--for there is a considerable difference in this respect. He led us nearly half-a-mile across the ridges before even the best of our horses could come up, and then just as we were closing in upon him, before a shot had been fired, he was seen to give a sudden lounge forward and tumble over upon the ground. Some of us fancied he had only missed his footing and stumbled; but no motion could be perceived as we rode forward, and on coming up he was found to be quite dead! A rifle-bullet had done the work--one that had been fired in the first volley; and his strong fast run was only the last spasmodic effort of his life. One or two remained by the dead bull to get his hide and the "tit-bits" of his meat, while the rest rode back to recover the more precious cow and calf. What was our chagrin to find that the rascally wolves had been before us! Of the tender calf, not a morsel remained beyond a few tufts of hairy skin, and the cow was so badly torn and mutilated that she was not worth cutting up! Even the tongue, that most delicate bit, had been appropriated by the sneaking thieves, and eaten out to the very root. As soon as they had observed us coming back, they had taken to their heels, each carrying a large piece with him, and we could now see them out upon the prairie devouring the meat before our very eyes. Ike was loud in his anathemas, and but that the creatures were too cunning for him, would have taken his revenge upon the spot. They kept off, however, beyond range of either rifle or double-barrel, and Ike was forced to nurse his wrath for some other occasion. We now went back to the bull, where we encamped for the night. The latter, tough as he was, furnished us an excellent supper from his tongue, hump-ribs, boudins, and marrow bones, and we all lay down to sleep and dream of the sports of to-morrow. CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR. APPROACHING THE BUFFALO. Next morning, just as we were preparing to resume our journey, a gang of buffalo appeared upon one of the swells, at the distance of a mile or a mile and a half from our camp. There were about a dozen of them, and, as our guides asserted, they were all cows. This was just what we wanted, as the flesh of the cows is much more delicate than that of the bulls, and were eager to lay in a stock of it. A hurried consultation was held, in which it was debated as to the best manner of making an attack upon the herd. Some advised that we should ride boldly forward, and overtake the cows by sheer swiftness, but this mode was objected to by others. The cows are at times very shy. They might break off long before we were near, and give our horses such a gallop as would render them useless for the rest of the day. Besides, our animals were in no condition for such exercise. Our stock of corn had run out, and the grass feeding and hard travelling had reduced most of them to skeletons. A hard gallop was therefore to be avoided if possible. Among those who counselled a different course wore the guides Ike and Redwood. These men thought it would be much better to try the cows by "approaching," that is, by endeavouring to creep up, and get a shot when near enough. The ground was favourable enough for it, as there were here and there little clumps of cactus plants and bushes of the wild sage (_artemisia_), behind which a hunter might easily conceal himself. The trappers farther alleged that the herd would not be likely to make off at the first shot, unless the hunter discovered himself. On the contrary, one after another might fall, and not frighten the rest, so long as these did not get to leeward, and detect the presence of their enemy by the scent. The wind was in our favour, and this was a most important consideration. Had it been otherwise the game would have "winded" us at a mile's distance, as they can recognise the smell of man, and frequently comprehend the danger of being near such an enemy. Indeed, it is on their great power of scent that the buffalo most commonly rely for warning. The eyes of these creatures, and particularly the bulls, are so covered with the shaggy hair hanging over them, that individuals are often seen quite blinded by it, and a hunter, if he keep silent enough, may walk up and lay his hand upon them, without having been previously noticed. This, however, can only occur when the hunter travels against the wind. Otherwise he finds the buffalo as shy and difficult to approach as most game, and many along spoil of crouching and crawling has been made to no purpose--a single sniff of the approaching enemy proving enough to startle the game, and send it off in wild flight. Ike and his brother trapper urged that if the approach should prove unsuccessful there would still be time to "run" the herd, as those who did not attempt the former method might keep in their saddles, and be ready to gallop forward. All this was feasible enough; and it was therefore decided that the "approach" should have a trial. The trappers had already prepared themselves for this sort of thing. They were evidently desirous of giving us an exhibition of their hunter-prowess, and we were ready to witness it. We had noticed them busied with a pair of large wolf-skins, which they had taken off the animals entire, with the heads, ears, tails, etcetera, remaining upon the skins. The purpose of these was to enable the hunters to disguise themselves as wolves, and thus crawl within shooting distance of the buffalo herd. Strange to say this is quite possible. Although no creature is a greater enemy to the buffalo than the wolf, the former, as already stated, permits the latter to approach quite close to him without making any attempt to chase him off, or without exhibiting the slightest symptoms of fear on his own account. The buffalo cannot prevent the wolf from prowling close about him, as the latter is sufficiently active, and can easily get out of the way when pursued by the bulls--on the other hand, the buffaloes, unless when separated from the herd, or in some way disabled, have no fear of the wolf. Under ordinary circumstances they seem wholly to disregard his presence. The consequence is, that a wolf-skin is a favourite disguise of the Indians for approaching the buffalo, and our trappers, Ike and Redwood, had often practised this _ruse_. We were likely then to see sport. Both were soon equipped in their white wolf-skins, their heads being enveloped with the skins of the wolves' heads, and the remainder tied with thongs, so as to cover their backs and sides. At best the skins formed but a scanty covering to the bodies of the trappers; but, as we have already remarked, the buffalo has not a very keen sense of sight, and so long as the decoys kept to leeward, they would not be closely scrutinised. When fairly in their new dress, the hunters parted from the company, leaving their horses at the camp. The rest of us sat in our saddles, ready to gallop forward, in case the _ruse_ did not succeed, and make that kind of a hunt called "running." Of course the trappers went as far as was safe, walking in an upright attitude; but long before they had got within shot, we saw both of them stoop down and scramble along in a crouching way, and then at length they knelt upon the ground, and proceeded upon their hands and knees. It required a good long time to enable them to get near enough; and we on horseback, although watching every manoeuvre with interest, were beginning to get impatient. The buffalo, however, quietly browsing along the sward, seemed to be utterly unconscious of the dangerous foe that was approaching them, and at intervals one or another would fling itself to the earth in play, and after kicking and wallowing a few seconds, start to its feet again. They were all cows, with one exception--a bull--who seemed to be the guardian and leader. Even at a mile's distance, we could recognise the shape and size of the latter, as completely differing from all the rest. The bull seemed to be more active than any, moving around the flock, and apparently watching over their safety. As the decoys approached, we thought that the bull seemed to take notice of them. He had moved out to that side of the herd, and seemed for a moment to scrutinise them as they drew near. But for a moment, however, for he turned apparently satisfied, and was soon close in to the gang. Ike and Redwood had at length got so close, that we were expecting every moment to see the flash of their pieces. They were not so close, however, as we in the distance fancied them to be. Just at this moment we perceived another buffalo--a large bull--running up behind them. He had just made his appearance over a ridge, and was now on his way to join the herd. The decoys were directly in his way, and these did not appear to see him until he had run almost between them, so intent were they on watching the others. His intrusion, however, evidently disconcerted them, spoiling their plans, while in the very act of being carried into execution. They were, no doubt, a little startled by the apparition of such a huge shaggy animal coming so suddenly on them, for both started to their feet as if alarmed. Their pieces blazed at the same time, and the intruder was seen rolling over upon the plain. But the _ruse_ was over. The bull that guarded the herd was witness to this odd encounter, and bellowing a loud alarm to his companions, set off at a lumbering gallop. All the rest followed as fast as their legs would carry them. Fortunately they ran, not directly from us, but in a line that inclined to our left. By taking a diagonal course we might yet head them, and without another word our whole party put to the spur, and sprang off over the prairie. It cost us a five-mile gallop before any of us came within shooting distance; and only four of us did get so near--the naturalist, Besancon, the Kentuckian, and myself. Our horses were well blown, but after a good deal of encouragement we got them side by side with the flying game. Each one chose his own, and then delivered his shot at his best convenience. The consequence was, that four of the cows were strewed out along the path, and rewarded us for our hard gallop. The rest, on account of saving our horses, were suffered to make their escape. As we had now plenty of excellent meat, it was resolved to encamp again, and remain for some time on that spot, until we had rested our horses after their long journey, when we should make a fresh search for the buffalo, and have another "run" or two out of them. CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE. UNEXPECTED GUESTS. We found Ike and Redwood bitterly angry at the bull they had slain. They alleged that he had made a rush at them in coming up, and that was why they had risen to their feet and fired upon him. We thought such had been the case, as we had noticed a strange manoeuvre on the part of the bull. But for that, our guides believed they would have succeeded to their hearts' content; as they intended first to have shot the other bull, and then the cows would have remained until all had fallen. A place was now selected for our night-camp, and the meat from the cows brought in and dressed. Over a fire of cotton-wood logs we soon cooked the most splendid supper we had eaten for a long time. The beef of the wild buffalo-cow is far superior to that of domestic cattle, but the "tit-bits" of the same animal are luxuries never to be forgotten. Whether it be that a prairie appetite lends something to the relish is a question. This I will not venture to deny; but certainly the "baron of beef" in merry old England has no souvenirs to me so sweet as a roast rib of "fat cow," cooked over a cotton-wood fire, and eaten in the open air, under the pure sky of the prairies. The place where we had pitched our camp was upon the banks of a very small spring-stream, or creek, that, rising near at hand, meandered through the prairie to a not distant branch of the Arkansas River. Where we were, this creek was embanked very slightly; but, at about two hundred yards' distance, on each side, there was a range of bluffs that followed the direction of the stream. These bluffs were not very high, but sufficiently so to prevent any one down in the creek bottom from having a view of the prairie level. As the bottom itself was covered with very coarse herbage, and as a better grass--the buffalo--grew on the prairie above, we there picketed our horses, intending to bring them closer to the camp when night set in, or before going to sleep. The camp itself--that is the two tents, with Jake's waggon--were on the very edge of the stream; but Jake's mules were up on the plain, along with the rest of the _cavallada_. It was still two hours before sunset. We had made our dinner, and, satisfied with the day's sport, were enjoying ourselves with a little brandy, that still held out in our good-sized keg, and a smoke. We had reviewed the incidents of the day, and were laying out our plans for the morrow. We were admonished by the coldness of the evening that winter was not far off, and we all agreed that another week was as long as we could safely remain upon the prairies. We had started late in the season, but our not finding the buffalo farther to the east had made a great inroad upon our time, and spoiled all our calculations. Now that we had found them, a week was as much as we could allow for their hunt. Already frost appeared in the night hours, and made us uncomfortable enough, and we knew that in the prairie region the transition from autumn to winter is often sudden and unexpected. The oldest and wisest of the party were of the opinion that we should not delay our return longer than a week, and the others assented to it. The guides gave the same advice, although these cared little about wintering on the prairie, and were willing to remain as long as we pleased. We knew, however, that the hardships to which we should be subjected would not be relished by several of the party, and it would be better for all to get back to the settlements before the setting in of severe weather. I have said we were all in high spirits. A week's hunting, with something to do at it every day, would satisfy us. We should do immense slaughter on the buffalo, by approaching, running, and surrounding them. We should collect a quantity of the best meat, jerk and dry it over the fire, load our waggon with that, and with a large number of robes and horns as trophies, should go back in triumph to the settlements. Such were our pleasant anticipations. I am sorry to say that these anticipations were never realised--not one of them. When we reached the nearest settlement, which happened, about six weeks after, our party presented an appearance that differed as much from a triumphal procession as could well be imagined. One and all of us were afoot. One and all of us--even to the fat little doctor--were emaciated, ragged, foot-sore, frost-bitten, and little better than half alive. We had a number of buffalo-skins with us it is true, but these hung about our shoulders, and were for use, and not show. They had served us for weeks for beds and blankets by night, and for great coats under the fierce winter rains. But I anticipate. Let us return to our camp on the little creek. I have said that we sat around the blazing fire discussing our future plans, and enjoying the future by anticipation. The hours passed rapidly on, and while thus engaged night came down upon us. At this time some one advised that we should bring up the horses, but another said it would be as well to let them browse a while longer, as the grass where they were was good, and they had been for some days on short commons. "They will be safe enough," said this speaker. "We have seen no Indian sign, or if any of you think there is danger, let some one go up to the bluff, but by all means let the poor brutes have a good meal of it." This proposal was accepted. Lanty was despatched to stand guard over the horses, while the rest of us remained by the fire conversing as before. The Irishman could scarcely have had time to get among the animals, when our ears were saluted by a medley of sounds that sent the blood to our hearts, and caused us to leap simultaneously from the fire. The yells of Indians were easily understood, even by the "greenest" of our party, and these, mingled with the neighing of horses, the prancing of hoofs, and the shouts of our guard, were the sounds that readied us. "Injuns, by God!" cried Ike, springing up, and clutching his long rifle. This wild exclamation was echoed by more than one, as each leaped back from the fire and ran to his gun. In a few seconds we had cleared the brushwood that thickly covered the bottom, and climbed out on the bluff. Here we were met by the terrified guard, who was running back at the top of his speed, and bellowing at the top of his voice. "Och, murther!" cried he, "the savage bastes--there's a thousand ov thim! They've carried off the cattle--every leg--mules an' all, by Jaysus!" Rough as was this announcement, we soon became satisfied that it was but too true. On reaching the place where the _cavallada_ had been picketed, we found not the semblance of a horse. Even the pins were drawn, and the _lazoes_ taken along. Far off on the prairie we could discern dimly a dark mass of mounted men, and we could plainly hear their triumphant shouts and laughter, as they disappeared in the distance! We never saw either them or our horses again. They were a party of Pawnees, as we afterwards learned, and no doubt had they attacked us, we should have suffered severely; but there were only a few of them, and they were satisfied with plundering us of our horses. It is just possible that after securing them they might have returned to attack us, had not Lanty surprised them at their work. After the alarm they knew we would be on the look-out for them, and therefore were contented to carry off our animals. It is difficult to explain the change that thus so suddenly occurred in our feelings and circumstances. The prospect before us--thus set afoot upon the prairie at such a distance from the settlements, and at such a season--was perfectly appalling. We should have to walk every inch of the way--carry our food, and everything else, upon our backs. Perhaps we might not be too much burdened with food. That depended upon very precarious circumstances--upon our hunting luck. Our "stock" in the waggon was reduced to only a few days' rations, and of course would go but a few days with us, while we had many to provide for. These thoughts were after-reflections--thoughts of the next morning. During that night we thought only of the Indians, for of course we did not as yet believe they had left us for good. We did not return to sleep by the fire--that would have been very foolishness. Some went back to get their arms in order, and then returning we all lay along the edge of the bluff, where the path led into the bottom, and watched the prairie until the morning. We lay in silence, or only muttering our thoughts to one another. I have said until the morning. That is not strictly true, for before the morning that succeeded that _noche triste_ broke upon us, another cruel misfortune befel us, which still farther narrowed the circumstances that surrounded us. I have already stated that the herbage of the creek bottom was coarse. It consisted of long grass, interspersed with briars and bunches of wild pea vines, with here and there a growth of scrubby wood. It was difficult to get through it, except by paths made by the buffalo and other animals. At this season of the year the thick growth of annuals was now a mass of withered stems, parched by the hot suns of autumn until they were as dry as tinder. While engaged in our anxious vigil upon the plain above, we had not given a thought either to our camp or the large fire we had left there. All at once our attention was directed to the latter by a loud crackling noise that sounded in our ears. We sprang to our feet, and looked into the valley behind us. The camp was on fire! The brush was kindled all around it, and blazed to the height of several feet. We could see the blaze reflected from the white canvas both of waggon and tents, and in a few seconds these were licked into the hot flames, and disappeared from our view. Of course we made no effort to save them. That would have been an idle and foolish attempt. We could not have approached the spot, without the almost certain danger of death. Already while we gazed, the fire spread over the whole creek bottom, and passed rapidly both up and down the banks of the stream. For ourselves there was no danger. We were up on the open prairie covered only with short grass. Had this caught also, we knew how to save ourselves; but the upper level, separated by a steep bluff, was not reached by the conflagration that raged so fiercely below. We stood watching the flames for a long while, until daylight broke. The bottom, near where we were, had ceased to burn, and now lay beneath us, smoking, smouldering, and black. We descended, and picked our steps to where our camp had stood. The tents were like black cerements. The iron work of the waggon alone remained, our extra clothing and provisions were all consumed. Even the produce of our yesterday's hunt lay among the ashes a charred and ruined mass! CHAPTER THIRTY SIX. A SUPPER OF WOLF-MUTTON. Our condition was now lamentable indeed. We even hungered for our breakfast, and had nothing to eat. The fire had consumed everything. A party went to look for the remains of the buffalo-bull killed by the guides, but returned without a morsel of meat. The wolves had cleaned the carcass to a skeleton. The marrow bones, however, still remained, and these were brought in--afterwards, the same parts of the four cows; and we made our breakfast on marrow--eating it raw--not but that we had fire enough, but it is less palatable when cooked. What was next to be done? We held a consultation, and of course came to the resolve to strike for the nearest settlement--that was the frontier town of Independence on the Missouri River. It was nearly three hundred miles off, and we calculated in reaching it in about twenty days. We only reckoned the miles we should have to traverse. We allowed nothing for the numerous delays, caused by marshes and the fording of flooded streams. It afterwards proved that our calculation was incorrect. It was nearly twice twenty days before we arrived at Independence. We never thought of following the trail of the Indians to recover our horses. We knew they were gone far beyond pursuit, but even could we have come up with them, it would only have been to imperil our lives in an unequal strife. We gave up our horses as lost, and only deliberated on how we were to undertake the journey afoot. Here a serious question arose. Should we at once turn our faces to the settlement, how were we to subsist on the way? By heading for Independence we should at once get clear of the buffalo-range, and what other game was to be depended on? A stray deer, rabbit, or prairie grouse might suffice to sustain a single traveller for a long time, but there were ten of us. How was this number to be fed on the way? Even with our horses to carry us in pursuit of game, we had not been able on our outward journey to procure enough for all. How much less our opportunity now that we were afoot! To head directly homeward therefore was not to be thought of. We should assuredly perish by the way. After much discussion it was agreed that we should remain for some days within the buffalo-range, until we had succeeded in obtaining a supply of meat, and then each carrying his share we should begin our journey homeward. In fact, this was not a disputed point. All knew there remained no other way of saving our lives. The only difference of opinion was as to the direction we should ramble in search of the buffalo; for although we knew that we were on the outskirts of a great herd, we were not certain as to its whereabouts, and by taking a false direction we might get out of its range altogether. It so happened, however, that fortune lately so adverse, now took a turn in our favour, and the great buffalo drove was found without much trouble on our part. Indeed almost without any exertion, farther than that of loading and firing our guns, we came into possession of beef enough to have victualled an army. We had, moreover, the excitement of a grand hunt, although we no longer hunted for the sport of the thing. During that day we scattered in various directions over the prairie, agreeing to meet again at night. The object of our thus separating was to enable us to cover a greater extent of ground, and afford a better chance of game. To our mutual chagrin we met at the appointed rendezvous all of us empty-handed. The only game brought in was a couple of marmots (prairie dogs), that would not have been sufficient for the supper of a cat. They were not enough to give each of the party a taste, so we were compelled to go without supper. Having had but a meagre breakfast and no dinner, it will not be wondered at that we were by this time as hungry as wolves; and we began to dread that death by starvation was nearer than we thought of. Buffaloes--several small gangs of them--had been seen during the day, but so shy that none of them could be approached. Another day's failure would place our lives in a perilous situation indeed; and as these thoughts passed through our minds, we gazed on each other with looks that betokened apprehension and alarm. The bright blaze of the camp-fire--for the cold had compelled us to kindle one--no longer lit up a round of joyful faces. It shone upon checks haggard with hunger and pallid with fear. There was no story for the delighted listener--no adventure to be related. We were no longer the historians, but the real actors in a drama--a drama whose _denouement_ might be a fearful one. As we sat gazing at each other, in hopes of giving or receiving some morsel of comfort and encouragement, we noticed old Ike silently glide from his place by the fire, and after a whisper to us to remain silent, crawl off on his hands and knees. He had seen something doubtless, and hence his singular conduct. In a few minutes his prostrate form was lost in the darkness, and for some time we saw or heard no more of him. At length we were startled by the whip-like crack of the guide's rifle, and fancying it might be Indians, each sprang up in some alarm and seized his gun. We were soon reassured, however, by seeing the upright form of the trapper as he walked deliberately back towards the camp-fire, and the blaze revealed to us a large whitish object dangling by his side and partly dragging along the ground. "Hurrah!" cried one, "Ike has killed game." "A deer--an antelope," suggested several. "No-o," drawled Redwood. "'Taint eyther, but I guess we won't quarrel with the meat. I could eat a raw jackass jest about now." Ike came up at this moment, and we saw that his game was no other than a prairie-wolf. Better that than hunger, thought all of us; and in a brace of seconds the wolf was suspended over the fire, and roasting in the hide. We were now more cheerful, and the anticipation of such an odd viand for supper, drew jokes from several of the party. To the trappers such a dish was nothing new, although they were the only persons of the party who had partaken of it. But there was not one fastidious palate present, and when the "wolf-mutton" was broiled, each cleaned his joint or his rib with as much _gout_ as if he had been picking the bones of a pheasant. Before the supper was ended the wolf-killer made a second _coup_, killing another wolf precisely as he had done the former; and we had the gratification of knowing that our breakfast was now provided for. These creatures, that all along our journey had received nothing from us but anathemas, were now likely to come in for a share of our blessings, and we could not help feeling a species of gratitude towards them, although at the same time we thus killed and ate them. The supper of roast wolf produced an agreeable change in our feelings, and we even listened with interest to our guides, who, appropriate to the occasion, related some curious incidents of the many narrow escapes they had had from starvation. One in particular fixed our attention, as it afforded an illustration of trapper life under peculiar circumstances. CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN. HARE HUNTING AND CRICKET DRIVING. The two trappers, in company with two others of the same calling, were on a trapping expedition to one of the tributaries of the Great Bear River, west of the Rocky Mountains, when they were attacked by a band of hostile Utahs, and robbed not only of the produce of their hunt, but their horses and pack-mules were taken from them, and even their arms and ammunition. The Indians could have taken their lives as well, but from the interference of one of the chiefs, who knew old Ike, they were allowed to go free, although in the midst of the desert region where they were, that was no great favour. They were as likely as not to perish from hunger before they could reach any settlement--as at that time there was none nearer than Fort Hall upon the Snake River, a distance of full three hundred miles. Our four trappers, however, were not the men to yield themselves up to despair, even in the midst of a desert; and they at once set about making the most of their circumstances. There were deer upon the stream where they had been trapping, and bear also, as well as other game, but what did that signify now that they had no arms? Of course the deer or antelopes sprang out of the shrubbery or scoured across the plain only to tantalise them. Near where they had been left by the Indians was a "sage prairie," that is, a plain covered with a growth of the _artemisia_ plant--the leaves and berries of which--bitter as they are--form the food of a species of hare, known among the trappers as the "sage rabbit." This creature is as swift as most of its tribe, but although our trappers had neither dog nor gun, they found a way of capturing the sage rabbits. Not by snaring neither, for they were even without materials to make snares out of. Their mode of securing the game was as follows. They had the patience to construct a circular fence, by wattling the sage plants together, and then leaving one side open, they made a "surround" upon the plain, beating the bushes as they went, until a number of rabbits were driven within the inclosure. The remaining part of the fence was then completed, and the rabbit hunters going inside chased the game about until they had caught all that were inside. Although the fence was but about three feet in height, the rabbits never attempted to leap over, but rushed head foremost against the wattles, and were either caught or knocked over with sticks. This piece of ingenuity was not original with the trappers, as Ike and Redwood admitted. It is the mode of rabbit-hunting practised by some tribes of western Indians, as the poor Shoshonees and miserable "diggers," whose whole lives are spent in a constant struggle to procure food enough to sustain them. These Indians capture the small animals that inhabit their barren country by ways that more resemble the instinct of beasts of prey than any reasoning process. In fact there are bands of these Indians who can hardly be said to have yet reached the hunter state. Some of them carry as their sole armour a long stick with a hooked end, the object of which is to drag the _agama_ and the lizard out of its cave or cleft among the rocks; and this species of game is transferred from the end of the stick to the stomach of the captor with the same despatch as a hungry mastiff would devour a mouse. Impounding the sage hare is one of the master strokes of their hunter-craft, and forms a source of employment to them for a considerable portion of the year. Our four trappers, then, remembering the Indian mode of capturing these creatures put it in execution to some advantage, and were soon able to satisfy their hunger. After two or three days spent in this pursuit they had caught more than twenty hares, but the stock ran out, and no more could be found in that neighbourhood. Of course only a few were required for present use, and the rest were dried over a sage fire until they were in a condition to keep for some days. Packing them on their backs, the trappers set out, heading for the Snake River. Before they could reach Fort Hall their rabbit meat was exhausted, and they were as badly off as before. The country in which they now found themselves was if possible more of a desert than that they had just quitted. Even rabbits could not dwell in it, or the few that were started could not be caught. The _artemisia_ was not in sufficient plenty to make an inclosure with, and it would have been hopeless to have attempted such a thing; as they might have spent days without trapping a single hare. Now and again they were tantalised by seeing the great sage cock, or, as naturalists call it, "cock of the plains" (_Tetrao urophasianus_), but they could only hear the loud "burr" of its wings, and watch it sail off to some distant point of the desert plain. This bird is the largest of the grouse kind, though it is neither a bird of handsome plumage, nor yet is it delicate in its flesh. On the contrary, the flesh, from the nature of its food, which is the berry of the wild wormwood, is both unsavoury and bitter. It would not have deterred the appetites of our four trappers, could they have laid their hands upon the bird, but without guns such a thing was out of the question. For several days they sustained themselves on roots and berries. Fortunately it was the season when these are ripe, and they found here and there the prairie turnip (_Psoralea esculenta_), and in a marsh which they had to cross they obtained a quantity of the celebrated Kamas roots. All these supplies, however, did not prove sufficient. They had still four or five days' farther journey, and were beginning to fear they would not get through it, for the country to be passed was a perfect barren waste. At this crisis, however, a new source of subsistence appeared to them, and in sufficient plenty to enable them to continue their journey without fear of want. As if by magic, the plain upon which they were travelling all at once become covered with large crawling insects of a dark brown colour. These were the insects known among the trappers as "prairie crickets," but from the description given of them by the trappers the hunter-naturalist pronounced them to be "locusts." They were of that species known in America as the "seventeen years' locust" (_Cicada septemdecem_), so called because there is a popular belief that they only appear in great swarms every seventeen years. It is probable, however, that this periodical appearance is an error, and that their coming at longer or shorter intervals depends upon the heat of the climate, and many other circumstances. They have been known to arrive in a great city, coming not from afar, but out of the ground from between the bricks of the pavement and out of crevices in the walls, suddenly covering the streets with their multitudes. But this species does not destroy vegetation, as is the case with others of the locust tribe. They themselves form the favourite food of many birds, as well as quadrupeds. Hogs eagerly feed upon and destroy vast numbers of them; and even the squirrels devour them with as great a relish as they do nuts. These facts were furnished by the hunter-naturalist, but our trappers had an equally interesting tale to tell. As soon as they set eyes upon the locusts and saw that they were crawling thickly upon the plain, they felt that they were safe. They knew that these insects were a staple article of food among the same tribes of Indians--who hunt the sage hare. They knew, moreover, their mode of capturing them, and they at once set about making a large collection. This was done by hollowing out a circular pit in the sandy earth, and then the four separating some distance from each other, drove the crickets towards a common centre--the pit. After some manoeuvring, a large quantity was brought together, and these being pressed upon all sides, crawled up to the edge of the pit, and were precipitated into its bottom. Of course the hole had been made deep enough to prevent them getting out until they were secured by the hunters. At each drive nearly half a bushel was obtained, and then a fresh pit was made in another part of the plain, and more driven in, until our four trappers had as many as they wanted. The crickets were next killed, and slightly parched upon hot stones, until they were dry enough to keep and carry. The Indians usually pound them, and mixing them with the seeds of a species of gramma grass, which grows abundantly in that country, form them into a sort of bread, known among the trappers as "cricket-cake." These seeds, however, our trappers could not procure, so they were compelled to eat the parched crickets "pure and unmixed;" but this, in the condition in which they then were, was found to be no hardship. In fine, having made a bundle for each, they once more took the route, and after many hardships, and suffering much from thirst, they reached the remote settlement of Fort Hall, where, being known, they were of course relieved, and fitted out for a fresh trapping expedition. Ike and Redwood both declared that they afterwards had their revenge upon the Utahs, for the scurvy treatment they had suffered, but what was the precise character of that revenge they declined stating. Both loudly swore that the Pawnees had better look out for the future, for they were not the men to be "set afoot on the parairy for nuthin." After listening to the relations of our guides, a night-guard was appointed, and the rest of us, huddling around the camp-fire, were soon as sound asleep as though we were reposing under damask curtains, on beds of down. CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT. A GRAND BATTUE. The spot we had chosen for our camp was near the edge of a small rivulet with low banks. In fact, the surface of the water was nearly on a level with that of the prairie. There was no wood, with the exception of a few straggling cotton-woods, and some of the long-leafed willows peculiar to the prairie streams. Out of the cotton-woods we had made our camp-fire, and this was some twenty or thirty paces back from the water, not in a conspicuous position, but in the bottom of a bowl-shaped depression in the prairie; a curious formation, for which none of us could account. It looked as if fashioned by art, as its form was circular, and its sides sloped regularly downward to the centre, like the crater of a volcano. But for its size, we might have taken it for a buffalo wallow, but it was of vastly larger diameter than one of these, and altogether deeper and more funnel-shaped. We had noticed several other basins of the same sort near the place, and had our circumstances been different, we should have been interested in endeavouring to account for their existence. As it was, we did not trouble ourselves much about the geology of the neighbourhood we were in. We were only too anxious to get out of it; but seeing that this singular hole would be a safe place for our camp-fire--for our thoughts still dwelt upon the rascally Pawnees--we had kindled it there. Reclined against the sloping sides of the basin, with our feet resting upon its bottom, our party disposed themselves, and in this position went to sleep. One was to be awake all night as guard; though, of course, all took turns, each awaking the sentinel whose watch was to follow his. To the doctor was assigned the first two hours, and as we went to sleep, we could perceive his plump rounded form seated upon the outer rim of the circular bank above us. None of us had any great faith in the doctor as a guard, but his watch was during the least dangerous time of night, so far as Indians are concerned. These never make their attack until the hours after midnight, as they know well that these are the hours of soundest sleep. The horse-drive of the previous night was an exception, but that had happened because they had drawn near and seen no horse-guard. It was a very unusual case. They knew that we were now on the alert; and if they had meditated farther mischief, would have attempted it only after midnight hour. We had no apprehensions therefore, and one and all of us being very much fatigued with the day's hunting afoot, slept soundly. The bank against which we rested was dry and comfortable; the fire warmed us well, and redoubled our desire for repose. It appears that the doctor fell asleep on his post, or else we might all of us have been better prepared for the invasion that we suffered during that night. I was awakened by loud shouts--the guides were uttering them. I sprang to my feet in the full belief that we were attacked by Indians, and at first thought caught hold of my gun. All my companions were roused about the same time, and, labouring under a similar hallucination, went through a like series of manoeuvres. But when we looked up, and beheld the doctor stretched along the ridge, and still snoring soundly, we scarce knew what to make of it. Ike and Redwood, however, accustomed to sleep with one eye open, had waked first, and had already climbed the ridge; and the double report of their guns confirmed our suspicions that we were attacked by Indians. What else could they be firing at? "This way all of you!" cried Redwood, making signs for us to come up where he and his companion already were, waving their guns around their heads, and acting in a very singular manner, "this way, bring your guns, pistols, and all--quick with you!" We all dashed up the steep, just at the moment that the doctor suddenly awaking ran terrified down. As we pressed up, we could hear a mingling of noises, the tramp of horsemen as we thought, and a loud bellowing, as if from a hundred bulls. The last sounds could not well have been more like the bellowing of bulls, for in reality it was such. The night was a bright moonlight, and the moment we raised our heads above the scarp of the ridge we saw at once the cause of our alarm. The plain around us was black with buffaloes! Tens of thousands must have been in the drove which was passing us to a great depth on both sides. They were running at a fast trot--some of them even galloping, and in some places they were so thickly packed together, that one would be seen mounting upon the hind-quarters of the other, while some were thrown down, and trampled over by their companions. "Hyur, hyur, all of ye!" cried Ike, "stand by hyur, or they'll git into the hole, and tramp us to shucks!" We saw at a glance the meaning of these instructions. The excited animals were rushing headlong, and nothing seemed to stay their course. We could see them dashing into and across the little streamlet without making any account of it. Should they pour into the circle in which we stood, others would follow, and we might get mingled with the drove. There was not a spot on the prairie where we could have been safe. The impetuous mass was impelled from behind, and could neither halt nor change its course. Already a pair of bulls had fallen before the rifles of our guides, and to some extent prevented the others from breaking over the ring, but they would certainly have done so had it not been for the shouts and gestures of the trappers. We rushed to the side indicated, and each of us prepared to fire, but some of the more prudent held their loads for a while, others pulled trigger, and a succession of shots from rifles, double-barrels, and revolvers soon raised a pile of dead buffaloes that blocked up the passage of the rest, as though it had been a barrier built on purpose. A breathing space was now allowed us, and each loaded his piece as fast as he was able. There was no time lost in firing, for the stream of living creatures swept on continuously, and a mark was found in a single glance of the eye. I think we must have continued the loading and firing for nearly a quarter of an hour. Then the great herd began to grow thinner and thinner, until the last buffalo had passed. We now looked around us to contemplate the result. The ground on every side of the circle was covered with dark hirsute forms, but upon that where we stood a perfect mass of them lay together. These forms were in every attitude, some stretched on their sides, others upon their knees, and still a number upon their feet, but evidently wounded. Some of us were about to rush out of our charmed circle to complete the work, but were held back by the warning voices of the guides. "For yur lives don't go," cried Redwood, "don't stir from hyur till we've knocked 'em all over. Thur's some o' them with life enough left to do for a ween o' ye yet." So saying, the trapper raised his long piece, selected one of the bulls that were seen on their feet, and sent him rolling over. Another and another was disposed of in the same way, and then those that were in a kneeling position were reconnoitred to see if they were still alive, and when found to be so were speedily disposed of by a bullet. When all were laid out we emerged from our hole, and counted the game. There were no less than twenty-five dead immediately around the circle, besides several wounded that we could see straggling off over the plain. We did not think of going to rest again until each of us had eaten about two pounds of fresh buffalo-beef, and what with the excitement of this odd adventure, and the jokes that followed--not a few of them levelled at our _quondam_ guard--it was near morning before we closed our eyes again in sleep. CHAPTER THIRTY NINE. THE ROUTE HOME. We awoke more confident of our future. We had now provision enough and thousands of pounds to spare. It only remained for us to make it portable, and preserve it by drying; and this would occupy us about three full days. Our guides understood well how to cure meat without salt, and as soon as we had breakfasted all of us set to work. We had to pick and choose amidst such mountains of meat. Of course the fat cows only were "butchered." The bulls were left where they had fallen, to become the food of wolves, scores of which were now seen skulking around the spot. A large fire was kindled, and near this was erected a framework of branches, on which was laid or suspended the meat, cut into thin slices and strips. These were placed at such a distance from the fire that it acted upon them only to dry up the juices, and in less than forty-eight hours the strips became hard and stiff, so that they would keep for months without danger of spoiling. Meanwhile some employed themselves in dressing buffalo-skins, so as to render them light and portable, in other words to make robes of them that would serve us for sleeping in. At the end of the third day we had arranged every thing, and were ready to set forth on our homeward journey. Each was to carry his own rations of the jerked meat, as well as his arms, robes, and equipments. Of course, loaded in this manner, we did not expect to make a long daily journey, but, supplied as we were with provisions for thirty days, we had no fear but that before the end of that time we would reach Independence. We were in high spirits as we set out, although, before we had walked far, the pressure of our packs somewhat moderated the exuberance of our feelings; and before we had been fifty hours upon the road, an incident occurred that once more reduced us to a new state of despondency, and placed us once more in peril of our lives. Many an accident of flood and field, many a "hair-breadth 'scape" are to be encountered in a journey through prairie-land, and the most confident calculations of the traveller are often rendered worthless in a single moment. So we found to our consternation. The accident which befel us was one of a deplorable character. We had reached the banks of a small stream, not over fifty yards in width, but very deep. After going down it for several miles no place could be found that was fordable, and at length we made up our minds to swim across, rather than spend more time in searching for a ford. This was easy enough, as we were all swimmers, and in a few minutes most of the party were safely landed on the other side. But it remained to get our provisions and other matters over, and for this purpose a small raft had been constructed, upon which the packs of meat, robes, as well as our arms and ammunition, were laid. A cord was attached to the raft, and one of the party swam over with the cord, and then several taking hold commenced dragging over the raft with its load. Although the stream was narrow, the current was strong and rapid, and just as the raft had got near the middle the towing line snapped, and away went the whole baggage down stream. We all followed along the banks, in hopes of securing the raft when it should float near, and at first we had little apprehension about the matter. But to our mortification we now perceived a rapid just below, and there would be no chance of preventing the frail structure from going over it. The packs, robes, and guns had been laid upon the raft, not even fastened to it, for in our careless security, we never anticipated such a result. It was too late to leap into the stream and endeavour to stop the raft. No one thought of such a thing. All saw that it was impossible, and we stood with anxious hearts watching the floating mass as it swept down and danced over the foaming waters. Then a shock was heard--the raft heeled round--and poised upon a sharp rock, stood for a moment in mid stream, and then once more washed free it glided on into the still water below. We rushed down the banks, after an effort secured the raft, and drew it ashore; but to our consternation most of the provisions, with the guns and ammunition, were gone! They had been tossed off in the very middle of the rapids, and of course were lost for ever. Only three packs of the meat, with a number of robes, remained upon the raft. We were now in a more serious condition than ever. The provision saved from the wreck would not last us a week, and when that was consumed how were we to procure more? Our means of killing game was taken from us. We had no arms but pistols and knives. What chance of killing a deer, or any other creature, with these? The prospect was gloomy enough. Some even advised that we should go back to where we had left the buffalo carcasses. But by this time the wolves had cleaned them of their flesh. It would have been madness to go back. There was no other course but to head once more towards the settlements, and travel as fast as we could. On half rations we continued on, making our daily journeys as long as possible. It was fortunate we had saved some of the robes, for it was now winter, and the cold had set in with extreme bitterness. Some nights we were obliged to encamp without wood to make a fire with, but we were in hopes of soon reaching the forest region, where we should not want for that, and where, moreover, we would be more likely to meet with some game that we could capture. On the third day after leaving the stream that had been so fatal to us, it began snowing, and continued to snow all night. Next morning the whole country was covered with a white mantle, and we journeyed on, at each step sinking in the snow. This rendered our travelling very difficult, but as the snow was only a foot or so in depth we were able to make way through it. We saw many tracks of deer, but heeded them not, as we knew there was no chance of capturing the animals. Our guides said if it would only thaw a little, and then freeze again, they could kill the deer without their rifles. It did thaw during the day, and at night froze so hard, that in the morning there was a thick crust of ice upon the surface of the snow. This gave us some hope, and next morning a deer hunt was proposed. We scattered in different directions in parties of two and three, and commenced tracking the deer. On re-assembling at our night-camp, our different parties came back wearied and empty-handed. The guides, Ike and Redwood, had gone by themselves, and were the last to reach the rendezvous. We watched anxiously for their return. They came at length, and to our joy each of them carried the half of a deer upon his shoulders. They had discovered the animal by his trail in the snow, and pursued it for miles, until its ankles and hoofs became so lacerated by the crust that it allowed them to approach near enough for the range of their pistols. Fortunately it proved to be a good-sized buck, and would add a couple of days to our stock of provisions. With fresh venison to our breakfast, we started forth next morning in better spirits. This day we intended to make a long journey, in hopes of getting into heavy timber, where we might find deer more plentiful, and might capture some before the snow thawed away. But before the end of the day's journey we were so stocked with provision, that we no longer cared about deer or any other game. Our commissariat was once more replenished by the buffalo, and in a most unexpected manner. We were tramping along upon the frozen snow, when upon ascending the crest of a ridge, we saw five huge forms directly in front of us. We had no expectation of meeting with buffalo so far to the eastward, and were somewhat in doubt as to whether they were buffaloes. Their bodies, against the white hill side, appeared of immense size, and as they were covered all over with hoar frost, and icicles depending from their long shaggy tufts of hair, they presented a singular aspect, that for awhile puzzled us. We took them for pine-trees! We soon saw, however, that they were in motion, moving along the hill, and they could be no other than buffaloes, as no other animals could have presented such an appearance. Of course they were at a long distance, and this prevented us from at once recognising them. This was an important discovery, and brought our party to a halt and a consultation. What course was to be adopted? How were we to capture one or all of them? Had the snow been of sufficient depth the thing would have been easy; but although as it was, it might impede their running, they could get through it much faster than we. The only chance was to "approach" them by stealth; but then we must creep within pistol range, and that upon the plain white surface would be absolutely impossible. The foot of the hunter crunching through the frozen snow, would warn them of their danger long before he could get near. In fact, when every circumstance had been weighed and discussed, we every one despaired of success. At that moment what would we not have given for a horse and a gun. As we talked without coming to any determination, the five huge forms disappeared over the sharp ridge, that can transversely to our course. As this ridge would shelter us from view, we hurried forward in order to see what advantages there were in the ground on its other side. We were in hopes of seeing timber that might enable us to get closer to the game, and we made for a small clump that grew on the top of the ridge. We reached it at length, and to our great chagrin, saw the five great brutes galloping off on the opposite side. Our hearts fell, and we were turning to each other with disappointed looks, when a tumultuous shout of triumph broke from Redwood and the wolf-killer, and both calling out to us to follow them, dashed off in the direction of the buffalo! We looked to ascertain the cause of this strange conduct. A singular sight met our eyes. The buffalo were sprawling and kicking on the plain below; now rushing forward a short distance, then spreading their limbs, and halting, while some of them came heavily down upon their sides, and lay flinging their legs about them, as if they had been wounded! All these manoeuvres would have been mysterious enough, but the guides rushing forward had already given the key to them, by exclaiming that _the buffalo were upon the ice_! It was true. The snow-covered plain was a frozen lake, and the animals in their haste had galloped upon the ice, where they were now floundering. It cost us but a few minutes' time to come up with them, and in a few minutes more--a few minutes of fierce deadly strife--in which pistols cracked and knife-blades gleamed, five great carcasses lay motionless upon the blood-stained snow. This lucky capture, for we could only attribute it to good fortune, was perhaps the means of saving the lives of our party. The meat furnished by the five bulls--for bulls they were--formed an ample stock, which enabled us to reach the settlements in safety. It is true we had many a hard trial to undergo and many a weary hour's walking, before we slept under a roof; but although in wretched plight, as far as looks went, we all got back in excellent health. At Independence we were enabled to "rig" ourselves out, so as to make an appearance at Saint Louis--where we arrived a few days after--and where, seated around the well-filled table of the Planters' Hotel, we soon forgot the hardships, and remembered only the pleasures, of our wild hunter-life. THE END.